I turned.
Loretta remained seated in her wheelchair, still and quiet.
Her gaze was fixed on the body.
Her hands had twisted the blanket in her lap into tight, uneven folds, her fingers gripping the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her to the present.
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
Not broken. Just... steady.
But there was something else there too.
Something fragile.
Relief, maybe.
I moved toward her slowly.
Each step careful, as though any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile balance she was holding onto.
When I reached her, I dropped to one knee in front of her chair.
The blood didn’t matter.
The rocks didn’t matter.
Nothing did.
Except her.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
White. Clean. Untouched.
A small, almost ridiculous contrast to everything around us.
I lifted it to her face, dabbing gently at the tears tracking down her skin. My touch was careful—almost reverent—as if she might break under anything less.
My thumb brushed her cheek, catching the last of the moisture there.
“It’s over now, piccola,” I murmured.
My voice had changed.
The storm still raged inside me, but none of it touched her.
It never would.
“He can’t touch you again,” I continued softly. “No one can.”
She nodded.
Once.
But her eyes—her eyes kept drifting back to the body.
Her breathing changed—just slightly—but I noticed.
