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Giovanni stood on the docks of Messina, the salt air thick in his lungs, his mother’s hands trembling in his. She would not cry in front of him. Not yet. Not until the ship had disappeared past the horizon. That was her way. “You will write?” she asked, her voice firm, though he could hear the break just beneath the surface. “Every week,” he promised. She squeezed his fingers, her grip rough from years of work and sacrifice. Hands that had plucked lemons from the grove before dawn, eggplants and tomatoes from the farmlet, kneaded bread before sunrise, stitched together a life with threadbare means. Then, without another word, she turned away, her shoulders stiff, her chin lifted high.