They did not go straight to Sant'Alessio. Despite Azzurra's urgency, Oliver understood they needed one final moment of reflection—an intermediate station to shed the last residues of their journey and prepare for the storm Elia had prophesied.
They stopped in a small fishing village a few miles north of Taormina, at an old inn that smelled of lemons and saltpeter. The landlady, a woman with a face etched by a thousand wrinkles who seemed to know the fate of everyone who passed through, looked at them with an unusual intensity. "You've come for the Lighthouse, haven't you?" she asked, serving them fresh water. Azzurra nodded, startled. "The sea has been speaking for three days," the old woman continued. "It says the light is returning. Sleep, children. Tomorrow you will need your entire soul."
They took two rooms but stayed together on the veranda of Azzurra's room, which looked directly out onto a small beach of black stones. The silence was absolute, broken only by the steady breathing of the Ionian Sea.
Maya, exhausted, fell asleep in a wicker armchair wrapped in a shawl. Oliver and Azzurra remained seated on the steps of the veranda, their bare feet in contact with the cold stone.
"Are you afraid?" Oliver asked, breaking the silence. Azzurra looked toward the horizon where Mount Etna, in the distance, emitted a faint reddish glow. "I'm not afraid of the Draunara, Oliver. I'm afraid of not being strong enough to hold everything together. I'm afraid the mud and the silk will tear away from each other."
Oliver took her hand. This time, the warmth that passed between them was different: it wasn't an electric jolt, but a steady, fluid stream, as if their circulatory systems had merged. "Do you remember what Samuele said in your father's dream? I am the lens. I am here to channel your pain, your dance, your strength. You don't have to hold anything together alone. I am the structure; you are the movement. Together, we are the Lighthouse."
They looked into each other's eyes. In that moment, amidst the scent of jasmine and the sound of the surf, Oliver made a silent promise. He would never let her fall. Even if the fire consumed him to the bone, he would remain standing to let her shine.
"I love you, Oliver," Azzurra whispered. "I've never said it to you like this, so clearly. But it's the only truth I have left besides the sea." "I know," he replied, drawing her close. "And I love you. And I love this sea that brought us together across the centuries."
They stayed in each other's arms for hours, watching stars that seemed to fall directly into the water. It was the last stop, the final moment of peace before the chaos. They felt that, just a few miles away, Belinda and Nonna Anna were flinging open the windows of the villa, preparing the altar for their arrival. They felt Elia, from his hospital bed, praying to Samuele to protect them.
When dawn began to tint the peaks of Calabria across the Strait in shades of pink, the three of them rose. No words were needed. They loaded their few bags into the car, drank a strong coffee prepared by the old innkeeper, and set off for the final stretch.
The coastal road was deserted. The sea was an unnatural, flat calm, like a taut sheet hiding a sleeping monster. Sant'Alessio Siculo appeared suddenly after a headland. The castle on the rock stood proud, and beneath it, the rubble of the destroyed pier looked like the bones of a wounded giant.
"We're here," Oliver said, switching off the engine in front of the villa gates.
Azzurra stepped out of the car. She felt the mud beneath her soles; she felt the silken wind in her hair. The circle had closed. The dance of truth was about to begin.