Bianca had taken refuge in the back garden of Palazzo Corsini. The crowd of the exhibition had remained inside, among warm lights and glasses of prosecco, while she searched for air, for a breach of silence that might calm the storm consuming her.

The courtyard, lit by discreet lanterns, smelled of jasmine and ancient stone. Bianca leaned against a column, her breath unsteady. She had never felt so fragile: not in front of an impossible restoration, not even before her mother's death.

A step behind her. Then another.
She turned, and Leonardo was there.

"I shouldn't have come, I know," he said, his voice hoarse, "but I can't stay away from you."

Bianca folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if to defend herself.
"Why, Leonardo? For what? To finish the job you started?"

He shook his head, moving closer.
"No. To tell you the truth. All of it."

The story poured out like a river that had held back its current too long. Leonardo spoke of the initial deal with the Florentine lawyer, of the promise to take the house at auction, of the financial pressures that had driven him to accept.

"At the start, it was just business. I didn't know you, I didn't know your story. I only knew that the property was in trouble and that someone else would have taken it anyway. Then I met you. And everything changed."

He ran a hand through his hair, like a man baring himself before a court.

"I broke the deal, I wrecked the negotiations. And in the end... yes, I bought the house myself. Not to keep it, but to save it. It's yours, Bianca. I did it because I couldn't bear to see you lose the only link you had to your mother."

Bianca stared at him, motionless. Anger and tenderness battled for her heart.

"And why didn't you tell me right away?" she whispered.

"Because I was afraid," he admitted. "Afraid you would never believe me, that you would see only my mistake. And maybe I was right."

The silence that followed was long, heavy. Bianca felt like a torn canvas, impossible to mend. Part of her still hated him for the initial betrayal, but another part trembled before the truth of his gesture.

That night, back in her Roman home, Bianca found one last letter from her mother. It had been hidden in a drawer, among old photographs and a scarf still steeped in her scent.

The words were simple, but disarmingly clear:

"My daughter, true love is not the one that never errs, but the one that knows how to remain even after the mistake. I never knew how to love myself without conditions, and for that reason I never knew how to teach you. But you can choose differently. If a man comes to you and shows his fragility without fear, do not reject him. For he will be the only one truly capable of loving you."

Bianca closed her eyes, pressing the paper to her chest. She saw again Leonardo, his wounded gaze, his hands trembling as he confessed the truth. He was no saint, no savior: he was an imperfect man, yet capable of giving her back the house, the memory, and perhaps even herself.

Tears slid slowly down her cheeks.
To love him meant to risk again. But perhaps, for the first time, the risk was worth the life she longed for.

Under the sky of Val d'Orcia

Clayton Nightwhisper - All rights reserved©