The morning light in Lisbon felt softer than the one in New York. It didn’t demand anything. It didn’t blind her. It simply existed — gentle and golden, stretching across the white walls of Amara’s small apartment.

For the first time in months, she didn’t wake up with a heavy heart. The ache was still there, somewhere deep inside, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was a quiet kind of pain — the kind that comes after crying too much, when there are no more tears left to give.

Amara got out of bed slowly, her bare feet touching the cool floor. The sound of the river reached her window...