Echoes of Summer

The echo of waves lingered as I opened my eyes. Morning light slipped through the slatted shutters, casting thin golden bars across the bedroom wall. For a moment, I was back there—on the swing, barefoot in the sand, his silhouette framed by the sun.

The dream felt so real I could still taste the salt air. I sat up, surprised to find tears on my cheeks.

“Darling.”

Had I said it out loud again? The word felt so natural in the dream, so right—but awake, it just left me confused.

From the kitchen came the clatter of plates and Sylvie’s voice cutting through morning radio chatter, probably arguing with the weather forecast. I threw on my robe and padded down the hallway.

“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty graces us with her presence,” Sylvie announced without turning around, extending a coffee mug behind her like she had eyes in the back of her head.

“You’re in a mood,” I said, accepting the coffee gratefully.

“I’m always in a mood. It’s called personality.” She spun around, brandishing a butter knife like a tiny sword. “You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been communing with spirits again.”

I leaned against the counter, inhaling the coffee’s warmth. “Just the beach dream. Same as always.”

“Ooh, the mysterious beach lover!” Sylvie’s eyes lit up with shameless interest. “The one you keep calling—”

“It’s nothing,” I cut her off quickly, my cheeks burning. “Just a stupid dream.”

“Nothing? Natsumi, you’ve been having the same dream for months, and every time you wake up looking like you’ve washed ashore.” She pointed her knife at me accusingly. “That’s not nothing.”

“Can we please not do this before I’ve finished my coffee?”

“Fine, fine. But don’t think this conversation is over.” She turned back to her toast with obvious reluctance. “I have theories.”

“I’m sure you do.”

We sat at the cramped kitchen table, knees bumping slightly beneath the tablecloth printed with faded lemons.

Vespas buzzed outside through the narrow Veronese streets, a church bell tolled distantly, and the apartment’s fan clacked in its lazy circle.

“We got mail,” Sylvie said, nodding toward a small stack of envelopes on the sideboard. “Our landlady’s getting sneakier about sliding stuff in.”

I stood, half-curious, half-dreading. The handwriting on the top envelope stopped me cold—elegant, deliberate, unmistakable.

Shizuka.

My fingers moved before my thoughts caught up. I slipped the letter from the pile, its paper cool against my skin.

“Who’s that from?” Sylvie asked, finally watching me.

“Someone I used to be close to,” I said, sitting back down. “Someone important.”

I broke the seal gently. A faint trace of perfume still clung to the paper.

Natsumi,

It’s been so long. I heard you’re dancing beautifully across Europe—

and I’m glad. You always belonged on stage.

Sometimes I wonder how it could’ve gone differently.

We all chose our roads, but I regret the silence.

If you ever want to talk… I’ll be here.

—Shizuka

I read it twice. Maybe three times. Then folded it, hands trembling just enough for Sylvie to notice.

“You alright?”

“I will be,” I said. “Eventually.”

“Old friend?”

I hesitated. “She was my friend in high school when everything… shifted.”

“The dream one?”

I looked at her. “No. That’s someone else.”

Sylvie gave a slight nod, the kind that said, I won’t pry, but I don’t buy it.

Mercifully, a knock at the door broke the tension.

“That’ll be Renzo,” she said, rising. “He thinks being late is charming.”

She was right. Renzo stepped in with a grin like sunshine and hair like he’d just finished running his hands through it in a mirror.

“Buongiorno, ballerinas!” he sang.

“Five minutes later and I’d have filed a missing person report,” Sylvie said flatly, though her eyes smiled.

“I prefer dramatic entrances.” He noticed the envelope in my hands. “Bad news?”

“Just a letter,” I said, sliding it into my bag. “From back home.”

“Japan, right?” he asked. “Always wanted to go.”

“Careful,” Sylvie said, nudging him. “Ask too many questions and she’ll vanish into the fog like a folklore ghost.”

“Ghosts, huh?” Renzo said, amused as we stepped out into the sunlit street. “Italy has better ones.”

The morning heat was already climbing, the cobblestones radiating a sleepy warmth. Street vendors shouted greetings, the smell of tomatoes and basil rising from nearby cafés. I fell in step between them, the noise of the city pressing close, familiar and comforting.

“Verona’s good for new stories,” Renzo offered. “Maybe it’s time you wrote one.”

Sylvie linked her arm with mine. “But don’t get too romantic. One scandalous affair per season is plenty.”

I laughed, letting the air in, allowing it to clear me.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe summer still had something to teach me.