Summer had always felt like home to Matteo — the season when the sea seemed to breathe with him. He’d grown up in Marina di Castello, a small Italian coastal town where the streets smelled of salt and lemons, and every face was familiar. He knew which shutters creaked when the wind changed, which fishermen told the best stories, and which waves would break hardest on the rocks. But that morning, something about the world felt different.

The sun was just lifting over the water, painting the sea in gold. Matteo had been doing what he always did — walking barefoot along the shore before breakfast, the tide brushing at his ankles, his grandfather’s old bracelet cool against his wrist. It was his ritual, his quiet way of listening to the day before it began speaking back.

He didn’t expect to find anyone else awake. Then he saw her.

She was standing near the rocks by the old pier, camera in hand, hair loose and catching the light like it had been waiting for the sun to arrive. She wasn’t from here — he could tell instantly. Her clothes were too neat, her expression too full of wonder. Locals didn’t look at the sea like that anymore.

Matteo stopped mid-step, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. “You’ll want to move a little closer if you want the lighthouse in the frame,” he said, voice half-shy, half-teasing. “It looks better when the waves hit the rocks just right.”