The First Line
Morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of Gabriella's room, casting soft shadows across the floor.
The air still carried the faint scent of antiseptic, but now it mixed subtly with the warmth of the hot chocolate Viola brought every morning.
On the small table beside the bed, the cup waited—its steam drifting lazily upward.
Viola sat in the chair, as always, watching the young girl bundled in her gray blanket. Gabriella's hair was messy, falling over part of her face. But her eyes were open—staring blankly at the wall, expressionless.
"Good morning, Gabriella," Viola greeted softly.
No answer. Only a slight movement in the girl's fingers, as though she were trying to grasp something she couldn't put into words.
Viola wasn't disappointed, she was used to this. Patiently, she tidied the small table, then placed a clean sheet of white paper and a new pencil there.
"If you want… you can write or draw today," she murmured. "It's okay if it becomes nothing. Sometimes… the most honest shape of the heart is the one without direction." She waited for a moment, but Gabriella remained silent.
Only her eyes moved—staring at the pencil for a long time, as if it were an unfamiliar object hiding a secret.
Hours passed. Viola left the room, but the CCTV camera kept watching, observing every small motion.
In the monitoring room, Luca stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.
Gabriella was still in the same place—sitting on the chair, staring at the empty paper before her.
Then slowly, her hand moved. She reached for the pencil awkwardly, like someone who had long forgotten how to touch something without fear.
The pencil tip touched the paper, the first line appeared—slanting, then curling aimlessly. It formed nothing.
Then another line and another. As if every stroke was a fragment of breath released after being trapped for too long.
There was no shape. No meaning. But for those watching, it meant more than a thousand words.
Dante entered the monitoring room with a cup of coffee for Luca. He looked at the screen and murmured,
"She's drawing?" Luca didn't answer at first, only gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving the display.
"Yes. But she doesn't know what she's drawing," he said quietly.
His voice was calm, but inside it was something else—relief, fragile but real.
Dante sipped his coffee, following Luca's gaze.
"Sometimes the things without direction are the most honest. Maybe she's just trying to release what she can't speak."
Luca remained silent.
On the screen, Gabriella continued drawing. Her strokes grew faster, sometimes pressing so hard the paper nearly tore.
Then suddenly—she stopped. The pencil slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. Her shoulders trembled.
Viola, who had returned to the room, immediately approached.
"Gabriella?" she called gently.
No reply. But the girl bent forward, her shoulders shaking—crying, without sound.
Viola didn't touch her. She knew Gabriella wasn't ready.
She simply sat on the floor in front of her, keeping a safe distance, and spoke softly:
"That's good. It's alright to cry. It's alright to draw without knowing what it is. You're learning to speak again, sweetheart… just in a different way."
Gabriella glanced at her, eyes red, then looked down again. She picked up the pencil slowly and began drawing once more—this time softer, gentler.
New lines appeared. Still shapeless, but no longer chaotic. There was something faint there—a shadow of something. Perhaps a face, perhaps the sky, perhaps something only her soul could understand.
That night, Viola sat again in the monitoring room with Dante. They replayed the footage from the afternoon, slowing down the moment Gabriella resumed drawing after crying.
"Look," Viola said, pointing. "She pauses here… then continues. But see how her lines change—they're softer. As if… something inside her started to settle." Dante nodded.
"Could be the effect of the music from last night," he said. "That song opened something in her. Now she's trying to express what she can't say."
Viola smiled faintly, then turned toward Luca, who stood behind them.
"She's healing, Luca. Slowly, but surely." Luca didn't answer.
He stared at the screen with a distant but deep look—like someone trying to convince himself that the miracle unfolding before him was real.
His eyes lingered on the paper in Gabriella's hand, and he whispered, barely audible:
"Go on, Piccolina… keep drawing. I'll listen, even without words."
Night grew deeper.
In her room, Gabriella was still awake. The paper before her was now filled with overlapping lines—meaningless to the eye, but heavy with emotion.
She stared at it for a long time, then closed her eyes. For the first time, she wasn't afraid of the shadows in her own mind.
Silhouette in the Light
Evening settled slowly over Modena, carrying the scent of damp earth and soft shadows across the walls of the large house. In the east wing room, the window curtains were left half open—allowing the dim orange light to slip into the space that had long known nothing but white and gray.
Gabriella sat in the chair near the small table.
In front of her, a cup of warm chocolate released a sweet aroma, and a blank sheet of white paper lay open on the desk.
