Chapter 12: The Isle of Granite**
Corsica rose from the sea like a fortress of dark granite crowned by dense pine and wild maquis shrubland.
They drove a rented vintage Fiat along the narrow coastal cliffs of Cap Corse. The air smelled of rosemary, salt spray, and warm earth. For the first time in weeks, Camille rolled down the window and let the wind rush through her curly hair.
The map led them past ancient Genoese watchtowers to an isolated estate nestled among terraces of centuries-old olive trees. At the tip of the headland stood a small, whitewashed lighthouse overlooking the endless expanse of the Mediterranean.
Marcus parked the car at the bottom of the gravel lane.
"This is as far as I go," Marcus said, turning off the engine. "Some doors you have to knock on alone."
Camille looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of gratitude. She leaned over and hugged the old man tightly. "Thank you, Marcus."
"Don't thank me, Camille," Marcus said, patting her back. "You saved all of us."
May you like
She stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. The gravel crunched under her sneakers as she walked up the gentle slope toward the white stone cottage beside the tower. A stray ginger cat basked on a stone wall, watching her with lazy indifference.
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