, flickering like a dying pulse as Bianca swept the last crumbs from the chipped linoleum floor. At twenty-eight, she moved with a quiet grace, her dark hair pu

losing, then the trek home to count coins for rent. Life in Palermo was a grind, a relentless cycle of work and worry, bu

nice, B. Let me lock up for once." Natalie's bold grin lit the dim space, her auburn curls bouncing as she wiped he

y. "I've got it. You

their lifeline. It paid just enough to keep their rundown apartment, a third-floor walk-up with peeling wallpaper and a fauce

messy scrawl. The power flickered again, casting shadows across the empty tables. Bianca locked the front door, flipped the "Closed" sign, and shoul

lags above, and the scent of garlic and sea salt lingered. Bianca's steps were quick, her mind on the numbers

identally' spilled coffee on his shoe,"

at softened her features. "You'

good." Natalie n

s creaked underfoot, and the hallway smelled of mildew. Inside their apartment, the dim bulb cast a sickly glow ov

oes, heading for the frid

a said, setting her

sensing the shif

nished but precious, her only link to a past that haunted her. She sank onto the couch, the springs gro

esting place when she worked-a scrap of velvet, soft as a prayer. She unclasped the chain, her fingers trembling slightly, and clicke

ianca's eyes traced the photo, her heart a raw wound. "He'd be

al a faint comfort. "I wonder what he looks like

ng gently. "He's out there, B. And

, a fragile smile. "

s voice was fierce. "You're

tucking it into her bag. The ritual was her anchor, a way to hold her son close without

ns and crumpled bills spilled out, a meager pile. They counted in silence, the

alie said, scooping the

ng by. She glanced at the photo on the table-her and Natalie, young and fearless. They'd

nca said, managing a

n wrapped her in a tig

ve yo

She touched the locket again, its weight a vow. Her son was out there, somewhere. She had to believe that

, but Bianca R