The places I had once walked with him, I visited them all. One by one.
The first day, I went to the lovers' bridge under Family watch.
Among the rows upon rows of locks lining the iron railing, I found ours quickly.
The face of the lock was etched with crooked, uneven letters.
"Julian Moretti and Adrian Bellandi will be together forever."
That day, he had held my hand over the metal while he carved each word. His penmanship was always precise, controlled, the handwriting of a man who left nothing to chance. But the engraving tool was unfamiliar in his grip, and the letters came out a mess.
I had laughed at him for a long time.
The tips of his ears turned red. A rare, unguarded awkwardness.
"Adrian, my head is so full of you that I can't even carve straight. You owe me for that."
The words had barely left his mouth before he leaned down and kissed me.
I stood on that bridge now. I took the key from my pocket and opened the lock.
Then I threw it as hard as I could.
The lock traced an arc through the air and disappeared over the edge, swallowed by the hillside below.
The second day, I went to the parish chapel of San Clemente.