Move at midnight, when the mirages are long gone, and the sun Copernicus knew has sunk behind the scar.

The erosion on the cliff walls read: she is gone.

If you dig deep hard enough in the sand, your nails will take home the fruits of the parrotfish. Stir black tea with a finger — the way she did before her digits snapped, like chalk in a child's hands.

She soaked her bleached hair with the last of the Sangiovese. The smell lingers with the clattering of jackdaws and honeysuckle.

Move after twilight, when the nightjars are long gone, and the moon Galileo knew has simmered beneath the peak.

An assiduous knock. She held a suitcase with a broken handle and subterfuge.