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I see Damiano the first time we met, smiling at me with that ridiculous confidence of his. I remember the way he said my name, stretching out every syllable because he knew I liked hearing it in his accent. The first time he reached for my hand, the first kiss, and the way he laughed when I told him I loved him, because apparently he'd been waiting for me to catch up.

I remember mornings in bed when neither of us wanted to get up, his arms around me in the kitchen, the way he'd steal food from my plate even when he had exactly the same thing on his own. His laugh. God, that laugh. The sound of it filling our home.

And then I see him on our wedding day, standing beside me while hundreds of white butterflies fluttered around us.

Looking at me like I was the only person in the world.

My fist tightens, and I bring it against my chest.

I don't want to let go.

Not yet.

Lexy keeps playing, and somewhere between one breath and the next, I begin to sing.

My voice is barely more than a whisper at first. It breaks almost immediately, and I have to swallow before I can continue. Tears run down my cheeks, but I keep going, following the melody I've known for so many years.

Then I hear another voice behind me.

And another.

I open my eyes and turn slightly.

Chiara is singing, tears streaming down her face. Zio Nino has one arm around Nonna Carmela, and although I can't hear her voice, her lips are moving with the music. Farther back, people are holding lit candles, their faces glowing in the fading sunlight.

More voices join ours until the song fills the beach.

Our song.

And somehow, standing here surrounded by people who knew him, laughed with him and loved him, I realise it belongs to them too.

I look down at the ashes in my hand.

“You were loved, baby,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You were so loved.”

I draw in a shaky breath and glance towards Jude.

He's standing a little apart from the others. The people around him are singing, some with their arms around one another, but his eyes are on me.

He doesn't look away when our gazes meet.

There's something steady in the way he watches me, something I've come to recognize over these past months. He gives me the smallest nod, and I can almost hear the words.

I'm here.

My throat tightens again, but I manage a small nod in return.

Then I turn back towards the sea.

The sun is touching the horizon now, casting a long golden path across the water. I can hear the waves rolling over the sand beneath the music, feel the breeze lifting my hair away from my face.

I open my fist slowly.

The evening breeze catches Damiano's ashes, carrying them out over the water where he learned to swim, where he spent endless summers as a little boy, where he spent so much of his childhood.

For one breathtaking moment, they dance in the golden light of the setting sun before drifting down towards the waves, as though Sicily herself is reaching out to welcome one of her sons home.

“Ti amo, vita mia,” I whisper.