She can see the romance now, hidden in amongst all the tragedy. The reminders of love, of forgiveness, of the fleeting pocket of time that is life, which her grandmother kept chucking at her. But romance was never happily ever after. It was never just the highs, but also all the lows.

Emily stared down at the quayside, with all its tourists, far below, and out across the vast expanse of water. She imagined a time when the castle was filled with soldiers, when ships brought goods from all over the world, and her fingers itched to draw the images forming in her mind: a stowaway hidden in a crate of tea brought all the way from China; a young girl who dreamt of being an explorer.

There was a rumble of an engine as a sleek black boat traversed the waves below. A man stood at the helm, steering his vessel beneath one of the bridges that would bring him back to land. He had short, dark hair, smudged with gray at the temples, his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, tanned arms, and there was a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Two by two, she ran down the steps, round and round until she reached the bottom, then had to lean her head against the cool stone to wait for the world to stop spinning. Through the crowds she went, in and out of a group following a woman shouting in German, along with a screaming child trying to escape from its buggy and a mother smiling her apology behind tired eyes.

The man secured his boat to shore with a thick length of rope before assisting each of his passengers back onto dry land. He turned as he felt someone’s eyes on him, raised one hand to his mouth and said something Emily could neither hear nor see.

She watched as he walked toward her, held her breath as he pulled her into a tight embrace. He was crying, talking in a mixture of English and Italian, hugging her, then holding her at arm’s length, staring at her face, then shaking his head and crying all over again.

“Emily.” He said her name like he was afraid of it: quiet and slow. “Emily,” he said again, exploring every part of her face, resting a moment on her scar, then back up to her eyes.

“Noah.” She attempted a smile, but there was something about this man that bothered her, because she couldn’t shake off the feeling of déjà vu, that she had met him before. Except she didn’t remember his face, so what was it? The fact he had been expecting her, or even the knowledge of what he did to her grandmother? Disappointment? No, because he was just as alluring, just as whimsical, as she had imagined. All crinkly eyes and designer stubble, with navy blue shirt, white jeans, and a diver’s watch around one wrist.

“Are you hungry?” He was looking at her in a different way now—as if he was seeing her, not her grandmother, noticing the ways in which they were unique, as much as how they were so very similar.