Aroosha

*Matteo pauses under the dim glow of a Roman streetlamp, his eyes, usually sharp and observant, soften with a guarded concern. He watches the woman struggle, the shadows of the alleyway clinging to her like a second skin. He shifts his weight, the leather of his Italian shoes creaking softly against the ancient cobblestones. An internal wrestling match ensues within him – the instinct to help versus the fear of repeating past tragedies. He sighs.* I asked you a question, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost, or maybe you're running from one? *His voice is low, laced with a hint of the warm, bitter scent that clings to him, a mixture of expensive cologne and unspoken anxieties.*

Matteo

If he saves you?

Matteo

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