Venice awakened in a golden mist.
The bell towers vibrated softly, calling lazy souls to rise from their sheets.
A cold breeze slipped over the canals, carrying with it the scents of water, freshly hung laundry, bread still warm in fogged windows.
In the house with white curtains, the wooden floor creaked softly under Giulietta's hurried steps.
— Amore mio, are you ready? she called from the hallway.
In the living room, Amaya, still in her bathrobe, rolled her eyes.
— I said ready, not almost ready, capisci? Come on, put something on, I'll show the shop to Nahia and then come back for you.
She entered the kitchen, served two coffees on the counter, then grabbed a small cream-colored coat that she handed to Nahia with a complicit smile.
— Here, mia stella, it will be cold this morning. Do you want us to walk, or would you rather take the vaporetto?
Nahia shrugged.
— We can walk.
— Perfect. We'll take a little detour by the bookshop near the Salizada. They just received new hand-bound journals.
Giulietta slid her arm under her niece's, and together they descended the stone staircase, the echo of their footsteps rebounding in the silent stairwell.
The shop opened like a discreet treasure at the corner of a quiet alley. Through the misted glass, one could glimpse hanging ribbons, hand-sewn leather gloves, old feathers, a few golden-covered journals.
— Here it is, Giulietta said, pushing open the door. This is where I keep my secrets.
She showed her the register, the order book, the shelves.
— You'll see, people here are chatty but kind. Except for the tourists in a hurry. With them, smile, take the money, and basta. You stay until 5 p.m., I'll be back with Amaya. If you need anything, call me. All right?
Nahia nodded. Giulietta looked at her for a moment longer, her gaze softening, almost worried.
— And don't forget… qualunque cosa succeda, call me, all right?
She kissed her forehead, then disappeared.
---
The morning was calm. Hours passed with the rhythm of quiet footsteps, muffled on the old carpet. Nahia greeted customers with a kind smile. Too kind. Almost mechanical.
Her hands arranged scarves, her eyes followed the gestures of buyers. But her mind was elsewhere. In the void. In memories.
Then came the evening.
The sun, filtered through the window, caressed the objects with golden light. It was then that an old man entered. Tall, stooped, his cheeks marked by winter and fatigue.
He wore a long black wool coat and carried an old newspaper tucked under his arm.
— Buonasera… cercavo… quel portacarte veneziano… quello con i bordi in rame.
(Good evening… I was looking for… that Venetian cardholder… the one with the copper edges.)
— Un… momento, signore… Nahia replied awkwardly.
She crouched down to search the lower shelf. The man placed his newspaper on the counter as he waited.
When she straightened up, her hands brushed the paper.
An image.
A name.
Her heart stopped.
Assad.
His face. His dark gaze. And that woman at his arm. A stranger with a controlled smile. Surrounded by white flowers, crystal chandeliers. She placed her hands on the newspaper, unable to breathe.
The headline in bold letters:
"Il matrimonio dello sceicco di Mazar."
(The marriage of the Sheikh of Mazar)
In the picture, Assad.
Majestic, as always. Draped in white. A ceremonial burnous fell over his shoulders like a mantle of silence. His face, solemn, turned forward.
At his arm, a veiled woman, elegance sculpted in gold and restraint.
> "Il sceicco Assad ibn Khalil ha sposato ieri Zeyneb Al-Rami, figlia dell'uomo d'affari più influente del Regno e suo socio di lunga data. La cerimonia, celebrata nel Palazzo Reale di Mazar, ha visto la presenza di dignitari, ambasciatori e rappresentanti tribali. L'unione rafforza i legami tra la Casa El-Mazari e la potente famiglia Al-Rami, nota per le sue vaste alleanze economiche e diplomatiche."
(Sheikh Assad ibn Khalil married yesterday Zeyneb Al-Rami, daughter of the most influential businessman in the Kingdom and his longtime associate. The ceremony, held at the Royal Palace of Mazar, was attended by dignitaries, ambassadors, and tribal representatives. The union strengthens the ties between the El-Mazari household and the powerful Al-Rami family, known for its vast economic and diplomatic alliances.)
Everything was said.
There was nothing left to imagine.
The veil tore in Nahia's mind. Not brutally. No. Rather like silk being slowly pulled… and quietly splitting apart.
She stood. The shop suddenly felt too small to contain what raged within her.
No jealousy. No surprise.
But a deep vertigo.
An emptiness she had not foreseen.
— He… already married…
She whispered the words as though to a stranger.
Her Italian had grown rusty over the years. But these words in the newspaper—she understood them down to her nerves.
The old man returned with a small bag in hand. He fixed her with an amused look:
— Signorina… il mio giornale, per favore.
(Young lady… my newspaper, please.)
Nahia lifted her eyes, distraught.
