The wind pulls at the edges of her scarf as the coastline blurs past gold sun.
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Scarves
The engine hums low beneath her hand, the road curling like a ribbon through Cap Ferrat. The silk at her nape flutters with each gust, a ghost of a touch she still remembers. She told herself she’d come to forget but freedom feels lonelier when it’s beautiful. The sea is too blue, the air too soft. Even the sunlight seems to remember.
She adjusts the scarf, fingers brushing its cool edge. For a heartbeat, she imagines it’s him tying it into place, whispering something reckless against her ear. The thought doesn’t ache anymore. It glows small, human, tender. Maybe love doesn’t have to end; maybe it just changes its shape.
She smiles into the wind. The scarf trails behind her like a silken signature across the horizon, a promise written in motion, no regrets.
