Healing didn’t arrive like a sunrise.

It came like a bruise fading so slowly I almost didn’t notice it was changing color.

At first, the days in Italy were only quieter. Not happier—just quieter. The kind of quiet that lets grief sit beside you without screaming. I stopped counting how many times I cried myself to sleep. I stopped marking the calendar. Time moved whether I acknowledged it or not.

One morning, I woke up and realized I hadn’t dreamed at all.

That terrified me more than the nightmares.

I lay there staring at the cracked ceiling of the small residency apartment, waiting for my chest to tighten, waiting for...