Isabella finishes her coffee and sets the cup in the sink. "I need to check on her. She'll be waking up soon." She looks at me. "Thank you. For offering to help."
"Thank you for letting me stay."
She nods and disappears down the hallway. I hear a door open softly, then her quiet voice talking to Elena.
I sit alone in the kitchen, finishing my coffee, looking at the crooked cabinet door. My hands want to reach for it, to test the hinge, to see what needs to be done. There's a certainty in me that I could fix it. That I know how.
But how do I know that?
I stand, slowly, testing my balance. Better. Much better than even this morning. My ribs still ache, and my head throbs with a dull constant pain, but it's manageable.
I make my way to the sink, rinse my cup, set it in the dish rack. Through the window, I can see the barn, the olive grove beyond it, the fence line in the distance where one post leans at a dangerous angle.
There’s work here. Purpose. A way to be useful instead of a burden.
And maybe, while I'm working, my hands will remember more than my mind does.
I head back outside, crossing the yard to the barn. The workshop area is in the back corner: a workbench covered in dust, pegboard on the wall with tools hanging from hooks. Hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers. A handsaw. Boxes of nails and screws.
I reach for a hammer, testing its weight in my hand.
The grip is familiar. The balance. The way it sits in my palm like it belongs there.
I set it down and pick up a screwdriver instead. Same thing. My hand knows how to hold it, how to use it, even if my mind doesn't remember ever holding one before.
I look at the tools spread before me, and something cold settles in my chest.
These aren't just familiar. They're intimate. Like I've used them countless times. Like my hands have their own memory, separate from my blank mind.
But for what? Fixing cabinets and fence posts?
Or something else entirely?
I don't know. And that terrifies me more than the pain, more than the missing memories, more than anything.
Because whatever I was before, whatever I did, my body remembers even if my mind doesn't.
And I'm not sure I want to know what that means.
Chapter 8: Isabella
I wake up thinking about the man in my barn.
It's been several days since I found him, and he's still nameless, or rather he has the name Elena gave him. Lupo. It seems to fit somehow.
I make breakfast while Elena plays with her blocks, my mind wandering. He's getting stronger. I can see it every time I bring him food. Yesterday he was standing without holding onto anything for support. The swelling in his eye is almost gone. The bruises are fading from purple to yellow green.
Soon he'll be strong enough to leave.
The thought should bring relief. Instead, it sits heavy in my chest.
After breakfast, I gather the spare blankets from the linen closet, thick wool ones my father used in winter, and a pillow that's seen better days but is still serviceable. The nights are getting colder, and I've been thinking about Lupo in that barn with only the thin blanket I gave him that first day.
"Elena, stay inside and play," I tell her. "I'll be right back."
"Can I come see Lupo?"
"No, baby. I've told you. He needs rest."
