Morning in Tuscany arrived quietly, the fog thinning along the narrow road as light spread across the hills. Stone walls and olive trees emerged without ceremony, the air still cool enough to keep the world restrained.
Maella Moreau ran.
Her pace was steady, even across the uneven road, settling into a rhythm shaped by habit rather than effort. Each step landed cleanly, her breathing controlled, the music in her headphones low enough to allow the world in without letting it press too close. She ran early because mornings asked nothing of her yet.
Running was containment. As long as her movement stayed consistent, her thoughts followed suit. She kept her gaze forward, not out of determination but because looking ahead required less from her than looking anywhere else.
The road curved past open fields and low fences, then alongside the house she had recently claimed as her own. Beyond it stood another, close enough to notice but distant enough to ignore. She hadn't seen anyone there. She preferred it that way. Familiarity invited questions, and questions led her to places she had no interest in going.
She didn't notice the runner behind her.
Conor Easton did.
He had followed the same route for years, long enough to recognize when something disrupted it. The morning had felt routine until she appeared ahead of him, her presence narrowing his focus in a way he couldn't explain. She wasn't admiring the landscape, nor did she move as if she were trying to escape it. There was restraint in her posture, a guardedness that suggested experience rather than mood.
Without intending to, he adjusted his pace to hers. He watched the consistency of her stride, the way her breathing never faltered. She didn't glance back. The absence of acknowledgment felt deliberate, not dismissive but complete.
When she turned off the road, he slowed.
She headed toward the house next to his, the one that had been empty for as long as he could remember. He stopped running altogether as she reached the gate, pulled off her headphones, and rested her hands briefly on her hips. There was no hesitation in her movements, only assessment.
The key turned in the lock, the sound sharp in the quiet air.
She stepped inside and closed the gate behind her. And Conor remained where he was, aware that something in the morning had shifted, even though nothing else had changed.