Heat had flooded my face.“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for having a heart.”
I had swallowed hard.“Did I… say anything?”
“You called his name.”She was gentle when she spoke.“Atlas.”
My breath left me in a rush, like someone punched the air from my lungs.
“Is he dead?”I whispered.
She hesitated.And that hesitation was worse than any truth.
“I don’t know, child.I’ve heard that…Tuscany is burning with violence.”
I stared at the wall, fingers tightening in the blanket.
“He hasn’t come for me.It’s been days.”
Sister Ana exhaled slowly, her voice tender but firm.“Men like Atlas walk the line between life and death more often than we like to admit.Sometimes the world pulls them under for a while.Sometimes they claw their way back.”
I lowered my head.
“But if he were alive,” I whispered, “wouldn’t he have found me?Wouldn’t he have tried?”
Her hand rested lightly on mine.“Hope is a fragile thing when it’s carried alone, child.”
I didn’t respond.
Night settled deeper around us.The candles burned low.And somewhere outside, a storm began to roll in, wind rattling the shutters like restless ghosts.
I laid back down, closing my eyes.But sleep didn’t come gently.When it did come… it brought nightmares.
I dreamed of Atlas lying still, eyes closed, blood pooling beneath him.I dreamed of reaching for him and feeling only cold.I dreamed of running, always running, and never escaping the moment I left him behind.
I woke gasping, drenched in sweat, clutching the blanket like it might anchor me to the world.Sister Ana sat in the chair near the bed, rarely leaving.Her presence steadied me.
But every time I blinked, I saw Atlas’s face - the moment before the shots rang out, the moment he shoved me behind him, the moment he sent me away and I didn’t come back.I curled inward.
“What if he’s really gone?”I whispered.
Sister Ana closed her eyes briefly.
“Then you must learn to live,” she replied “even when the world insists on taking those we love.”
I fellin and out of life as the days slid past in a soft, sickening haze.Sometimes I woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding, convinced I was still running.Other times I woke numb, the world muffled and distant, as if someone had pressed cotton into my ears and grief into my bones.
When my strength finally returned enough to stand without collapsing, I left the infirmary bed and drifted into a routine that felt less like living and more like floating.
I swept floors in the mornings - slow, repetitive strokes that gave my hands something to do while my mind circled the same unanswerable thoughts.
At noon, I knelt in the herb garden beside Sister Elara, pressing my fingers into the earth.The soil was cool, grounding.But even that small comfort fractured when the wind shifted and carried the scent of cypress - the same scent that had clung to Atlas’s clothes.
In the afternoon, I mended habits until my fingers throbbed.The needle pricks became familiar, tiny points of pain I willingly chose because all the other pain inside me was out of my control.
I took my meals in silence.Bread and broth with water because it was all I could stomach.Everything tasted like ash.
The other sisters gave me space - more than I needed, but exactly enough to keep me from breaking in front of them.They recognized the expression on my face.The look of someone grieving before the funeral had even been announced.