Chapter 24 – Dario
I steer the truck off the cracked road, pulling up to the abandoned greenhouse on the city’s edge. Wild grass sways around broken fences, and the late afternoon sun casts a golden sheen over the scene.
Viviana steps out beside me, her boots crunching on gravel as we approach. The glass doors hang crooked, rusted hinges groaning as I push them open, letting her slip through first.
Sunlight filters through cracked panels overhead, painting the floor in jagged patches. Vines twist up the walls, reclaiming the space, their leaves brushing my arms as I follow her in.
Soil crumbles dry in some spots, but life clings in others, stubborn blooms peeking through the tangle. The scent hits me, earthy and warm, damp petals and faded memories mingling in the still warmth.
Viviana stops, her breath catching soft, a gasp that pulls my eyes to her. “This was hers,” she whispers, voice reverent, her gaze alight with something deep. “My grandmother. She believed flowers spoke louder than words.”
I watch her move forward, her fingers grazing a rusted trellis where moonflower vines once climbed. She brushes moss off a wooden table, revealing its weathered grain beneath.
Small tags dangle from wire stakes, their faded ink scribbling names and meanings, Hope, Forgiveness, Letting Go. I read them quiet, letting the words settle, heavy with time.
She kneels by a patch of earth, her hands tracing the soil, and I stand back, taking it in. She moves among the chaos like she’s tending ghosts, her touch gentle, sure.
I don’t say much, just listen, the stillness wrapping around me soft and unexpected. The greenhouse hums with her presence, a rhythm I didn’t know I needed until now.
She digs her fingers into the dirt, scooping it aside, her motions grounded, calm. “She used to say roots don’t lie,” she says, voice steady, clear. “What you bury will grow, whether you want it to or not.”
I kneel beside her, the earth cool under my knees, and pull the medallion from my pocket. Massimo’s. Its edges press into my palm, worn smooth from years of carrying it.
I carried this longer than I carried him. Wore it like armor. Like penance. The thought rises unbidden, a quiet ache threading through me.
My hand trembles slightly as I hold it out, the metal catching the fading light. “I think it’s time,” I say, voice low, raw with the truth of it.
The sun dips lower, golden light spilling through the cracked glass, bathing her face as she looks at me. Her eyes hold mine, steady, understanding, and I feel the past shift, not gone, but resting.
She nods, a small motion, and I set the medallion down beside her hands, the soil dark against its shine. The greenhouse stands quiet, vines swaying faint in the low breeze, and I feel the warmth of this place seep into me.
I thought I’d lost this, the quiet, the space to breathe. But here, with her, it finds me, soft as the petals brushing the floor.
She traces the trellis again, her fingers lingering where the vines once bloomed. “She’d sit here for hours,” she says, voice soft, pulling me back. “Talking to them, like they’d answer.”
“Did they?” I ask, settling beside her, my shoulder brushing hers.
“Maybe,” she says, a faint smile tugging her lips. “I’d hear her laughing sometimes, out here alone.”
I picture it, an old woman with dirt-streaked hands, whispering to flowers, and it settles something in me, a piece I didn’t know was loose.
The light shifts, dusk creeping in, and I feel the day folding around us, gentle, unhurried. “This place,” I say, voice low, “it’s still hers.”
“Yeah,” she says, digging her hands deeper into the soil, unearthing a small root. “And now it’s ours.”
I nod, feeling that truth take hold, a thread tying us to this ground, to each other. The medallion rests there, a mark of what I’ve carried, what I’m letting go.
“She’d like that,” Viviana says, brushing dirt from her fingers, looking at me. “You being here.”
I swallow, the thought catching me off guard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice firm, warm. “She’d see you, the way you listen.”
I look away, out through the cracked glass, the wild grass bending in the breeze. The sun’s nearly gone now, a thin line of gold clinging to the horizon.
“I didn’t used to,” I say, voice quiet, tracing the edge of the medallion with my thumb. “Listen, I mean.”
“You do now,” she says, resting her hand near mine, not touching, just close. “That’s enough.”
I nod, feeling the stillness stretch between us, soft and real. The greenhouse holds us, its vines and blooms a quiet witness to what we’re building.
“She planted these for a reason,” Viviana says, nodding to the tags, their faded ink curling in the light. “To say what she couldn’t.”
I pick up one, Forgiveness, the word smudged but clear. “What’s this one say to you?” I ask, holding it out.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine, and stares at it long. “That we keep going,” she says, voice steady. “Even when it’s hard.”
I feel that sink in, a truth I’ve lived but never named. “Yeah,” I say, setting the medallion back in the soil. “We do.”
