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Matteo hands her a helmet, and she climbs onto the back of his Vespa, wrapping her arms around his waist as though she's known him for years.

“Well, then.”

I look up at Jude.

“They don't waste time here, do they?”

He watches the Vespa disappear around the corner.

“Nope.”

And suddenly I'm not watching Chiara anymore.

I'm watching a younger version of myself climbing onto the back of a pastel-blue Vespa, my arms slipping around a boy who had asked me out only days after meeting me.

Damiano had looked over his shoulder and grinned.

Hold on tight.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat.

For a moment, I can almost feel the wind against my face. Hear his laughter. Remember how safe I'd felt with my arms wrapped around him.

When I turn back, Nonna Carmela is watching me.

Her eyes move toward the street where the Vespa disappeared, then return to mine.

“Tu lo amavi tanto.”

You loved him so much.

I nod, trying to smile through the tears gathering in my eyes.

“Sì, nonna. Tantissimo.”

She takes my hand between both of hers. Her fingers are small and warm, her skin soft with age.

“Allora ha avuto una bella vita.”

Then he had a beautiful life.

I look at her.

“Come?”

She squeezes my hand.

“Se mio nipote è stato amato da una brava donna come te, allora sono contenta.”

If my grandson was loved by a good woman like you, then I'm happy.

Her eyes shine, and I know she's carrying her own grief. She lost the little boy who once ran through this house, the grandson she watched grow into a man. But somehow, she's standing here comforting me.

I tighten my fingers around hers.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

We don't need to.