Three thousand stone steps led up the hill to its doors. I had once climbed every one of them on my knees.
That was four years ago, on the first anniversary of our marriage.
That day, our car had been hit on the road back from a sit-down. In the worst moment, he had thrown himself over me, shielding me from everything.
I believed that kind of love deserved everything I had in return.
He fell unconscious and would not wake. In my panic, someone told me the chapel's patron saint answered prayers that no one else would hear, so I climbed those steps on my knees and begged for a blessing charm.
When he woke, we returned together to give thanks.
He said it then.
"Adrian, we love each other this much. We'll always be together."
I had believed it without question.
Now I understood. It was nothing but a lie.
The third day, I went to the ginkgo tree.
We had planted it with our own hands.
The leaves trembled gently in the wind. The letters carved into the trunk had warped with years of growth, but they were still legible.
"Julian Moretti loves Adrian Bellandi. For this life and every life after."