Lorenzo sat at an outdoor café table, his light jacket barely enough to shield him from the cold. The wind carried the scent of damp earth, of the first buds timidly unfurling on still-barren branches.
It was March. Spring was coming.
And yet, inside him, everything still felt frozen.
Andrea had closed the door behind him three months earlier, leaving behind only silence and the memory of his crystalline laughter. No dramatic scenes, no shouting. Just a weariness that had seeped into their sheets and their days, carving invisible trenches between their perfectly sculpted bodies--so used to seeking each other, so incapable of truly holding on.
Lorenzo took a sip of wine, then let his gaze drift over the park's flower beds. Among the grass, delicate daffodils were beginning to bloom, their pale yellow petals barely visible in the fading light. He had always loved them. Softer than roses, quieter than orchids. Fragile, yet stubborn in their blooming.
Andrea always teased him about it.
"A guy like you, loving daffodils?" he'd say, laughing as he ran his fingers across Lorenzo's chest. "I'd have pegged you for more of an oak tree type."
Lorenzo closed his eyes, and a memory surfaced.
They had met at a conference in Florence, of all places. Lorenzo had been one of the keynote speakers, talking about his latest archaeological findings. Andrea, younger, sharper, had asked a question from the audience--one that had made Lorenzo pause. There was something in the way he spoke, in the way his eyes held his, that intrigued him.
Later, at the hotel bar, they had ended up at the same table. Andrea had grinned. "Did I annoy you with that question?"
Lorenzo had chuckled, shaking his head. "No. You impressed me."
One drink turned into two, then three. Conversation flowed effortlessly. They talked about history, about life, about things Lorenzo never thought he'd share with a stranger.