— Grazie… solo… leggo un po'…
(Thank you… just… reading a little…)
He shrugged indulgently:
— Va bene. Ma non lo porti via, eh? Mi piace l'odore della carta vecchia.
(All right. But don't take it away, eh? I like the smell of old paper.)
She nodded, her heart elsewhere.
And when silence returned, she let her fingers slip from the paper.
> He had done it.
Without remorse.
Without return.
After all, he had promised nothing.
And betrayed nothing either.
Because deep down…
there was nothing to betray.
That we she thought was real—
she had invented it alone.
And this was not an ending.
It was a period. A full stop placed at the line of her past.
> She folded the newspaper carefully.
And as she set it down, she realized: the mourning was not for a man.
But for a hope she had never dared to name.
A bell tinkled behind her. The door had just opened again.
Nahia barely raised her head, her fingers still clenched on the counter where moments ago lay that newspaper that seemed to have ripped something vital from her.
— Ciao bella! Giulietta sang brightly as she entered the shop, followed by Amaya, who seemed a little more reserved.
— We found it! she exclaimed, excitement difficult to contain. A wonderful school for your sister, not far from Campo Santa Margherita! A little gem, I promise you. Amaya can start next Monday, just enough time to buy all her supplies.
— The headmistress is a charming woman, a former costumier of La Fenice! she added, raising her hands as if invoking the opera house itself. Che donna! A true passionate soul. It's exactly what your sorellina needs, isn't it?
Nahia tried to smile. She nodded softly, letting out a "Yes… it's wonderful."
Giulietta kept gushing, describing the workshops, the sketchbooks, the mannequins waiting patiently in a large sunlit room.
But Amaya was watching her. Fixedly.
Something was wrong.
Nahia's shoulders had slumped, her gaze blurred despite her obvious effort to be present.
Amaya slowly approached the counter, her hand brushing the wood before leaning closer. Her lips barely moved.
— What's wrong? she whispered so low only Nahia could hear.
Nahia blinked too fast.
She shook her head, discreetly. Nothing. It was nothing.
Giulietta, too busy describing the haberdashery where they would find the best supplies, saw nothing.
— We'll go tomorrow for the shopping, she said joyfully. We must celebrate, right? Amore mio, you're about to fulfill your dream, you know?
Amaya smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed on her sister.
Nahia held on. She even smiled a little. But something had broken earlier in the day.
And now, she was pretending nothing had happened. As always.
Back at the house, arms full of fabrics, brochures, and little pleasures bought along the way, Giulietta dropped everything on the large wooden kitchen table. Amaya, meanwhile, slowly took off her coat, her eyes still drawn to her sister.
— I think I'll rest a little, Nahia said softly, setting her bag near the entrance. I'm a little tired…
Giulietta barely looked up as she rummaged in the fridge.
— All right my dear, go relax. Don't worry about dinner, we'll handle it with your sorellina. I'll call you when it's ready, va bene?
Nahia nodded, forcing a small smile that didn't fool Amaya, then disappeared down the hallway.
She slowly closed her bedroom door behind her.
There, everything became silent.
She stood for a moment, her back against the wood, as if her own weight kept her from moving forward. Then she let herself sink onto the edge of the bed, her hands knotted between her knees.
The journal was there, on the nightstand, surrounded by a few pencils and an old Italian poetry book.
She picked it up.
The soft cover was slightly crumpled from being opened, closed, kept against her like a secret.
She turned the pages slowly to the last one she had stopped on. The silence was heavy. Dense.
And she wrote.
Nahia's Journal — today's page
> He got married.
Assad.
That name I've whispered countless times in silence. That name which seemed to contain unspoken promises, suspended moments, perhaps a future.
Today, he wore white.
And at his arm, a woman.
Zeyneb, daughter of Al-Rami. Beautiful, dignified, perfect no doubt for that world.
I don't know what hurts the most.
The fact that he married?
Or the fact that I hoped—when he never promised me anything.
He owes me nothing. I know it. I repeat it.
But my heart… this foolish heart clung to his silences, his gazes, to what he never said but I imagined.
I was nothing to him.
And yet, I feel like I've lost everything.
---
She set the pen down. Slowly. Her hands trembled only slightly.
The journal remained open on her knees as she raised her eyes to the window.
Evening light filtered between pale curtains, drawing shadows on the wall.
She felt like those gondolas stranded at low tide, suspended between two movements.
Nahia drew a long breath, as though trying to contain all that threatened to break her.
But no tears came.
Only silence. Deep. Solemn.
She understood then.
The two nights they spent together?
They meant nothing to him.
Just a moment. A parenthesis.
Nothing more.
So this time… she had to stop waiting.
Stop hoping.
And move forward. Even with a heart reduced to ashes.
This marriage was a farewell.
A farewell she had never heard—but had just written herself.