August 29th arrived with the solemnity of an ancient rite. The air in Catania, usually stagnant and saturated with heat, seemed to vibrate that day with a subtle electricity, as if the earth itself were holding its breath. For Belinda, this birthday was more than just a chronological milestone; it was Azzurra's first triumph following the shadow of Shimmy, the ultimate test of their newfound serenity.
The celebration was not to be held at the Villa, but on the beach, where the breath of the Ionian Sea meets the volcanic earth. It had been Elia's idea: "The sea cleanses everything, Belinda. Let us bring the light to where the water touches the world, and the darkness will have nowhere to hide."
At twilight, the small bay chosen by the family was a tableau of rare beauty. The sun, sinking behind Mount Etna, had painted the sky a deep violet—the same hue as the hair of the destroyed doll, but this time it was a natural, living shade, devoid of that artificial and malignant sheen. Belinda had prepared everything with a care that bordered on devotion. She had dressed Azzurra in the white tunic she had spent days embroidering: tiny stems of emerald-green basil intertwined around the hem, interspersed with miniature Moorish Heads stylized in gold thread. It was silken armor, a spell made to be worn.
"You are beautiful, my little one," Belinda whispered, kissing her daughter's forehead. Azzurra laughed, her five years of life exploding in a contagious joy. Her color had returned, the dark circles under her eyes had vanished, and her blue eyes, usually so serious, now sparkled like the sea at noon.
A great bonfire had been lit in the center of the beach. It was not a destructive fire like the one in Notting Hill, but a communal fire—a "Banquet of Light." Everyone was there: their closest friends, the collaborators from Il Faro, and, of course, Nonna Anna, who sat in a beach chair like an ancient queen, watching the fire with wise eyes that seemed to read the sparks.
The atmosphere was magical. Elia had brought his guitar, and the notes mingled with the crackling of the wooden logs. They sang and danced barefoot on the still-warm sand. The women from the workshop had prepared dishes that smelled of thyme and the sea. Azzurra ran between the legs of the adults, a small speck of white that seemed to float in the gathering dark.
Then came the moment for the cake. It was a monumental creation, decorated with candied citrus and edible jasmine flowers. The candles were lit, and a chorus of "Happy Birthday" rose toward the stars, soaring over the rhythmic crash of the waves. Azzurra blew them out with a strong puff, her childhood wishes dispersed by the fragrant smoke.
"I want to dance more!" Azzurra exclaimed, grabbing a piece of cake and running toward the edge where the firelight faded into the shadows of the shore.
Belinda smiled, exchanging a knowing look with Elia. She finally felt safe. She turned for a moment to set down a plate, responding to a friend's joke. It was the blink of an eye. A second. Perhaps two.
When she turned back to look for her daughter's white tunic, she saw nothing.
"Azzurra?" she called out, her tone calm at first.
No answer. Only the sound of the guitar and the laughter of friends nearby.
"Azzurra! Don't go too far!" she shouted again, her voice slightly more strained.
She started toward the water's edge, convinced she would find her playing with shells. But the shore was deserted. The white foam of the waves seemed to be the only movement in the darkness. Belinda felt the first, icy needle of panic pierce her chest.
"Elia! Elia, where is Azzurra?"
The alarm in Belinda's voice was like a violent tear in the evening's melody. Elia bolted to his feet, dropping his guitar onto the sand. The friends stopped laughing. In an instant, the Banquet of Light was transformed into a theater of terror.
"She was right here a moment ago, Belinda! She must be behind that cluster of rocks!" Elia cried, sprinting toward the southern side of the bay.
But in that precise moment, nature seemed to go mad. An unexpected wind, frigid and violent, whipped up suddenly—not from the sea, but as if erupting from nothingness. It was no summer breeze; it was a gale that kicked up the sand, blinding everyone present. The sea, which until a minute ago had been as calm as oil, began to churn furiously. The waves, black and menacing, grew to an immense size, crashing against the shore with a deafening roar.
