The soft chime of the bell hanging on the door broke the gentle quiet of the afternoon.
Nahia slowly lifted her head from her notebook, still lost in her sketches. A name for her baby. A few words scribbled, born of a breath. Like whispers from the heart.
A man had just entered.
Tall. Slim. Dressed in a midnight-blue tailored suit. A simple tie. Shoes polished to perfection.
He looked as though he had stepped out of a fashion magazine… or a business meeting.
That rigid elegance, so typical of big cities, seemed almost out of place here, in this little shop with its old-world charm. Too perfect for an ordinary day.
He radiated the mysterious allure of men from northern Italy: a mix of natural charisma and quiet confidence. The kind who commanded respect without speaking a word. His brown, slightly wavy hair was neatly combed back. Every detail mattered to him.
And that woody fragrance… discreet… intoxicating. An invisible signature.
Nahia gazed at him a second too long, then looked away.
> He's handsome… but not as much as Assad, she thought, a flicker of sadness crossing her eyes.
She pushed the thought aside, like one chases away a cold draft.
---
(The conversation that followed was in Italian.)
— Buongiorno. Excuse me, he said in a deep voice, slightly breathless. Do you sell music boxes? It's for a little girl, she's six years old.
— "Yes, of course," Nahia replied softly, adopting her professional tone.
She moved toward the back of the shop, letting the bell's chime fade gently.
In the storage room, Giulietta was tidying boxes methodically, fully focused.
— "Giulietta, a customer is looking for a music box for a little girl," Nahia called.
— "Check on the top left of the old cabinet. There may be one or two left," she answered without turning.
Nahia nodded, then returned to the shop.
The man, nervous, kept glancing at his watch. As if every second mattered. As if someone might suddenly appear.
— "I'm sorry, but I'm really late," he said, his eyes darting anxiously toward the door.
— "I'll be quick," she replied, amused.
She rose on tiptoe to reach the shelf. Her clumsy, almost childlike movement revealed an unexpected grace. Her scarf slipped from her head.
Her long black hair, freed from the braid Amaya had made the day before, cascaded over her shoulders.
She straightened slowly, tucking a strand behind her ear, slightly embarrassed.
Then she felt the man's gaze freeze.
— "Sorry," she murmured, turning as she picked up her scarf without daring to meet his eyes.
He seemed elsewhere. Hypnotized. As if struck by an image too beautiful to exist. Then, abruptly, he came back to himself. He stepped closer, nervously grabbed the box.
— "Thank you. I'll take this one. How much is it?"
Nahia returned behind the counter.
— "Is it a gift?" she asked gently.
— "Yes. It's my daughter's birthday."
A daughter… Six years old.
She nodded, her heart tightening.
Her own baby, still invisible to the world, beat softly within her.
— "Wait, I'll wrap it for you."
The man sighed, managing a nervous smile.
— "All right. But please hurry. I'm already late."
She set to work. Her precise fingers folded, taped, tied. In two minutes, the wrapping was ready: simple, delicate, adorned with a pale pink ribbon touched with gold.
The man stepped outside to take a call. His shadow stretched across the floor, cast through the glass.
Taking advantage of the moment, Nahia grabbed a birthday card. Simple. Lovely. Instinctively, she wrote a few words:
My princess, happy birthday. May your day be as sweet as your smile. Daddy loves you very much, even when he's always running around.
She slipped the card under the ribbon, placed everything carefully into a paper bag, with an almost maternal touch.
The man returned, still hurried, ending his call mid-sentence.
— "Here, it's ready," she said, handing him the package.
He paid quickly, thanked her, then hurried away. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestones until they disappeared around the corner.
Nahia followed him with her eyes.
Then, she placed a hand on her belly. A tender smile on her lips.
> My baby… soon, our silences will turn into laughter. Our waiting will become memories.
> I can't wait to see you. To feel your breath. To introduce you to those who loved me before you — your Aunt Amaya, and your Great-Aunt Giulietta.
---
The day drifted on gently.
The golden light of the sun caressed the shop windows, casting amber reflections on the old wooden floor.
Sitting near the counter, Nahia placed her hands on her rounded belly. A discreet smile on her lips.
Giulietta had closed the shop early. Kissing her forehead, she had whispered in her softly-accented Italian:
— "You need rest, mia bella. I'll do the shopping. Stay here and relax."
Nahia hadn't protested.
She felt a deep tenderness for Giulietta. A gratitude woven from silences, from simple gestures.
Calm reigned. Only the ticking of the clock, and sometimes a distant engine, broke the silence.
She thought back to the man from the morning.
That fleeting look. Surprised. Almost unsettled.
Nothing like Assad.
Assad had never looked at her as if she were a curiosity. He had seen her wholly. As if she were an answer he had carried within himself long before meeting her.
Moved by an intuition, she stood. Walked to the old dresser in the back.
She opened a drawer, almost at random.
Inside, a small brown leather box. Worn at the edges.
She opened it.
A photo.
Two girls.
The younger, three or four years old, in the arms of a black-haired teenager.
The colors had faded… but the tenderness in the elder's eyes still pierced through the paper.
She didn't need to hesitate.
— "That's Mama…," she whispered.
And in her mother's arms… Lucia. Little Giulietta.
She pressed the photo against her heart.
It wasn't a discovery. It was a confirmation.
A fragment of the past made tangible. An echo of blood. Of soul. That invisible bond tying her to Giulietta.
The weight of heritage.
And the strange peace of knowing she was exactly where she belonged.
---
Sitting on the stool, Nahia closed her eyes for a moment.
— "You're no longer here, Mama. And yet, I feel you. Not in memories. But in every gesture received. In the love that still surrounds me."
She lowered her gaze to her belly.
— "And you… you are the continuation. Not a responsibility. A miracle. A promise."
She paused. Her inner voice deeper. Calmer.
— "I don't yet know what I will become. But I will give you the truest things I have: love, loyalty, truth. And if I fall… I will rise again. For you."
She carefully put the photo away. Closed the box.
Then she moved toward the window.
Outside, the sky was shifting to pink and indigo.
Like a painting the evening itself hesitated to finish.
A suspended moment. The world holding its breath.
She placed a hand on her belly.
— "We'll move forward together. Even if I'm afraid sometimes… I'll keep walking. And I'll love you enough so that you'll never feel alone."