Joe leans on the stone balustrade, the Adriatic breathing blue below them.
Joe:
“Nelly… how come you’ve never sung in Croatia? Never let your voice drift over the blue Adriatic—the same blue as your eyes. It would wreck people, in the best way.”
She smiles, half-shy, half-curious.
Nelly:
“I don’t know. Life just… pulled me elsewhere.”
Joe:
“They love you there. Truly. You remind them of Gospa—not the marble kind, the living kind. Gentle. Protective. Like a presence that shows up when the sea is calm and when it’s rough.”
She looks out at the water, sunlight flickering like notes on a staff.
Nelly:
“That’s a heavy thing to say.”
Joe:
“Only because it’s true. You’d sing once, and they’d swear the coast remembered you. Like you’d always been part of it.”
The wind carries salt and promise. She doesn’t answer—just lets the blue look back at her.