A pencil rested beside it, untouched. Viola stood by the door, watching from a distance, unwilling to break the fragile silence.
She had grown used to coming at the same hour—greeting softly, setting down the drink, then waiting without certainty.
But today was different. There was something in Gabriella's gaze that made Viola hold her breath.
The girl wasn't staring at the wall or the floor as usual.
She was looking at the paper—long and steady, as though negotiating with herself.
"Gabriella," Viola whispered, her voice soft as breath. "The sky looks beautiful today. I thought you might like the color."
No answer. Only a slight movement in the girl's hand.
Her fingertip touched the pencil—hesitant—then slowly pulled it closer. Viola watched, frozen, afraid that a single wrong move might break the small miracle forming before her eyes.
Gabriella lowered her head, staring at the blank sheet.
The pencil in her hand moved tentatively, trembling at first, then dragging faint strokes across the paper.
There was no clear shape—just scattered lines, like pieces of something remembered from a dream.
Viola held her breath. This was the first time Gabriella had done something by her own will since that day.
Minutes passed. The evening light faded, replacing orange with a soft gray.
On the paper, something vague began to appear—a silhouette of a man standing with his back to the light. No face. Only the faint outline of shoulders and a blurred shape of a head.
Gabriella stared at it for a long time, her lips moving slightly, as if murmuring something only her heart could hear.
"Who is he, Gabriella?" Viola asked gently, not expecting an answer, only wanting to fill the air with a calming sound.
No words came. But Gabriella's eyes shifted toward Viola—her first real gaze in days. A look full of hesitation, fear… yet also alive.
Viola met her gaze, her eyes beginning to glisten.
"You're drawing someone, aren't you?" she whispered.
Gabriella looked down. Her hand traced the silhouette, darkening the shadow around the figure.
Then, without realizing it, she whispered—so faint it was barely sound:
"He… was there." The voice was so soft, but to Viola it was louder than anything. She covered her mouth, holding back the sudden rush of emotion.
Tears fell—not out of sadness, but overwhelming relief.
"That's wonderful, sweetheart," she said shakily.
"You remember someone. That's a big step."
Gabriella didn't respond. She simply stared at her drawing, her fingers pausing over it.
The evening light brushed her hair, making her look like a living shadow between fading colors.
Viola stepped closer slowly, her knees nearly giving out.
She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying her breath, then whispered,
"I'm proud of you, Gabriella."
In the monitoring room downstairs, three pairs of eyes watched the CCTV screen in silence.
Dante sat with furrowed brows, while Viola—having just left the room—wiped her tears in the corner of the sofa. Luca stood at the front, hands tucked into his pockets, his jaw tight.
"I can't believe it," Dante murmured.
"She actually responded. This is the first time in three weeks."
Viola nodded weakly, her voice hoarse. "She even spoke… one sentence. Just one, but her voice was so clear."
Luca didn't turn around. His gaze was locked on the screen, on the image of Gabriella still staring at her drawing.
"A silhouette…" he muttered. "Is she remembering something?"
Dante looked at him. "Or someone," he replied carefully.
The word made Luca fall silent for a long moment.
He knew that behind all the trauma and haze of memory, Gabriella might be holding on to fragments of her past—something that refused to disappear. Someone who either saved her, or someone who lived quietly in the back of her mind.
But deep inside, a small part of him hoped the silhouette… wasn't him.
Viola turned to Luca. "Signore, I believe… she's starting to reconnect with the world. If this continues, she might be able to speak fully in a few weeks."
Luca nodded slowly. "Continue like this. Don't rush her. Let her body decide when it's ready to speak."
Dante leaned back, exhaling. "And the piano… I think it helps. Every time you play, her heart-rate graph drops drastically. Calm. Steady."
Luca glanced at him, but said nothing. He only replied coolly, "I don't play it for therapy. I just… always have."
But then his eyes returned to the screen—right at Gabriella's image, her small form leaning back in the chair as she stared at the silhouette she had drawn.
On the screen, Viola knelt beside her, speaking softly.
Tears slid down Viola's cheeks again.
Luca watched silently, and between the blue glow of the monitor, his expression softened—just slightly—like something behind his sharp gaze had begun to crack.
Night fell. The camera showed Gabriella's darkened room, lit only by a small desk lamp.
The paper with the silhouette still lay open on the table.
