When the wheels of Oliver's sedan touched French soil in Calais, the world seemed to shift colors instantaneously. It was no longer the metallic gray of London or the aseptic white of the St. Jude Clinic; it was a deep green, a milky azure, an ochre yellow that tasted of ancient earth. For the first time in months, the invisible weight that had burdened Azzurra's shoulders dissolved, pulverized by the realization that Erica—with her schemes and her venom—was now nothing more than a fading shadow in the rearview mirror.
"We're free, guys! We are actually, incredibly free!" Maya yelled, leaning out of the window as the car sped along the secondary roads of Picardy.
Oliver laughed—a clean, bright sound that reverberated through the cabin. His hands, no longer tense, gripped the steering wheel with a newfound lightness. Samuele's "fire" was still there, but it no longer burned like a wound; it had become a reassuring warmth, a silent compass.
"No motorways," Oliver decided, veering toward the heart of rural France. "I want to see everything. I want Azzurra to breathe in every single kilometer of this journey."
Thus began a parenthesis suspended in time—a long ribbon of asphalt traversing Europe like a piece of embroidery. They left the northern mists behind to descend toward the Loire Valley. There, amidst castles emerging from the morning fog like dreams of stone, the three friends rediscovered the joy of play. They stopped near Chambord and, despite muscles that were still a bit stiff, chased each other through meadows damp with dew, laughing until they were breathless.
Azzurra, wearing a light dress bought at a village market, attempted a pirouette on a wooden bridge. It was not the rigorous dance of the Richmond; it was a spontaneous movement, a gesture of gratitude to the sun that was beginning to warm her skin.
"Look, Oliver! There's no one here to tell me my foot isn't pointed!" she exclaimed, sticking her tongue out at him.
"To me, you're perfect even if you trip, Azzurra," he replied, capturing that moment with his eyes and etching it into his memory like a most precious treasure.
The journey continued southward through Burgundy, where vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see like a sea of gold and crimson. Carefreeness became their only law. Maya had taken control of the radio, alternating between old Italian pop hits and French rock songs, turning the car into a roving concert hall. They sang at the top of their lungs, making up absurd lyrics when they didn't know the words, and stopped at every secluded bakery just for the pleasure of smelling the scent of warm pain au chocolat melting in their mouths.
Arriving in Provence, the air grew thick with the scent of lavender and maritime pine. The Mediterranean appeared suddenly after a bend—a blade of cobalt blue that seemed to promise redemption. They stopped at an isolated cove near Cassis. There, far from everything, Oliver and Azzurra walked on the white sand, letting the cold waves wash over their feet.
Meanwhile, Maya found an old abandoned ball and challenged Oliver to an improvised football match on the shore. It was a moment of pure joy: Oliver trying to dribble past Maya, Azzurra acting as the referee by whistling through her fingers, their laughter drowning out the sound of the surf. In that moment, they were not the protagonists of a Greek tragedy; they were just three twenty-somethings who had just defeated a monster and were on their way to reclaim their lives.
"Look at that sunset," Azzurra whispered, sitting on the hood of the car as the sun dipped into the sea, tinting the sky violet and orange. "Erica wanted to lock me in a windowless room to keep me from seeing this."
"Erica lost because she tried to possess the light," Oliver replied, sitting down beside her. "She didn't understand that the light belongs to those who have the courage to follow it."
Crossing the Italian border at Ventimiglia felt like a baptism. The aroma of espresso, the hum of Ligurian traffic, the pastel houses perched on the cliffs of the Riviera: everything spoke a language that Azzurra felt vibrating in her bones. They crossed Tuscany, stopping for gelato in the deserted square of a medieval village, playing a game to see who could find the strangest-shaped cloud hovering over the silver hills of olive trees.
Maya snapped dozens of photos with an old instant camera: Oliver making faces with a chocolate cone, Azzurra laughing with her hair tousled by the wind of the drive, the three friends locked in an embrace before a landscape that took their breath away.
Descending along the Tyrrhenian coast, Lazio welcomed them with a warm, opulent light. They stopped near Gaeta, on a seemingly endless beach where the wind carried the scent of salt spray and wild rosemary. There, beneath a sky blanketed with stars that seemed close enough to touch, they lit a small fire and talked for hours. Not of the Lighthouse, not of the dangers awaiting them, but of what they would do afterward. Maya dreamed of opening a "rule-free" dance school; Oliver wanted to study the mechanics of old lighthouses across the globe; and Azzurra... Azzurra just wanted to stay like this, poised between the mud that had birthed her and the silk she had learned to master.
Every kilometer southward was a conquest of joy. Maya's laughter had become the metronome of the trip—a music that banished every remnant of fear. They felt invincible, protected by an aura of freedom that no legal injunction could ever touch. The journey had become a dance unto itself, a choreography of roads, breathtaking vistas, and rediscovered smiles.
The sea accompanied them faithfully on their right, growing bluer and more intense as they drew closer to Campania and then Calabria. The sunsets grew longer, the air sweeter and heavy with promise. They were three souls on a journey home, and for the first time in their lives, they were not afraid of what they would find on the horizon, because they knew they had each other.
Sicily was there, just a little further ahead, but in those days of infinite travel, the only thing that mattered was the road, the wind in their hair, and that shared laughter that tasted of victory.