Tuscany still held the day’s heat long after sunset, earth swollen beneath Lucia’s feet, dust rising like faint breath as she walked, careful to place her feet where the path dipped between olive roots. Night on the path was silent, and still, and did not ask her to pretend. This was why she liked it. In the thicket, the cicadas were loud, almost obscene in their persistence, creating a noise that echoed, but bringing with it echoes of phantom voices amidst their song.

She did not carry a light. She counted instead.

Counting gave her something to do with the nervous energy that crept in whenever the road narrowed and the trees closed ranks. Seven minutes from the farmhouse to the bend in the road. Thirty steps from the bend to the fig tree. Then the gate, always unlatched, always complaining softly when pushed. She has walked it enough times that her body moved ahead of thought, satchel pressed flat against her ribs.

The churchyard came twenty steps later, its low stone wall pale in the dark, the cross at its center barely visible against the ink-dark sky. Lucia slowed when the ground changed texture, packed dirt giving way to scattered needles and gravel, sharp, pressing through the soles of her shoes. Her satchel was heavier than it looked - paper is deceptively dense when stacked. She attached a flyer to the back gate - Né Dio Né Padrone - in red print, bold against the white paper. Repeating the words to herself like a prayer, she tried to evade the irony of that fact before slipping into the shadows once again. Tuscan nights were bipolar, and she prayed that the balmy heat would not be overtaken by the wind and ruin her work.

The dog in the churchyard barked.

It was a single sharp sound at first, startling in its suddenness, followed by another, deeper and angrier, a grumbling tide followed by a bark like waves crashing on rock. Lucia froze, one foot half-raised, her body instinctively lowering its center of gravity as if she could make herself smaller by will alone. The dog threw itself against the gate, chain rattling, nails scraping metal. It was a big animal—she could tell from the sound of it—and it barked as though insulted by her presence, as though she had broken some private agreement.

She did not move.

Her breath came shallow and fast, and she forced herself to slow down, counting again. The dog’s barking echoed off the church wall, loud enough that she imagined it carrying across the fields, reaching the nearest house. She pictured a light flicking on, a man stepping outside, pulling on his jacket and his authority in the same motion. The dog barked again, and she imagined its eyes, dark and bright with agitation, mouth open, tongue lolling, teeth white and bared behind the iron bars. She thought absurdly of how close those teeth were to her calf, how easily they would tear through skin.

She waited.

After a moment that stretched too long to be comfortable, the barking slowed. The dog whined, paced, barked once more for good measure, then settled into a low, resentful growl. Lucia let her foot touch the ground again. Slowly, carefully, she backed away from the gate and took the long way around the churchyard, keeping the wall between herself and the sound.

By the time she reached the far edge of the trees, her heart was hammering hard enough that she pressed a hand flat against her chest, as if to keep it from betraying her. She did not run. Running made noise, and noise invited questions. Instead, she walked at the same steady pace she always did, her posture relaxed, her face composed, as though she were nothing more than a woman returning late from a neighbor’s house.

She took the long way home. At the farmhouse on the edge of the valley, she tapped twice on the back door, paused, then tapped once more. The man who answered did not speak. Neither did she. He took the satchel, weighed it with a practiced hand, and nodded once. Lucia turned and left before he closed the door, the exchange complete.

She did not breathe easily again until the lights of home came into view—one window dimly lit, the others dark. Bella, a small, aging mutt with graying fur around her muzzle, lifted her head when she pushed open the gate. Her tail wagged once, politely. She was a foolish animal, half-grown and earnest, with ears too large for her head. She whined softly from inside, the sound rising into a thump as her tail struck the floor. Lucia smiled despite herself and slipped through the door, bolting it behind her.

“Good,” Lucia murmured, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “Good girl. Quiet,” she murmured, crouching to scratch behind her ears. Lucia pressed her forehead briefly to Bella’s warm neck and breathed in the smell of fur and dust.

Inside, the house smelled of oil and soap and the faint medicinal tang that never quite faded, no matter how much they aired the rooms. Lucia hung her jacket by the door and went straight to the basin, scrubbing her hands until the water ran pink, then clear. Ink clung stubbornly to the creases of her fingers. She left it there. Complete cleanliness was a luxury these days.

She dried her hands on her skirt and stood for a moment, listening.

From the other room came the soft, familiar sounds of Viola settling herself: the creak of the chair, the controlled exhale as she shifted her weight. Lucia crossed the room and pushed the door open. Viola was already in bed, propped against pillows, a book open on her lap. The lamp beside her cast a warm circle of light that softened the angles of her face. When she looked up, her expression shifted from concentration to something gentler.

“You’re late,” Viola said, closing the book and placing it on the seat of the wheelchair beside her.

“Not by much.” Lucia crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her. Viola smelled faintly of lavender soap. “The dog was restless tonight.”

Viola’s mouth tightened. “The one by the church?”

“Yes.”

“They should move it,” Viola said. “It’s not safe.”

Lucia smiled faintly. “You know how people are. They like to feel protected.”

“And does it protect them,” Viola asked, “or just warn them when someone is passing through?”

Lucia did not answer. She slipped off her shoes, shaking loose a few pine needles that scattered across the floor, and pulled her dress over her head. The night clung to her skin, and she welcomed the cool sheets when she slid into bed. Viola shifted to make room.

For a moment they lay in silence, their breathing slowly syncing. Lucia stared at the ceiling, tracing familiar cracks with her eyes. The adrenaline drained from her body in stages, leaving behind a heavy, aching fatigue.

“You’re shaking,” Viola said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Lucia said, hurriedly.

“You say that every time.”

“You weren’t followed?”

“No.”

“Stopped?”

“No.”

Lucia turned onto her side. Viola’s hand found hers under the blanket, fingers warm. “I was careful,” Lucia said. “No one saw me.”

Viola did not admonish her, like Lucia thought she would. She squeezed Lucia’s hand instead. “Good. You’ll need to change the route tomorrow,” she added.

Outside, the cicadas continued their relentless song. Lucia closed her eyes, letting the noise wash over her, anchoring herself to the small, solid facts of the room: the weight of Viola’s hand, the rise and fall of her chest, the familiar scent of home.

For this night, Lucia let herself believe it was the only thing that mattered.