Two weeks had passed since that night under the bridge, and Anna had learned that silence could be louder than any scream.
Vincenzo moved through their bedroom like a ghost. He came and went at odd hours, his footsteps quiet on the marble floors, his presence a shadow at the edge of her vision.
In the mornings, she would wake to cold sheets and an empty space beside her, the indentation of his body already faded from the sheets.
At night, she would lie awake and listen to the sound of the door opening, the rustle of his clothes, the soft click of the bathroom door closing, and then nothing.
Always nothing.
She tried to speak to him. Three times in the first week, she opened her mouth in the moments when they occupied the same space, when the air between them seemed thin enough to brea
