Then, slowly, I leaned back just enough to meet her eyes.
They were still glassy with tears, lashes damp, cheeks flushed from the cold and everything that had just passed.
But beneath that—beneath the grief, the exhaustion, the quiet devastation—there was something new.
Something fighting to exist.
I held her gaze a moment longer before speaking.
“Ciro will take you to the airport.”
My voice was calm.
But softer than anything I had used all day.
She nodded.
It was small. Almost hesitant.
I rose to my feet slowly, giving her time to adjust, to breathe, to settle.
Then I stepped behind her wheelchair, my fingers curling around the handles—firm, steady.
Carefully, I turned her—not just slightly, but all the way around. A full, deliberate circle.
Three hundred and sixty degrees.
Until the mountain, the blood, the body—everything—was out of her line of sight.
No last look. No final imprint.
No more nightmares fed by that image.
She didn’t resist.
Didn’t turn her head. Didn’t look back.
Some things deserved to be left behind without ceremony.
I began to push.
The path down the ridge was narrow—too narrow for mistakes.
Uneven rock jutted out at sharp angles, loose gravel shifting beneath every step.
The wind had picked up, stronger now, whipping across the mountainside in cold, relentless gusts that threatened to unbalance even the sure-footed.
I adjusted my stance instinctively.
Angled the chair.
Controlled the descent.
Every step calculated.
My boots dug into the ground harder on the steeper drops, acting as a brake as I guided her carefully over jagged stone and exposed roots.
The wheels caught once—twice—but I corrected instantly, steadying the frame before it could jolt her.
