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Carla’s Point of View
It was a few minutes before Sunday. Sandro stayed late. Later than the village—the last of them had strolled away an hour ago, their voices fading down the lane until the only sound left was the cicadas and the clink of glasses being cleared.
The candles on the terrace had burned to stubs. Wax pooled on the tablecloths. The air smelled of lemon blossom and the crust Dad had left on the stone oven’s edge to crisp for morning.
He looked at me like I was the only girl he’d ever seen.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“It’s okay, Carla. I’ll be fine.”