The Table at Terrazza del Porto

At Terrazza del Porto, dinner began before sunset and ended whenever the candles gave up.

The tables stood above the harbour, dressed in soft linen and set with amber glasses that made even water look like something worth toasting. The cutlery was heavier than Esther expected, polished until it caught the last light in small, precise flashes.

At the centre of the long table, someone had placed a candle among lemon leaves.

Unlit.

Waiting.

"You are here," said Fiora, as if Esther had been expected for years.

Nica was already seated, breaking bread with her hands. Basso stood at the end of the table speaking quietly to Matteo, who smelled faintly of rope, salt and engine oil. Sera arrived last, wearing a white shirt, gold earrings and a perfume Esther recognised from the blank bottle.

There was one empty chair.

No one commented on it.

Esther sat beside Fiora.

"Is that chair for someone?"

Fiora poured water into her glass. "All chairs are for someone."

"That is not helpful."

"It is true, though."

The first course arrived: peaches, burrata, basil, olive oil, black pepper. Then focaccia, still warm. Then a pale citrus drink with ice and a curl of lemon peel.

The candle was lit while the sky was still bright.

A small thing, but it changed the table. Everyone softened around it.

Nica lifted her glass.

"To the first week," she said.

"Of what?" Esther asked.

"Of noticing," said Basso.

Matteo smiled into his wine.

The conversation drifted: bread, weather, tourists, the repair of a blue boat, the scandal of someone serving tomatoes too cold. For a while, Esther let herself be carried by it.

Then Sera said, "She found the postcard."

The table went quiet.

Basso did not look up.

Esther placed her fork down. "I found one postcard. I'm beginning to suspect there are several."

"There are always several," said Nica.

"Did Livia leave them?"

No one answered.

The harbour made a soft knocking sound below them.

Finally Matteo spoke.

"Livia left things for people who arrived after a certain kind of tiredness."

Esther felt the sentence move through her.

"What kind?"

"The kind that makes you forget what you love until someone places it in front of you."

Sera reached for her glass. "Or beside you."

Everyone looked at the empty chair.

Esther followed their gaze.

The napkin on the empty plate had moved.

Only slightly.

It had been folded flat. Now one corner had lifted, as if someone had brushed past it.

Esther's skin prickled.

"Did anyone see that?"

"No," said Fiora.

But her voice was too gentle.

The second course came. Pasta with lemon, herbs and something buttery. The village lights appeared one by one. The candle burned lower. Somewhere, music started, soft enough that it might have been coming from another table or from the harbour itself.

By dessert, the empty chair remained empty.

But on its plate lay a folded card.

Esther did not remember seeing anyone place it there.

No one reached for it.

So she did.

The handwriting was Livia's.

The summer the shutters closed, nobody left. That was the trouble.

Esther turned the card over.

There was one more sentence.

Tomorrow, follow the lower steps before dusk.

Matteo stood.

"I'll walk you home," he said.

"Why?"

He looked toward La Scala Bassa.

"Because the steps remember badly in the dark."