The nightmares she had for the first few nights faded into quiet sleep.

I didn’t hear from Dominic for a month.

There were no phone calls, no lawyers at my door, no black SUVs parked across the street.

But Marco would occasionally pass by, sitting in a diner down the block, keeping a silent, protective watch.

I didn’t mind.

It was a quiet reassurance that the storm had truly passed.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the bell above the door chimed.

I was sorting a stack of old leather-bound histories behind the counter.

Lucia was sitting at the low table in the children’s corner, coloring with a yellow crayon.

I looked up, expecting a student or a neighborhood regular.

Dominic stood in the doorway.

He wasn’t wearing his usual dark coat or a tie.

He wore a simple grey sweater and dark trousers, his hair slightly damp from the mist outside.

He held a small paper bag from the bakery down the street.

“Elena,” he said, stopping just inside the threshold.

“Dominic,” I replied.

He looked around the shop, his eyes lingering on the worn wooden shelves and the faded rug.