The statue of Pietro d'Abano stretches, blinks a couple of times, and in a booming voice exclaims, "Greetings!"
The pigeon perched on his head flaps its wings, clearly annoyed, but stays put, as if used to this kind of weirdness. The market buzz goes on, completely oblivious, while we freeze in astonishment.
"Uh, good morning!" Fiore says, forcing a smile. "Are you… Pietro d'Abano?"
"Indeed, that is I," the noseless statue replies, its voice heavy with ancient weight. "And with whom am I conversing?"
"I am Fiorenzo del Monte delle Grotte. With me are Romina Kapoor and Milo Gentile," Fiore answers.
"And what can I do for you, Fiorenzo del Monte delle Grotte, Romina Kapoor, and Milo Gentile?" the statue asks, tilting its head slightly toward us.
Fiore gestures subtly: "Your turn."
I swallow.
"Uh…" I start, hesitant. "We're looking for information about one of your writings… the Heptameron Book."
"Ah, of course," Pietro d'Abano responds, his voice echoing like it's carved into stone. "As for my grimoire, I do not know where it has gone. I have told many gentlemen and gentlewomen like yourselves who solved my puzzle and were curious about it."
Well, that was expected. Clearly, someone else before us might have had the same idea.
I glance at Romina and Fiore: she returns a disappointed look, while Fiore strokes his chin, deep in thought, like he's piecing something together.
"Could you tell us what happened to your book?" Fiore finally asks.
"Back then, the Inquisition was far from kind to me," begins the statue. "So, before they arrested me and took me to what would become my final dwelling, I entrusted my manuscript to a loyal friend, as wise as I, hoping he would pass it to another worthy scholar of his time. Since then, the fate of the Book has no longer been mine."
"So, we're looking for something that, as of today, no one can find?" I ask, furrowing my brow.
"No living soul knows where the Heptameron is", concludes Pietro D'Abano, enigmatically.
I stagger slightly. So, our mission is over before it even begins?
"If no one alive knows", Romina starts softly, "maybe someone who's no longer among the living might know?"
The statue of Pietro D'Abano slowly turns toward Romina. "Excellent deduction, Romina Kapoor."
I glance at her: she's smiling triumphantly. "Romie, come on, explain it to us, too."
"If no living soul knows, maybe the dead do—maybe among the Fantastics," she replies.
Fiore's eyes widen, a flash of understanding. "You mean the ghosts of the area?"
"Exactly!" she exclaims, a half-proud smile on her face.
"Could work", Fiore nods in agreement.
"Good work, Sherlock", I add, impressed, and she blushes slightly, amused. I turn to Fiore. "Are there ghosts around here?" I ask, determined.
"Hundreds. Maybe even more," he replies, hands behind his neck, eyes scanning the crowd beyond the market stalls.
"Okay, but we'll need to narrow it down. Otherwise, we'll be here forever," Romina mutters. Then she turns to the statue. "Mr. D'Abano, any chance you could… point us in the right direction?"
The statue tilts its head slightly, a porous smile curling its lips. "Always happy to assist a brilliant mind," it says, then, like summoning a minion, it adds, addressing the pigeon: "Domenico, escort them to the House."
The pigeon coos for a moment, shakes its feathers, and takes off; it lands lightly on Romina's shoulder, like a pirate parrot. She makes a disgusted face but allows it. I chuckle quietly at the sight.
"Thanks so much for the help," I say, while the statue resumes its stony expression.
"Of course. Let it be known," Pietro D'Abano continues, in a solemn voice, "that on this journey, the mind opens to discovery; but beware: not all memories of the departed lie in peace. Some preserve wills and recollections that expect no benevolence. Proceed, then, with caution."
With that, the statue stiffens again, motionless. We pause for a moment, observing it.
Then the pigeon takes off and coos loudly, as if urging us to follow.
We dodge through the crowd, weaving between pedestrians and market stalls. A bike swerves right in front of us, and Romina nearly yelps. Can't lose the feathered GPS.
We cross Via Umberto I, the road leading to the heart of the city, swallowed by the usual Saturday bustle: voices, food smells, a violinist playing off-key under the porticoes, all merging into a sensory chaos, but we keep moving.
Then the pigeon cuts left toward the ancient Paduan Jewish district. We have to run to keep up.
We pop out near the Duomo, on Via del Vescovado. There, the pigeon flits among the historic covered walkways before perching on a house's window cornice.
Breathless, we look up at the decidedly peculiar building: unlike the others, it has no portico, and its façade is dotted with marble discs that resemble eyes planted in the wall. Some catch the sunlight like veiled mirrors.
The pigeon lands again on Romina's shoulder, and she stiffens reluctantly; it coos three times, then takes off, disappearing beyond the rooftops.
"Where are we?" I ask, eyes glued to the building that radiates hostility.
"The House of Mirrors", Fiore says, frowning. "I knew there were ghosts here. But they're not the friendly kind."
He steps closer to the façade, pressing his palm against it like testing for a pulse. I hang back, a few steps away: out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see movement inside one of the marble circles. I snap my gaze over: nothing.
Then the cold hits me.
A shiver runs down my spine, spreading through every muscle like ice water. I tremble. Sweat beads my forehead. My heart pounds heavy, slow, and off-beat, like it doesn't belong to me. A crushing weight squeezes my chest. My breath comes in ragged gasps, mouth open. Vision blurring, the world drifts away—I feel myself slipping out of my own skin.
It's not fear. Not exactly. It's something else. Emotions that aren't mine, twisting through my thoughts: fragments of pain, foreign memories, shattered voices whispering from somewhere deep. I try to focus. Everything slides through my fingers like water.
"Hey… you okay?" Fiore's voice cuts through the haze. His hands cup my face, warm and solid, grounding me for a heartbeat. But not enough to stop the tide entirely.
"I… don't know," I murmur. "I feel like I'm slipping out of my body."
Romina leans in, panic in her eyes. "What's happening?"
"He's losing himself," Fiore says, eyes locked on me. "He's connected to… something. We need to get out of here."
His voice muffles, distant, filtered through glass. The ground seems to tilt beneath us.
And then—a roar. The door of the House of Mirrors swings open on its own.
A blast of frigid wind smashes into us, pulling, tugging. Romina's hair plastered to her face. I slip from Fiore, his hands swipe at empty air. The smell of mold and centuries-old dust floods my lungs.
With a thunderous slam, the door crashes shut behind us.
The House of Mirrors has claimed us.