Tortora |verified| May 2026

“I’m afraid of watching another person leave.”

She looked at him. The salt wind had carved lines around his eyes, but they were still kind. For the first time in years, Tortora felt something other than truth and duty. She felt the small, dangerous flutter of wanting. tortora

He stayed. For three weeks, he helped her boil linens, carry water, bury the dead in shallow graves that would not hold. When the fever finally broke—when the last gray face faded back to pink—Enzo took her hand. “I’m afraid of watching another person leave

Tortora pulled her hand free. “The fever ran its course. I just kept people alive long enough for that to happen.” She felt the small, dangerous flutter of wanting

“That’s the same thing.”

Tortora did not fall sick. She moved through the quarantined homes, pressing cool cloths to foreheads, spooning broth into mouths too weak to swallow. She did not speak of hope. She said, “Drink this. Rest here. I’ll stay until you don’t need me anymore.”