Mattia was right: the days had slipped over her skin like a solvent, one after the other, each removing a very thin layer of pigment from her tattoo, and from both of their memories. The outlines, like the circumstances, were still there, black and well delineated, but the colors had merged together until they faded into a dull, uniform tonality, a neutral absence of meaning.

Choices are made in brief seconds and paid for in the time that remains

It was strange to find them here, still alive, with their shared bits of past that suddenly counted for nothing.

The love of those we don't love in return settles on the surface and from there quickly evaporates.

His scars were hidden and safe in her hand.

In the end it happens, in some way you couldn't imagine before.

Separating them were two layers of brick, a few inches of plaster, and nine years of silence.