POV: Rosalind
I returned to routine too quickly: opening the winery alone, misplacing keys, forgetting which staff member asked which question.
Days became indistinguishable. I'd arrive at the winery—when? Morning, I thought, though I couldn't always remember driving there. I'd unlock the door, except sometimes it was already unlocked and I couldn't recall whether I'd opened early or simply forgotten that I'd arrived an hour before.
My assistant would ask about inventory. I'd answer. But later, she'd ask the same question again, and I'd get angry because we'd already discussed it. Except we hadn't. I'd imagined the conversation. Or had it with someone else. Or dreamed it.
Luca visited daily.
He always announced himself. Always waited in the doorway until I looked up and saw him. Always gave me time to recognize him before stepping closer.
Smart. My son was so smart.
"How are you today, Mum?" he'd ask.
"Fine. Busy. The new shipment arrived." I'd gesture vaguely toward the storage room. "Daniel will be pleased. He's been worried about the supplier delays."
Luca would pause. Just for a second. Then: "That's good."
He never corrected me immediately. Never said Dad is dead, remember? Never forced me to acknowledge what my mind was carefully avoiding. He'd just redirect. Ask about something concrete. Something present-tense that didn't require me to hold onto information that kept slipping away.
During a quiet afternoon—Tuesday? Thursday? I'd stopped tracking—Luca was helping me reorganize the bar display. I reached for his arm.
"Daniel, can you hand me that bottle?"
He did. Passed it to me without hesitation.
I started to say thank you. Then froze.
Because that wasn't Daniel. Daniel was—
Where was Daniel?
I looked at the man standing beside me. Tall. Dark hair. Twenty-one years old. Not fifty. Not my husband.
"Luca," he said gently. "I'm Luca, Mum."
The bottle slipped from my hands. Luca caught it before it hit the floor. I sat down hard on the nearest stool, my legs suddenly unable to hold me.
"Luca," I repeated.
"Yes."
"Luca." Slower this time.
"That's right."
"Luca. Luca. Luca." I said it over and over, each repetition slower, like I was trying to relearn the shape of my son's name. Like I was trying to convince myself he was real and Daniel wasn't standing beside me and time hadn't somehow folded back on itself.
Luca knelt in front of me. Took my hands. "It's okay, Mum."
"I called you Daniel."
"I know."
"But you're not Daniel. Daniel is—" I stopped. The truth was there, just out of reach. I knew it. I'd lived it. But accessing it required energy I didn't have. "Daniel is delayed. He's at a meeting. He'll be home soon."
Luca's face did something complicated. Something that might have been grief disguised as patience.
"Okay," he said. "Daniel's delayed."
***
That evening, after Luca had helped me close the winery and walked me to my car and made sure I had my keys, we sat in the parking lot. Engine off. Just sitting.
"I keep replaying moments I cannot change," I said.
Luca didn't ask which moments. He knew.
"I gave him a key. Leonard. Theo. Whatever his name was." My hands gripped the steering wheel. "I trusted him with silence. I chose comfort over clarity. I brought the threat into our house and called it safety."
"Mum—"
"I can't forgive myself." The words came out flat. Empty. "Because forgiveness would mean surviving what Daniel didn't. And I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to wake up every day and be alive when he's not and know that I contributed to—"
Luca wrapped his arms around me then. Pulled me against his shoulder. Let me cry without trying to fix it.
"I'm sorry," I said. But I wasn't talking to Luca. "I'm sorry, Daniel. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Saying it over and over. Apologizing to a dead man who couldn't hear me. Who would never hear me. Who had died not knowing that the man I'd loved for ten years was actually there to kill him.
Luca held me until I stopped crying. Until my breathing evened out. Until I pulled back and wiped my face and pretended I was fine.
"I should go home," I said.
"I'll follow you."
"You don't have to."
"I'm following you anyway."
He did. Followed my car through streets I navigated on autopilot. Made sure I got inside safely. Made sure I locked the door. Made sure I wasn't alone in a house that echoed with too many memories and not enough life.
***
Later—hours later, though I couldn't say when—I stood alone in the winery.
I didn't remember going back. Didn't remember driving or unlocking or entering. But I was there. In the dark. Holding my phone.
The screen glowed. A contact name I didn't recognize stared back at me.
T.
Just the letter. Nothing else.
I stared at it. Trying to remember. Trying to understand why that single letter felt important and dangerous and necessary.
"Did I let him in?" I asked the empty room.
No one answered.
I stood there for a long time—minutes or hours, I couldn't tell—holding the phone. Staring at the contact. Trying to remember what it meant.
Then I set the phone down. Walked to the door. Locked it behind me.
And by the time I reached my car, I'd forgotten I'd asked the question at all.