The next morning dawned soft and silver. A pale mist drifted through San Loreno, curling around the stone houses and olive trees like a lingering dream. The rain had passed, leaving the world fresh and cool, the streets glistening with puddles that caught the sky's reflection.
Inside Martin's Tavern, the smell of baking bread and roasted coffee filled the air. Sofia hummed quietly as she arranged fresh flowers in a chipped vase — wild poppies she'd gathered before sunrise. Her father always said her hands made even small things beautiful, but this morning, her heart wasn't on the flowers.
She kept glancing at the door.
The folded note Marco had left beneath it now lay tucked inside her apron pocket — its words already memorized: "Thank you for the warmth. I will repay it soon."
Three sentences. Yet she'd read them a dozen times, tracing the faint ink, wondering what kind of man would write something so simple and still make her chest ache.
Giovanni noticed her distraction.
"You've been staring at that door since dawn," he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You expecting royalty, eh?"
Sofia smiled faintly. "Maybe just a traveler."
He chuckled. "If it's that one from yesterday, forget it, figlia. He's a drifter. Men like him vanish like fog. Don't go building castles from clouds."
She didn't answer. She only looked down, brushing her fingers over the edge of the counter where Marco had sat. The wood was still marked with the faint circle of his coffee cup.
Outside, the church bell rang eight times. And then — as if summoned by the sound — the tavern door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside, shaking droplets from his hair.
Her heart skipped.
"Buongiorno," Marco greeted, a smile touching his lips. He looked different today — cleaner, rested, though his clothes were still travel-worn.
"You came back," she said before she could stop herself.
He raised an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."
"I wasn't sure you would."
He reached into his coat and placed something on the counter — a small handful of coins. "For yesterday's meal. And…" He slid a neatly folded handkerchief beside it. "To thank you for the towel."
Giovanni gave a satisfied grunt. "A man who keeps his word. Good. Sit, Marco. Coffee?"
"Please," Marco said, then glanced toward Sofia. "If she's the one making it."
Giovanni laughed. "Ah, my daughter's famous brew! Be careful — men have fallen in love after two cups."
Sofia blushed, but Marco's gaze softened with amusement. "Then perhaps I should stop at one."
She poured the coffee carefully, pretending not to notice how his eyes followed her every move. The air between them had changed — less cautious, but charged with something unsaid.
"Did you find work?" she asked.
"I did," he said, accepting the cup. "At Signor Vanni's workshop, as you suggested. He needed someone to fix the engine of his truck. I think he was surprised I knew how."
"You're full of surprises," she said lightly.
He smiled into his coffee. "You have no idea."
---
Over the next few days, Marco became part of the tavern's rhythm — appearing at dawn for coffee, returning at dusk with grease-stained hands and a tired smile. He didn't talk much about himself, but he listened — really listened — when Sofia spoke. About her father, about her late mother's songs, about how the rain sounded different in every season.
He seemed fascinated by her small world — as though, in its simplicity, he found a peace he had long forgotten.
Sometimes, when business was slow, he helped Giovanni repair broken chairs or carry wine barrels. Other times, he and Sofia walked to the edge of the village to watch the sea.
It was during one of those walks that the story of the umbrella began.
---
The afternoon sky was heavy with clouds again, the air thick with the smell of coming rain. They had walked beyond the last row of houses, to where the fields opened toward the hills. Sofia carried her old parasol — pale green, trimmed with lace.
"Do you always carry that?" Marco teased.
"Only when the sky looks like that," she said, pointing toward the clouds. "It's an old habit. My mother used to say rain follows me."
"Maybe it follows you because it wants to see you smile."
She laughed softly, caught off guard. "Do you always speak like that?"
"Only when the company inspires it."
For a while, they walked in silence. A breeze stirred the tall grass.
Then, quietly, Marco said, "You remind me of someone I once knew."
"Someone you loved?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked at her — really looked — and for a heartbeat she thought he might tell her everything. But then his expression shifted. "Someone I lost."
The first drops of rain began to fall, light and cold. Sofia opened her umbrella and held it over them both.
"Looks like it found me again," she said softly.
Marco smiled faintly. "Then I should be grateful for the weather."
The rain thickened, pattering softly on the umbrella's lace edge. Beneath it, they stood close enough for her to hear his breath, to smell the faint scent of oil and smoke on his skin.
For a moment, the world seemed very small — only the rain, the umbrella, and their two hearts beating in rhythm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "You shouldn't be kind to me, Sofia. It's dangerous."
"Why?"
He met her eyes. "Because I'm not who you think I am."
Her hand trembled slightly on the umbrella handle. "Then tell me who you are."
He looked away. "Someday. When it rains again."
---
The following morning, he didn't come to the tavern. Nor the next.
Sofia tried not to show her worry, but Giovanni noticed the way her eyes drifted toward the door every few minutes.
"Still thinking about that stranger?" he asked. "Maybe he moved on. Men like him don't stay put."
But she knew he was wrong. Marco hadn't left the way drifters did. He'd left something behind — something unfinished.
Two more days passed before she saw him again. It was late evening; the tavern nearly empty. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly over the sea.
He appeared at the doorway like a shadow returning home.
Sofia froze mid-step. "You're back."
"I promised I'd come when it rained again," he said quietly.
She exhaled, the tension breaking into a smile. "You keep too many promises."
"I only keep the important ones."
Giovanni clapped him on the shoulder, half in jest. "Good thing. My daughter was about to send a search party."
"Papa!" Sofia protested, cheeks coloring.
Marco only smiled, but his eyes found hers, holding them long enough that she forgot to breathe.
---
Later, after the tavern closed, he lingered to help her extinguish the lamps. The rain drummed softly on the roof, steady and hypnotic.
When they reached the doorway, she hesitated. "You'll get soaked again."
"I don't mind," he said, stepping into the downpour.
Without thinking, she grabbed the umbrella hanging by the door — the same one from their walk — and ran after him.
"Here," she said, holding it out. "You'll need it."
He took it, their fingers brushing. But instead of opening it, he looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable.
"You keep saving me from the rain," he said. "Do you know what happens when you save someone too often?"
She frowned. "What?"
"They stop wanting to be saved."
Before she could answer, he opened the umbrella and stepped back. "Goodnight, Sofia."
"Goodnight, Marco."
He disappeared into the storm once more, the umbrella a small shadow moving through the sheets of rain.
And though she didn't know it yet, that night — the night of the umbrella and the eyes — would be the moment she began to fall in love.
---