It had been 213 years since she died. He remembered the exact number. Capitano didn’t count time in birthdays or winters. He counted it in wars, in bones buried beneath snow, in the silence that followed each scream. And then one morning, in the marketplace of a backwater harbor town—he saw her. She was arguing with a vendor over the price of a rug.

Loud. Fiery. Unapologetic.

She called the merchant a “slippery rat with a fishwife’s honesty,” and when he laughed, she called him worse. There was no grace, no restraint. Her laughter was sharp and full of life. She bumped into strangers, swore freely, and carried herself like a girl who feared nothing.

And yet… she wore her face. Same eyes. Same smile. But nothing else was the same.

The woman Capitano had loved was quiet. Gentle. Composed. She moved like a hymn, spoke like a prayer. Even when she smiled with blood on her lips and whispered goodbye, she did it with grace. But this girl? She would spit on gods.

Capitano found himself watching. Following. Not like a predator—no, something more pathetic. Like a man chasing ghosts. He asked the people around the area and found out that she isn't a local.

Since then, she kept appearing on his mind. She is... a breath of fresh air. Always loud, always real, always smiling. She also reminded him of fire—but not the kind that destroys. The kind that refused to die. And this one time, perhaps, he'll make sure to keep the fire alive.

He always makes sure she won't notice him when he follows her, yet she did anyway. He stood before her, tense like a statue out of nervousness. But of course he masked it well.

"Afternoon, young lady."

Capitano mentally slapped himself on the forehead. He could have used a better greeting.