The breeze lifts, stirring the vines, and I hear the faint creak of the glass panels above. The scent of damp earth fills my lungs, grounding me here, now.
“I used to think I’d bury him forever,” I say, voice low, staring at the medallion. “Keep him with me, like that’d fix it.”
“And now?” she asks, her hand resting on the dirt, close to mine.
“Now I think he’d want this,” I say, meeting her gaze. “A place to rest.”
She nods, her eyes soft but fierce, and I feel the weight of it lift, not gone, but shared. The greenhouse glows faint in the dusk, a haven of decay and life tangled together.
“She’d tell you to plant something,” Viviana says, a small laugh slipping out, breaking the quiet. “Make it grow.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, a grin tugging my mouth, surprising me. “What’d she like?”
“Moonflowers,” she says, pointing to the trellis. “They bloom at night, bright and stubborn.”
“Fits,” I say, looking at her, the way she kneels there, rooted in this place. “Fits us.”
“Yeah,” she says, brushing her hands clean, the dirt smudging her skin. “It does.”
I settle back, knees in the soil, and feel the day fade, the golden light giving way to dusk. The medallion gleams faint, a piece of Massimo I’ve held too long.
I carried this longer than I carried him. Wore it like armor. Like penance. But here, in her garden, it feels different, like it’s found its place.
The vines sway above, their leaves brushing the glass, and I hear the echo of her grandmother’s laughter, a ghost I never met but feel all the same.
“You okay?” she asks, voice soft, watching me close.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, my hand hovering over the medallion. “Better than I thought.”
She smiles, small but real, and I feel it, the quiet soothing me, stitching me back together. The greenhouse stands still, a cradle for what we’ve lost, what we’re keeping.
“I think it’s time,” I say again, voice steady now, letting the medallion rest in the dirt, a root I’m ready to plant.
The broken fountain leans slightly west, its stone basin cracked down the middle like a forgotten altar. Vines have swallowed most of it, curling up through the breaks. But the rosemary’s still here—persistent, stubborn, bright green against ruin. Marigolds peek out beneath it, faded gold and orange like dying suns. Life refusing to let go.
I kneel at the edge.
The soil’s softer here, darker. It clings to my fingers as I dig, gritty and damp. I don’t need a shovel. I need this—skin against earth. Every scrape a confession.
The hole is small. Not much wider than a palm. But it’s deep enough.
I pull Massimo’s medallion from my pocket again. It feels lighter now. Like it knows where it’s going.
My hands tremble as I lower it into the dirt.
Not from fear.
Not from grief.
Just release.
I stare down at the shine of silver one last time before I cover it. The soil slides in slow, a dark ribbon sealing the space shut. My fingers linger on the top. Pressing. Marking.
This is the end of it.
Not the love. Not the guilt. But the weight.
“You saved me,” I whisper, barely hearing myself. “Now let me live.”
Behind me, I hear the soft shift of Viviana’s footsteps. She crouches beside me, holding a tiny cloth bundle in one hand. Inside: a single seed.
She opens her fingers and offers it.
“It’s rosemary,” she murmurs. “From my grandmother’s old shelf. Means rebirth.”
I take it from her, nestle it into the earth where the medallion rests. My thumb presses it in, gentle. Then I cover it again. Not as burial. As planting.
“For Massimo,” I say.
Viviana nods. “And for you.”
We stay there for a long moment. Her shoulder just brushing mine. No embrace. No reassurances. Just breath and dirt and the last rays of a dying day streaking across the glass above.
A bird lands on the rusted beam overhead. Small, brown, sharp-eyed. It hops once. Then again. Then it sings.
Not loud. Not sweet.
Just enough.
The notes break through me. I close my eyes and let them echo in my ribs.
Maybe ghosts don’t need vengeance.
Maybe they just want to be heard.
I open my eyes again. Viviana’s still watching the grave. Her profile framed in soft orange light. She looks like she’s remembering a hundred things at once and not saying a word.
I reach out, take her hand.
Her fingers close around mine without hesitation.
That’s the thing about grief—if you’re not careful, it’ll make a home out of your bones. I’ve carried Massimo for years, thinking it was loyalty. But it wasn’t. It was penance. A weight I used to keep from feeling anything else.
But now—
Now I bury him. Not because I’m letting go.
Because I’m finally ready to carry something different.
Her.
We walk out of the greenhouse as the sun dips behind the trees. The world is painted in gold and rust. Viviana doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
There’s no need.
Our hands stay joined.
Behind us, the bird sings once more.
And I let the sound follow us into the dark.