The pier groaned beneath the weight of years rather than men, for its planks had long since forgotten the rhythm of trade and laughter, now remembering only the slow erosion of salt and silence.
Night had settled thick upon the water, the horizon swallowed whole, the sea reflecting no light but the faint glimmer of distant stars that trembled upon its restless surface.
Michele Ferrara stood near the edge, one boot resting against a warped beam, his posture loose yet deliberate, as though stillness itself were a choice rather than absence of motion.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring briefly with each slow inhale, the faint curl of smoke rising before being torn away by the wind that moved cold and sharp across the open water.
"…you survived," a voice said from behind him.
Low.
