That's Amore

Chapter 10

The morning broke soft and pale, light spilling over the hills like milk poured from a jug. Isabella stirred in her bed, her hair tangled across the pillow, her skin still carrying the memory of wind from the Vespa ride. For a moment she lay still, her eyes closed, letting the sound of the villa seep into her - swallows darting beneath the roof, the clink of glasses already in the kitchen, the far-off voices of workers calling to one another among the vines.

Then the fireflies returned to her mind. She saw again the way they had risen, small lanterns against the night, the way Giuliano's profile had glowed in silver, unyielding yet softened by the magic around them. Her chest tightened, her heart stumbling as though the moment had left a mark too vivid to forget.

She turned toward her suitcase, half hidden in the corner of the room. The leather straps were still buckled, but from between them peeked the edge of a folded envelope. Her return ticket. America, waiting like a shadow. She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping from her shoulders, and crossed the room barefoot.

She lifted the ticket out, holding it in both hands as though it might weigh her down. The paper felt foreign now, too sharp, too sterile against the warmth of Tuscan air. She imagined the life it represented - offices and sidewalks, late nights spent chasing deadlines, the hum of subways instead of cicadas. Freedom, perhaps, but also loneliness, a restlessness that had never eased.

"Dove appartengo davvero?" she whispered. Where do I truly belong?

Her Nonna's words echoed from the letter hidden among her journals: Villa delle Rosa has been waiting for you. Isabella closed her eyes, pressing the ticket to her lips as though to quiet its power. She set it on the nightstand, but it glared at her still, a silent reminder that time here was borrowed.

Unable to bear its stare, she slipped from the room and wandered barefoot into the garden. The roses greeted her with their heavy perfume, dew still clinging to their petals. She pressed her face into one bloom, inhaling until her lungs ached, as if the scent could drown out the confusion inside her. Biscotto padded after her, stretching long and shaking himself before nudging her calf with his nose. She bent to kiss the top of his head. "Aiutami tu, piccolo. Help me, little one."

The sun climbed higher, gilding the hills, the vines trembling with promise. Isabella sat on the stone bench with her journal open once more. Her pen moved quickly, almost desperately. She wrote of the fireflies, of the night's silver air, of the way Giuliano's voice had sounded when he told her simply, "Guarda." She drew the field, dotted with specks of light, and beneath it she wrote: "Some places write themselves into your blood. Others only borrow you for a while."

Her hand shook. She turned the page and tried to write of America, of the skyscrapers and the lights of the city, but the words fell flat, lifeless. She drew only grey lines, sharp and empty, compared to the roses she had sketched yesterday. She dropped the pen and pressed her forehead into her hands, the tears hot and sudden.

"Isabella."

The sound of her name startled her. She looked up, wiping her cheeks quickly. Giuliano stood at the edge of the garden, a basket of grapes balanced on his hip, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his eyes unreadable. He looked at her for a long moment, as if he saw more than she wished to show.

"Stai bene?" he asked softly. Are you well?

She forced a smile, though her throat was tight. "Of course. Just writing."

His gaze flicked to the journal on her lap, then back to her face. For a moment he seemed about to say something, but instead, he only nodded, turning as though to leave. Then, with his back still to her, he spoke. "Not all roads lead away, Isabella. Some lead home."

Her breath caught. But before she could answer, he walked back toward the vines, his figure swallowed by the rows, leaving her with the roses and her racing heart.

She closed her journal, pressing it against her chest. The return ticket still waited upstairs, sharp and accusing. Yet here, in the garden, under the weight of Giuliano's words, it already felt like a stranger's future.

And as the sun poured molten gold across Villa delle Rosa, Isabella realised that America was no longer just a destination. It was a decision. One that grew heavier with each Tuscan morning.