“You look like a ghost who lost her haunting,” he’d said, offering a peeled tangerine.

They met by accident. Rae was hiding out from a bad deal gone worse, her last few crumpled euros stuffed in her boot. Antonio found her asleep against a stone wall, her leather jacket dusty, her braids tangled with dry leaves.

One evening, as the sky turned the color of blood oranges, Antonio sat at his dusty upright piano on the terrace. He played a melody Rae had never heard—slow, minor, full of unresolved chords.

Antonio didn’t ask questions. He just handed her a basket each morning and pointed toward the groves. “Pick the ones with the little black spot near the stem,” he said. “They’re sweetest. Like people who’ve been bruised a little.”

“The groves have tunnels,” he said. “Old Moorish irrigation channels. They lead to the next valley, where my cousin has a boat. It’s slow, and it smells like wet earth, but it’s safe.”