The time of year had finally arrived when all the efforts of Maestra Olga and her dancers were repaid by an enraptured audience. The seasons had flown by lightly following the comforting news from the nephrologist, and the mood of the entire family was high, like the July sun at noon. On a warm July evening, the Vittorio Emanuele Theater was brilliantly lit. An elegant crowd thronged the lobby, but Belinda walked as if in a soap bubble. In her chest beat a new rhythm—light and free from the oppression that had crushed her for months. In a corner of the foyer, she spotted a familiar figure: a man with an English-cut coat and a sharp gaze.
"Mattia!" Belinda exclaimed, running toward him.
"I couldn't miss it," her brother said, hugging her tightly. "Erica stayed in London, but she asked me to bring you this." He handed her a small gold amulet. It was the Eye of Horus, an ancient Egyptian symbol of protection, health, royalty, and rebirth. "She says she found it in an old jeweler's shop in Notting Hill; she says you know what it means to both of you..." Belinda's face lit up as she unwrapped the package, overcome with emotion. The two siblings embraced, and Mattia whispered into her ear: "Spilletta," using an old nickname Belinda hadn't heard in ages, one that reminded her of beautiful moments from their teenage years.
Behind the scenes, the atmosphere was electric. Azzurra was putting on her "relic" slippers. Shimmy's lead, sewn beneath the purple silk, now seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. As she laced the ribbons, she felt a presence beside her. It wasn't one of her companions. It was a scent of sea and resin—a sudden warmth. "Dance for life, Azzurra," Samuele's voice seemed to whisper in the wind filtering through the theater corridors. "The lead is the earth, but you are the sky."
When the curtain rose, the silence was absolute. Azzurra took the stage for her solo variation. At the first jump, the sound of the impact was not a thud, but a low, deep note that resonated in the bones of every spectator. Belinda, seated between Elia and Mattia, felt tears stream down her face. Azzurra did not fly: she dominated gravity. Every pirouette was a spiral of energy that seemed to vacuum the shadows from the theater walls. Toward the end of the choreography, the incredible happened. A beam of zenithal light struck Azzurra's pointe shoes, and for a moment, the purple silk emitted a golden glow so intense it blinded the front row.
A shiver ran through the stage floorboards. The walls of the theater, centuries old, seemed to straighten themselves; the invisible cracks of time sealed shut under the power of that dance of atonement. When Azzurra finished with a perfect arabesque, as motionless as if carved from diamond, the theater exploded into a roar that lasted for minutes.
After the show, in the dressing room, Belinda and Azzurra remained alone. The young girl slowly took off her slippers. They were warm, almost burning. When they opened the inner lining to check the lead grains, they were left breathless. The gray, opaque lead had vanished. In its place, nestled in the purple silk, were tiny grains of pure gold—shining and perfect.
"The debt is paid, Mama," Azzurra whispered, placing the gold into her mother's hands. Belinda looked at those small nuggets and then at her daughter. The lead of the illness had become the gold of grace. The London cycle had concluded in the arms of Sicily, leaving behind only the scent of silk and the certainty of a future finally healed.