The sea had darkened into ink by the time Dante lit the final candle. The villa’s walls breathed softly with the wind that came through the balcony doors, carrying the scent of salt and wet stone. Down below, the town’s lights shimmered like tiny, trembling stars on the water.

Isabella sat curled on the couch, her knees drawn up beneath one of Dante’s shirts, reading by the soft glow of the lamp. Her hair fell loose around her face, damp from her evening shower. The sound of pages turning mingled with the faint hiss of the wind, and for a fleeting moment, Dante allowed himself to believe they were ordinary...