The Steps to Porto Piccolo

La Scala Bassa held the day's warmth longer than any street in Cortelume.

By late afternoon, the stone steps glowed softly beneath Esther's sandals. Terracotta pots lined the walls. Laundry moved above her. Somewhere, a radio played a song she almost knew.

Matteo walked beside her without hurrying.

"You don't talk much," Esther said.

"I fix boats."

"That explains everything."

He smiled.

In her bag, the small bottle of the wood-and-sea-salt cologne she had tried at Atelier Sera had leaked slightly onto the lining. The scent followed them down the steps: salt, sage, clean air, harbour wood. It made the whole walk feel intentional, as if even her bag had understood where they were going.

"Did you know Livia?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Everyone says that differently."

"Everyone knew a different part."

"What part did you know?"

Matteo looked ahead to where the harbour opened below them.

"The part that wanted to leave."

Esther waited.

He did not continue.

At the bottom of the steps, Il Porto Piccolo was turning blue. Boats moved gently against the stone. A cat slept on a coil of rope. The air was cooler here.

Matteo stopped beside the wall.

"You should look there."

"Where?"

"Where you would hide something if you wanted it found by someone who had been told to look."

Esther crouched beside the stones.

For a moment she saw nothing. Then, between two flat rocks near the wall, a corner of paper.

A postcard.

Old. Soft at the edges.

The front showed Cortelume from the water. Casa Alta stood above the village, all shutters open except one.

The small upper window.

On the back was a single line.

When the second cup is full, follow the water.

Esther read it twice.

"What does that mean?"

Matteo leaned against the wall. "I hoped you would know."

"Why would I?"

"Because the cup is yours now."

The harbour lights began to appear.

One. Then another. Then all along the water, as if someone were answering a question in small flames.

Esther looked at the postcard again.

Below the line, in handwriting smaller than before, was a second message she had almost missed.

Tell Sera I kept the last bottle. Tell Basso the jar was never empty. Tell Fiora the figs were ready. Tell Nica I could still smell almonds from the harbour.

Her throat tightened.

"And Matteo?" she asked quietly.

Matteo looked at her then.

"What?"

"There's nothing for you."

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "That was always her way."

The water moved against the quay.

Esther turned the postcard over again. Near the bottom, pressed into the paper, was the tiny outline of a lemon branch.

But beneath it was something new.

A mark she had not seen before.

A small cup.

Full.

When she looked up, the smallest shutter at Casa Alta was open.