He knelt beside her, taking her hands in his. “I told you, Giulia. Corro da te. Always.”
Finally, he reached her studio. The door was ajar, and the soft glow of candlelight spilled onto the landing. He found her sitting on the floor, surrounded by canvases, her eyes red-rimmed and her hands trembling.
He ran past the Duomo, its magnificent dome silhouetted against the deepening twilight. He wove through the labyrinthine streets of the Oltrarno, the scent of jasmine and woodsmoke trailing in his wake. The city, usually a symphony of noise, seemed to fall silent, leaving only the sound of his breath and the rhythmic strike of his feet on the stone. Corro da te
He pushed through the fatigue, his muscles screaming for respite, but the image of Giulia’s face, etched with worry, fueled his stride. He crossed the Ponte Vecchio, the glimmering lights of the jewelry shops reflecting in the dark water below.
“I’m here,” he panted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I ran.” He knelt beside her, taking her hands in his
She looked up, a flicker of relief washing over her face. “You came.”
In the quiet sanctuary of the studio, amidst the scent of turpentine and the ghosts of unfinished masterpieces, they sat together. The urgency of the run faded, replaced by a profound sense of belonging. Marco realized then that his greatest race wasn't toward a finish line, but toward the person who made his heart beat faster than any marathon ever could. Always
He didn't reach for his car keys or check the bus schedule. He laced up his well-worn running shoes, the familiar ritual grounding him in the urgency of the moment. He burst out of his apartment, his heart a drumbeat against his ribs.