It was a good idea. After what had happened this morning with my mother’s refusal to speak of my father, and after Salvatore’s fall from grace, the thought of the sea felt like a reprieve.
When we stepped outside, twilight had deepened into indigo. The first stars shimmered above the rooftops. The night wrapped itself around us like a lover’s arms as we made our way toward the shore, a single torch lighting our path.
The air was thick with the scent of warm clay and cut grain, smoke drifting from hearths that glowed behind open doorways. Chickens rustled in their pens; dogs lifted their heads as we passed. Somewhere ahead, the low hum of waves rolled steady and deep—a heartbeat echoing against the stones.
Beyond the final houses, the road sloped down toward the coast. The sea waited there, patient and endless, its surface catching the last smear of dying sunlight.
Neighbors lifted their heads as we passed through the narrow lanes, the light of our torch spilling across plastered walls and clay courtyards. A woman rinsing grain in a basin paused to wave, her bracelets glinting in the fading light.
“Lazarus! You’ve returned from the war!” she called, smiling wide enough for her missing tooth to show.
“Indeed, I have,” I said, raising the torch. “Salvatore and I both—finally home and still breathing.”
An older man nearby—one of the fishermen who lived close to the shore—set aside his net and shaded his eyes against the firelight. “The gods favor you then,” he said. “Ugarit’s proud tonight.”
From behind him, a boy no older than twelve darted forward, bare feet slapping against the packed earth. His eyes were as bright as new bronze. “They said you faced the warlord himself,” he whispered, half in awe. “That you took him down yourself!”
I laughed softly and ruffled his hair. “Stories grow taller with every retelling. It was a long and bloody war. I’m just glad it’s over.” I glanced toward the sea, where the horizon still held a red glow. “May peace finally rest upon this city.”
The boy’s smile faded into something solemn, and he pressed his fingers briefly to his brow—a child’s prayer gesture—before darting back to his father’s side.
We moved on, Amara’s hand finding mine. Her touch steadied me. The voices behind us faded into the rhythm of the wind and the distant pulse of the surf.
By the time we reached the shore, laughter came easier, lighter. The salt air tangled in Amara’s hair, and I breathed deep, filling my lungs with the clean taste of it. The surf boomed against the rocks, unbroken and eternal. For the first time since morning, it felt as though the world itself had stopped holding its breath—just long enough for us to remember we were still alive.
Amara spread a woven cloth across the sand, laying out the bowls of rabbit stew, the flatbreads, a small jar of wine, and a handful of figs she had brought from home. The torch I drove into the ground burned steadily, its flame painting the beach in flickering gold.
I sank, reaching for the bread—only to see Salvatore seize Amara’s hand with sudden, reckless strength.
“Wait—!” she gasped, laughing as he pulled her to her feet. Then, with a wild shout that startled the gulls from their roosts, he dragged her straight into the surf.
She shrieked as the waves met them, her laughter carrying over the water like windchimes. Salvatore caught a handful of seawater and flung it at her, grinning for the first time today.
“Come on, Lazarus!” he shouted, his voice breaking over the crash of the tide. “Don’t sit there like an old man!”
I kicked off my sandals, the sand cool and damp beneath my feet, and ran after them. The sea bit cold against my skin, stealing my breath before it gave it back—brine, moonlight, and life. We splashed, grappled, shouted like boys again, our laughter scattering across the dark surface.
For a little while, it felt real. The war. The grief. The lies. All of it drowned beneath the sound of the waves.
Later, we huddled close around a fire built from driftwood, the flames snapping in the salty wind. The moon hung swollen above the sea, spilling silver across the dark water. The waves struck the shore in their endless rhythm, as steady as breath, as the three of us sat together and passed the jug of wine between us.
For the first time in months, I felt something close to peace.
We ate until the bowls were empty—rabbit stew thick with herbs, the broth soaked into flatbread. The air smelled of smoke, salt, and roasted meat. Amara knelt by the tide, rinsing the bowls, her laughter soft and far.
Salvatore’s voice came quietly over the crackle of the fire. “Do you remember that day in the market, when those older boys found us again?”
I smiled. “Which day? They seemed to find us every day.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “The worst of them—there must’ve been ten that time. They came at us from every side.”
I could see it then—the narrow lane behind the baker’s wall, dust rising around us, the taste of copper in my mouth. “We kept swinging,” I said. “Didn’t matter how many fists they threw. We just… kept fighting.”
Salvatore grinned, a flash of his old self in the firelight. “You broke your lip. I couldn’t see out of one eye for two days.
Amara returned from the water’s edge, her linen tunic damp, arms full of clean bowls. “You two and your childhood fights,” she said, smiling as she set them down. “You’d come home bloodied every week.”
“And you’d patch us up every time,” Salvatore said, his tone softening.
