The inn's kitchen was quiet but not silent—the way a room gets when it's been used just enough to retain a memory of sound. It was carved into the stone like a cavern, the walls cool and slightly damp, the plaster bowed with age. Copper pans hung above the hearth, dulled to a matte gleam. A single bulb flickered above the counter where Milo stood, sleeves rolled, a serrated knife moving in a steady rhythm through a coarse loaf of bread.
Lina lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There was something practised about the way he moved—casual but guarded. Like a man who had grown used to his own company and didn't particularly want to lose it.
She stepped inside, holding the sheet of paper between two fingers like a lit fuse.
"I didn't write it," she said.
He didn't look at her right away. The blade continued its slow work.
"I'm not accusing you," she added, voice thinner than she meant it to be.
Milo placed a slice of bread on a ceramic plate and finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "You sure? You sound like you are."
She took a breath, then exhaled through her nose. "I'm trying to understand how it got there. That's all."
"You say you didn't write it."
"I didn't."
"Maybe you did," he said. "Sleepwalking novelist. That'd be poetic, wouldn't it?"
Lina crossed the room, easing into the chair opposite him at the narrow kitchen table. She felt the chill of the stone floor even through her slippers. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the paper, but her eyes drifted to the wine bottle on the table between them—half-full, label peeling.
"Are you always this charming with your guests?" she asked.
"I don't have guests."
She reached for the wine glass he'd already poured—clearly for himself—and took a slow sip. He didn't object. She held his gaze over the rim.
"It's from an old draft," she said after a beat. "From before he died."
Milo didn't reply. He sat down slowly, setting the knife aside. His hands were rough, the nails clean but cracked. A photographer's hands, maybe. Or someone who used to be something else.
"You heard about it," she said.
"I don't get newspapers."
"But you Googled me."
He didn't answer immediately. He poured himself a new glass, leaned back slightly in his chair, and shrugged. "Yeah."
"And?"
"And you don't look like a killer."
She raised a brow. "You don't look like an innkeeper."
A flicker of something passed over his face. Not quite amusement. Not quite an insult.
"Touché," he said, and the corner of his mouth—the side that wasn't pulled by the scars—lifted into a brief, crooked smile.
It changed him. Just for a moment.
"I was expecting you to ask for a refund," he added.
"I haven't decided yet," Lina said. "Depends how long the kitchen stays unlocked."
She finished her glass and poured herself another, less cautiously this time.
He nodded toward the page still on the table between them. "How much of it do you remember?"
"Enough," she said, then hesitated. "Not the exact sentences. But the voice. It's mine."
Milo tapped the rim of his glass with a blunt finger. "So maybe it is you, reaching out."
"Don't."
"What?"
"That poetic bullshit. The whole tortured-genius-finds-herself-again-in-solitude arc? It's a lie."
He considered her for a long moment, then said, "I wasn't offering comfort."
"Good." She looked away. "I wouldn't trust it."
Outside, a cicada started up. It was late for them—unseasonably warm, perhaps. Or maybe they, too, had been woken by something they couldn't name.
Milo stood and brought over a wedge of cheese and a small bowl of olives. He placed them on the table between them, along with two cloth napkins that looked too clean to have been used.
Lina didn't touch the food. She leaned back in her chair and studied him through the soft haze of her second glass.
"Why do you live up here?" she asked.
He glanced around the kitchen like the answer might be waiting for him on the walls. "Because the rent is cheap."
"Bullshit."
"You ask a lot of questions."
"You invited me to stay."
"I offered you a room."
"Same thing."
He took a sip of wine, eyes on her now. Steady. Clear.
"I live here because people don't come here," he said finally. "And people are… noisy."
"You mean emotionally or literally?"
"Both. But especially the ones who come to the Amalfi Coast thinking they'll find God or art or whatever the hell it is people lose in cities."
"And me?" she asked, voice quieter. "What am I here to find?"
Milo didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence spoke for both of them.
After a while, she reached for a piece of bread and tore it slowly in half.
"When I was little," she said, not looking at him, "I used to believe that ghosts didn't haunt houses. They haunted people."
He made a sound—half laugh, half scoff. "That's convenient."
"No," she said. "That's terrifying. Because it means you can't outrun them."
Milo met her eyes. "Then stop running."
For the first time since the page had appeared, Lina felt the full weight of it. Not just the mystery, but the implication.
Whoever had left it didn't just want to rattle her. They wanted her attention.
And they had it.