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The Italian Affair
Category: Romance
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
The garden had been her mother’s pride, and now it was hers.
The train pulled out of the station with a long, mournful whistle.
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The sword was heavier than she expected, but she did not lower it.
The map was old, its edges frayed, but the path it showed was unmistakable.
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
The end.