She walked back to the car with a lighter heart. She got behind the wheel, leaving behind the breathtaking view that the cemetery offered over the sea. The contrast was striking: that sacred place, custodian of ancient sorrows, was bathed in the most joyful light that Sicily could offer. The sun caressed the Ionian Sea, transforming it into a tapestry of emerald and sapphire that stretched to the horizon, where the coasts of Reggio Calabria seemed to dance barely perceptibly, like a distant promise.
The promise Belinda had made to herself was to make peace with that land, the bastard earth that had taken her mother, but which also held the indispensable roots of her identity. The white feather, left at her feet upon exiting the crypt, and the whispered voice from the dream, "a mammitta vivi ti vaddu io" (dear little daughter, you live, I will watch over you), had acted as an unexpected balm. She had left her mother the pouch of sand from the beach, a piece of the sea—and therefore of life—to take with her, and the feeling of oppression, though not entirely gone, had eased. Now it was time to return to living.
Belinda drove along the coast, no longer like someone fleeing, but like someone immersing herself. Her car moved through the sunny and picturesque alleys of the town, which clung to the hill in a cascade of ochre and orange houses, interrupted by the brilliant green of the lemon trees and the intense purple of the bougainvillea.
Sicily revealed itself to Belinda in all its majestic beauty, an explosion of life that repelled every shadow. It was the land of strong colours, of exploding flavours, the land that, despite its history of suffering, always rises again, dressed in sunshine. Belinda felt that her temperament, indomitable and volcanic, was the perfect echo of this magnificent island. Her silent rage, which had permeated her when seeing Uncle Carmelo's humiliation, was the same strength that allowed her to love life with such intensity.
She parked the car near the seafront, where the scent of salt mixed with the sweet fragrance of jasmine and the deep-fried smells from the rotisseries. Life called her irresistibly. She walked toward the playground, her heart full of the image of Azzurra, her future, her greatest joy.
The park was a triumph of children's voices and ringing laughter. Elia, her love, was sitting on a wrought-iron bench, with that calm yet solid smile of his, her anchor. Next to him, Samuele, the reckless and generous godfather, was busy pushing Azzurra on the swing with such force that she almost touched the clouds.
Azzurra, in her designer dress and with her blonde hair flying in the wind, was a true vision. When she saw her mother, she launched herself off the swing with a cry of joy. "Mommy! Uncle Lele made me fly all the way to the sky!"
Belinda caught her mid-flight, holding her tight. Azzurra's scent was that of life: sun, milk, and sugar. "Slow down, my star! You'll give me a heart attack!"
Samuele stood up, kissed her forehead, and joked: "You look different. Have you made peace with the dead or the living?"
Belinda smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her eyes. "I've made peace with the earth, Samuele. And I've understood something: some roots are made of rock and others are made of salt. But both keep us standing."
Elia stood up and took her hand; his touch was warm and reassuring. "I knew you needed that moment, my soul." Elia didn't need many words; he understood the code of Belinda's sorrow, but also her code of rebirth.
They sat down together on the bench, watching the children. Samuele resumed talking, with his unmistakable Sicilian accent.
Belinda looked at the landscape, her mind in ferment. It wasn't just the bond with her mother and Uncle Carmelo; it was the bond with a millennia-old history.
Sicily was not just mourning and maritime pines; it was also Magna Graecia, the theatre of Taormina overlooking the sea, Etna which, despite destroying, creates fertile soil and extraordinary wines.
"It's a magical island," Belinda replied, watching Azzurra collect shells on the sand. "It's not just sun and sea. It's the land where every stone tells a story of heroes and gods. It's the land that challenges you to be strong. It's not gentle, but it is true."
She thought back to the lesson of Uncle Carmelo, the gentle loser, and Grandfather Giovanni, the cruel man. Sicily was also this: the coexistence of blinding beauty and difficult humanity.
As the afternoon slipped toward sunset, the colours of the sky ignited in shades that no painter could replicate: crimson, fiery orange, and a deep cobalt blue that announced the evening. Samuele, with his unexpected sensitivity, noticed the transformation in Belinda's face.
"You know, there is a saying, Belinda. Cu nesci arrinesci (Whoever leaves, succeeds). But it's a comforting lie. The one who returns, the one who embraces their roots, that's the one who finds true success. You have come back, and Sicily has given you back your strength."
Belinda nodded. She was no longer the girl who played bored among the flowerbeds. She was the woman who had cried at the cemetery but who was now laughing in the park.
"I left the sea to Caterina," she said, her tone finally free of sadness. "Now I must enjoy the volcano. I must learn to burn only the things that need to disappear, not the ones I must love."
They stood up, taking Azzurra in their arms. The child was tired but happy. As they walked away from the sea, the air grew cooler and carried with it the smell of pizza freshly baked in a nearby wood-fired oven. It was the smell of home, of everyday life, of life that continues.
Belinda embraced Elia. Magic was not a spell, but resilience. Her land, her roots, were there, in that endless sea and in that patiently waiting volcano. And Uncle Carmelo's body, even while resting beneath his brother's tomb, had left her an inheritance of dignity that, in Sicily, was as precious as gold.