**Chapter 9: Beneath the Surface**
The next morning, the vineyard was shrouded in mist, the kind that clung to the earth and made everything seem otherworldly. Isabella had barely slept, her mind racing with thoughts of the woman in the photograph and Luca's panicked reaction. Something about his plea—*not yet*—had unsettled her, as though he was guarding a truth that could shatter the fragile trust between them.
Determined to clear her head, she wandered to the far edge of the vineyard, where a small grove of olive trees formed a natural barrier. The air here was cooler, carrying the faint scent of earth and rain. It was there, among the gnarled roots and scattered leaves, that she found it—a piece of paper, worn and weathered, caught beneath a stone.
Curiosity flared, and she carefully unfolded the paper. The edges were torn, and the ink had bled in places, but she could still make out the words. It was a letter—one Luca must have written but never sent. Her breath caught as she read the opening line: *My dearest Emilia…*
Emilia. The name struck her like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't her name, but it was familiar. She had seen it before—on the small plaque beneath a weathered grave in the town's old cemetery. She remembered it because she had stopped to sketch the ivy curling around the headstone, and the name had stayed with her.
The letter was unfinished, ending abruptly with a streak of ink. But the words it did contain were enough to set her heart racing. Luca had loved this woman, deeply and desperately. And now she was gone.
"Looking for something?"
The voice startled her, and she spun around to find Luca standing behind her, his expression a mix of anger and pain. He held out his hand. "Give it to me."
Isabella hesitated, clutching the letter tightly. "Why didn't you tell me about her?" she demanded. "Who was Emilia?"
Luca's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse to answer. But then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She was… everything," he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. "This vineyard, this house—it all belonged to her family. And when she died, I stayed here to preserve what was left of her."
Isabella's chest tightened as the pieces began to fall into place. The letters, the paintings, the novel—it wasn't just about her. It was about Emilia, too.
"You're not over her," she said quietly, the words more observation than accusation.
Luca's silence was answer enough.
But before she could say more, the distant sound of voices reached them—shouting, urgent and frantic. Both of them turned toward the vineyard, their tension momentarily replaced by concern.
"What's going on?" Isabella asked.
Luca's expression darkened, and without another word, he began running toward the sound. Isabella followed close behind, her heart pounding. As they neared the center of the vineyard, the shouting grew louder, and a small crowd had gathered near one of the vines.
And there, tangled among the roots, was a discovery that made Isabella's blood run cold—a rusted locket and bones, unearthed by the storm.
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