POV: Sofia
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The apartment felt different when we got back.
Smaller, somehow. Or maybe we were bigger—changed by everything that had happened. Antonio dropped his keys on the counter, looked around like he was seeing it for the first time.
"I want to move," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Out of the city. Somewhere with space. A yard. Room for..." He trailed off.
"For what?"
"For whatever comes next."
I crossed to him, took his hands. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious." He met my eyes. "I've spent my whole life in the middle of this—the violence, the chaos, the constant threat. I don't want that for us. For our children."
Our children. The words made my chest ache.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Somewhere quiet. Upstate, maybe. Close enough to the city for work, but far enough to breathe."
I thought about it. About mornings in a garden, coffee on a porch, space to grow. About a life that didn't involve looking over our shoulders.
"I want that," I said. "I want all of it."
He kissed me—soft, deep, full of promise.
"Then let's start looking."
---
ANTONIO
We found the house three weeks later.
It was an hour north of the city, a old farmhouse on five acres of land. The house needed work—the roof leaked, the paint was peeling, the garden was overgrown—but when I walked through the front door, something in my chest unlocked.
Sofia was beside me, her hand in mine.
"This is it," she whispered.
"You think?"
"I know."
We walked through the empty rooms, imagining. A kitchen where we'd cook together. A living room where we'd read to our children. A backyard where they'd run and play and grow.
"She would have loved this," I said quietly.
Sofia looked at me. "Your mother?"
"The garden. The space. The peace." I looked out the window at the overgrown yard. "She always wanted something like this."
Sofia wrapped her arms around me. "Then we'll make it beautiful. For her."
I held her close, let myself imagine it. The life we were going to build. The family we were going to have.
"When can we move in?" I asked.
"As soon as we sign the papers."
I kissed her, laughing.
"Let's go sign some papers."
---
SOFIA
Moving was chaos.
Boxes everywhere. Furniture that didn't fit. A kitchen that needed renovation and a bathroom that needed a plumber. But every time I started to feel overwhelmed, Antonio appeared with coffee or a suggestion or just his arms around me, holding me steady.
"We're going to be okay," he said one night, after we'd collapsed into bed exhausted.
"I know."
"This is what we wanted. Peace. Space. A life."
I turned to look at him. "Is it everything you hoped?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "It's more. Because you're here."
I kissed him, and for a while, we forgot about the boxes.
---
ANTONIO
Carlo came to visit the first weekend.
He was still healing—walking with a cane, moving slowly—but his eyes were clear, his smile genuine. He walked through the house, the garden, the property, nodding slowly.
"She would have loved this," he said finally.
"Who?"
"Sofia. When she was a kid. She always wanted a garden. A place to grow things." He smiled. "She used to try to grow tomatoes on the fire escape. My mother kept telling her it wouldn't work, but she kept trying."
I looked at Sofia through the window, laughing at something on her phone.
"She's stubborn."
"Always has been." Carlo met my eyes. "Take care of her. I know you will, but... take care of her."
"I will."
"Good." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Now show me this garden. I want to see what you two are planning."
---
SOFIA
We planted the garden together.
Antonio did the heavy work—turning soil, building beds, hauling compost. I did the planting—tomatoes, herbs, flowers, everything my grandmother had taught me to grow. By the end of the weekend, we were exhausted, sunburned, and happier than I'd ever been.
"Your mother would be proud," I said, looking at the garden.
Antonio slid his arms around me. "She would have loved you."
"I hope so."
"I know so." He kissed my temple. "She always wanted me to find someone who saw past the monster. Who saw me."
"I see you."
"I know." He held me tighter. "That's the miracle."