The days that followed blurred into a strange rhythm of almosts. Luca moved through the mansion like a ghost reclaiming fragments of a life he didn't quite believe belonged to him. Every corner seemed to whisper his name in a language he no longer understood. Every memory Aria tried to share hung between them, heavy with unspoken longing.
Aria, meanwhile, carried hope the way one carries a fragile flame, shielding it with trembling hands from winds that threatened to snuff it out. She told herself not to expect too much, but every time his eyes lingered a moment too long or his voice softened when he said her name, her heart betrayed her.
One morning, she found him standing in the training room, his fists wrapped, punching at a heavy bag with brutal precision. Sweat glistened on his skin, his muscles tense with the kind of frustration that came from wanting control in a world that refused to make sense.
"You shouldn't be straining yet," Aria said gently from the doorway.