The girl was asleep, her breathing steady. And from somewhere downstairs, faint piano notes drifted through the house—soft, slow, full of feeling.
Viola, seated in the monitoring room, let her tears fall once more, this time without knowing exactly why.
She only knew that, for the first time, the room didn't feel lonely anymore.
Whispers in the Midnight
Night had fully descended over Modena.
A thin drizzle once again dampened the courtyard of La Famiglia Nera's stronghold, leaving a wet sheen over the stone paths of the garden. In the east wing, Gabriella's room lay wrapped in silence. The desk lamp glowed softly, illuminating part of her face as she slept beneath a thin blanket.
On the CCTV screen, the room appeared peaceful.
But in the hallway outside, quiet footsteps approached—heavy, yet steady, as though following a long-established habit.
Luca moved without a sound, carrying something in his hand: a small black leather book with frayed edges.
He stopped in front of Gabriella's door, staring at the security keypad for a moment before pressing a sequence of numbers. A soft click sounded, and the door opened just wide enough for one shoulder. Warm air from inside brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of lavender—something Viola always used to help Gabriella sleep.
Luca didn't enter immediately. He stood at the threshold, watching the small figure on the bed. Gabriella's hair was spread in soft disarray, and her cheeks were still damp from tears that hadn't fully dried.
On the small table beside her, the paper bearing the silhouette of a man remained open—its lines faint, yet unmistakably deliberate.
Luca's eyes hardened for a moment. He walked toward her slowly, his steps barely audible on the carpet.
He set the little book on the table beside the drawing, then stopped at the side of the bed.
In the gentle lamplight, his face seemed carved in contrast—cold on the surface, yet with something fragile flickering beneath his gaze.
"Sleeping like a child…" he murmured, barely a breath.
"But the wounds inside you run far too deep for someone your age."
He lowered himself into a crouch beside the bed, studying Gabriella's hand clutching the edge of the blanket.
The small scars on her wrist had begun to fade, though they remained painfully visible—marks from that night of blood, the night he would never allow to happen again.
Seconds passed. Only the ticking of the wall clock and the rain outside broke the silence. Luca lifted his hand, almost brushing her hair, but paused mid-air—hesitant, like someone afraid of breaking something fragile.
Instead, his fingers drifted downward, lightly adjusting the blanket to cover her shoulder.
Then he leaned in slightly, his lips only inches from her ear.
"Sleep peacefully, Gabriella…" he whispered.
"You are not alone in this world."
He closed his eyes for a moment before adding, voice nearly shaking,
"As long as I'm still breathing… no one will ever lay a hand on you again."
Gabriella stirred faintly in her sleep, her brows tightening as though hearing something distant within a dream.
But after a few seconds, her breathing steadied once more. A faint smile—cold and restrained—touched Luca's lips. Not a smile of warmth, but one of quiet, painful relief.
He watched her serene face for a long moment, then turned his attention to the drawing on the table—the dark silhouette. He touched the corner of the paper with his fingers.
"So this is who you see in your dreams," he said softly.
"Maybe it isn't me… but for some reason, I wish it were."
He rose slowly and picked up the small book he had brought. It was a collection of piano scores—the same piece he had played earlier that evening.
On the first page, in firm Latin script, he had written a simple title:
"Canzone per Gabriella."
Luca stared at the words for a moment, then set the book down again. He looked at the sleeping girl one last time before whispering,
"Sleep peacefully, piccola stella… the world will keep turning until you're ready to open your eyes completely."
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing in the doorway. His gaze briefly flicked to the small camera in the corner of the room. He knew Dante and Viola were probably watching. But tonight, no one dared comment or interfere.
Viola, sitting in the monitoring room, pressed a hand to her chest as she watched the screen.
Tears fell silently. "He comes every night…" she whispered.
Beside her, Dante watched the same screen, his expression serious. "And every time he leaves, the girl's heartbeat stays steady until morning."
They both fell silent.
On the screen, Luca moved away from the bed, his shadow disappearing behind the doorframe.
The soft glow of the desk lamp still lit Gabriella's peaceful face.
Just before the door closed entirely, Luca glanced back once more. His lips moved—no sound, but the camera captured the words clearly:
"Non avere paura." — Don't be afraid.
The door shut. Only the rain remained, tapping gently outside the window, while the world inside the room sank once more into warm, tender quiet.
And that night, for the first time, Gabriella slept without nightmares.