Back at La Sirena, the storm had thickened. The wind clawed at the shutters, and the sea beyond the cliffs roared like it had secrets to shout.
Lina sat at the desk in her room, the envelope unopened in front of her. It had yellowed at the corners. Her name was written in Roman's neat, arrogant script.
She stared at it for a long time.
When Milo knocked, she didn't answer. But he let himself in any way, barefoot, holding two cups of coffee. The inn was too old for boundaries.
"I brought caffeine," he said. "You look like you're about to dissect a corpse."
"Close enough," she murmured, tapping the letter.
He set the cups down and sat across from her. "What is it?"
"A parting gift from the dead," she said. "He left it with Rosa. Told her to give it to me if... something happened."
Milo leaned back, arms folded. "You gonna open it?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm afraid it'll tell me what I already suspect."
"That you killed him?"
"That he wanted me to."
Milo blinked. "That's a hell of a thing to say."
She looked at him then, eyes hollow and sharp all at once. "He was cruel, not in the obvious way, not with fists. But he knew how to turn love into a weapon. He'd say things that made me feel small—make me think I was lucky he hadn't left."
Milo's voice was low. "And still you stayed."
"Of course I did," Lina said. "Because when someone keeps you just barely whole, you start thinking it's love."
They sat in silence for a beat. Then she picked up the envelope.
Her fingers shook as she tore it open.
The letter inside was short. A single sheet, written in the same hand. No greeting. No warmth.
> If you're reading this, I didn't make it through the night. Maybe you're wondering if it's your fault. Maybe it is. Or maybe it's mine. We were never good at limits, Lina. But I need you to know one thing: I never thought you'd do it. Not really. Which makes this kind of poetic, doesn't it?
She dropped it halfway through, breathing too shallow to continue.
Milo reached for it and read silently.
After a moment, he said, "This isn't a confession. It's a dare."
She nodded slowly, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's him, even now. Making sure the guilt stays."
"Do you want to burn it?"
Lina looked at him. "No. I want to bury it."
Milo stood. "Then let's go dig."
They took the lantern out back, behind the inn where the soil was soft from rain. She didn't speak as she knelt and pressed the letter into the earth, fingers muddy, eyes dry.
Milo watched her. He didn't touch her. Just stood close enough to keep the wind off.
When it was done, she looked up. "Thank you."
He met her gaze. "You buried a ghost. That doesn't mean it won't haunt you."
"I know."
"But now it's your ghost," he said. "Not his."