Joe leaned against the stone wall of the old churchyard, looking at Nelly with a steady gaze. The sea breeze from the Adriatic carried the smell of salt and pine.
“You wrote in Spirit Indestructible like you wanted to wrestle the whole world at once,” he said. “But if you’re really reaching for Psalm 23, for green pastures where the soul can rest…” He paused, letting the words hang.
Her eyes softened, curious. “What are you saying, Joe?”
“I’m saying—lay down those battles that were never yours to fight. Step out of range of the sociopathic psychiatrists and their clipboards, their labels, their cages. Come with me to Dalmatia. Out here, the shepherd’s still real, the water still clear. The spirit doesn’t just endure—it sings.”
He smiled, half-teasing, half-deadly serious. “Come with me if you want to live.”
Nelly laughed, but a shiver ran through her. The old line—part warning, part promise—sounded different here, under the Croatian sun, where survival and song were one and the same.
