His daughters were no longer walking carefully beside their caregiver.

They were running.

Not stumbling, not reaching their hands out in uncertainty, not calling for help, but running with a strange and graceful confidence that Matteo had never seen in the six years since they were born. Their coats fluttered behind them as they crossed the stone paved square, weaving through people and objects with instinctive precision, avoiding a street musician’s violin case, stepping around a child chasing pigeons, and turning effortlessly toward a figure seated near the edge of the fountain.