"AZZURRA!" Belinda's scream was gut-wrenching. She began to run toward the water, her feet sinking into the wet sand. "Azzurra, answer me! Please!"
The wind swallowed her cries, hurling them back at her like a mockery. Belinda waded into the water up to her knees, heedless of the cold and the strength of the currents. She searched desperately for that white tunic, that speck of light in the absolute black of the Ionian.
"Mother Goddess, Hecate, Ceridwen... whoever you are, hear me!" she drifted into a delirium, no longer knowing which Goddess to pray to, which force to invoke. Her belief in the Wheel of the Year seemed to falter under the weight of a primeval force that answered to no cycle—only to chaos.
The search continued for half an hour. Thirty minutes that, for Belinda and Elia, were centuries of agony. The friends had fanned out, using phone torches that sliced through the dark with blades of white light, calling the child's name until their voices failed.
Elia returned to Belinda, his clothes soaked, his face twisted into a mask of despair. "I can't find her... Belinda, she's not on the rocks, she's not along the path..." His words died in a choked sob. They were out of breath, out of tears, consumed by the horror of a sea that seemed to have swallowed their future on the day of her birth.
Just as Belinda felt her knees give way, ready to collapse into the waves, a firm, warm hand gripped her arm.
It was Nonna Anna. Despite the gale tousling her white hair, the woman appeared incredibly steady, almost rooted in the sand like the ancient olive tree at the Villa. She was not searching with the light of a phone; her eyes were closed, her head tilted slightly.
"Everyone, stop!" Anna shouted, her voice miraculously rising above the roar of the wind. "Stop screaming! It is not the sea you must speak to."
Belinda looked at her mother-in-law with wild eyes. "Anna, Azzurra is gone! The sea is taking her!"
"The sea does not take what has been sewn to the earth, Belinda," Anna replied with a calmness that was almost frightening. "Be silent. Listen."
Anna knelt on the sand, right where the fire was being extinguished by the gusts of wind. She took a handful of sand mixed with warm ash and let it slide through her fingers. She began to whisper the same chant she had used years before to heal Elia's fever—that blend of Arabic and Sicilian that evoked the Magic of the Moors.
The wind seemed to shudder.
Belinda, holding her breath, noticed something. Not far from them, beneath the large Moorish Head they had brought as a decoration for the banquet, which now lay overturned in the sand, there was a movement.
The wind died down as abruptly as it had arrived. The sea returned to a sigh, appeased.
From the deep shadow behind a pile of driftwood brought in by the current, right where the land ended and the dunes began, a faint cry arose.
"Mama?"
Belinda and Elia lunged forward as one. Azzurra was there, sitting in a hollow protected by an ancient log, perfectly dry, her white tunic untouched. She looked as though she were waking from a deep sleep, her wide eyes searching for the light of the now-extinguished fire.
"There was a voice, Mama..." Azzurra said, as Belinda overwhelmed her with kisses and tears, clutching her so tightly it hurt. "A voice that sang 'shimmer,' but I didn't go to her. I followed the scent of the basil... I fell asleep here."
Nonna Anna rose slowly, brushing the ash from her hands. She looked at Belinda and then at the sea, which now shimmered under the full moon that had reappeared through the clouds.
"The shadow tried to call her, Belinda. It tried to take her with the wind and the salt," Anna said in a low voice. "But the roots you embroidered and the rite we performed kept her here. Azzurra is no longer a leaf in the wind. She is part of this earth."
Belinda looked at her daughter, then at Elia, and finally at Anna. She knew the battle was not over, that Grandpa Giovanni's shadow and the distortion of Shimmy could return in other forms. But that night, on the beach, they had won. The Banquet of Light had been interrupted, but the true light—the one that is not extinguished by the storm—burned brighter than ever in the heart of her family.
As they walked back toward the Villa in the silence of the Sicilian night, Belinda felt that her embroidery was no longer just art. It was life. It was a shield. It was, finally, her voice.