She did not throw it. She did not speak.
Inside lay no treasure, no jewels. Just a folded scrap of linen and a single, smooth river stone. The linen held a name, embroidered in faded crimson thread: Morozzi.
Julia sat very still. The shop’s pendulum clock ticked. Outside, rain began to fall on the cobblestones, each drop a soft, separate heartbeat. She unfolded the linen fully. Beneath the name, a line of old Venetian dialect: