When Morning Arrives
Morning crept in slowly, slipping through the thin curtains that covered the window. A warm, golden glow settled gently over Gabriella's face, the young girl still lying weakly on the white bed.
Her eyelids trembled, as if her body was trying to rise from a dream that went too deep. Her breathing was steady, but each inhale felt heavy—like she was carrying a weight no child her age should ever bear.
Soft footsteps approached — Viola, still in her white coat, holding a folder of notes and a glass of water. Her usually neat hair was slightly disheveled, a silent sign of a sleepless night.
She sat beside the bed, watching as Gabriella began to stir. That small movement was enough to make Viola's heart skip — not out of fear, but relief.
"Good morning, Gabriella," she whispered gently. Her voice was calm, soothing, like a mother lulling her child to sleep.
Gabriella didn't answer. Her eyes slowly opened, staring at the ceiling before drifting toward Viola. Her gaze was empty — the look of someone torn from a nightmare, still unsure whether the world around her was real.
"Where… am I…" Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"You're somewhere safe," Viola replied softly. "My name is Viola. I'm a doctor… and I'm here to help you."
Gabriella stared at her for a long moment. There was no trust in her eyes — only confusion and fear.
Her body tensed, hands clutching the blanket as if ready to flee at the slightest wrong move.
Viola stayed perfectly still. She knew one misplaced gesture could push the girl back into panic. So, she simply remained there, meeting Gabriella's gaze with calm, patient warmth.
"No one here is going to hurt you," Viola said again, her tone quiet, almost prayer-like. "You can rest… or speak whenever you're ready."
Gabriella lowered her head. Her shoulders trembled, but no sobs came out. Tears fell silently, staining the blanket on her lap.
Viola watched without speaking. Her heart ached, but her expression stayed steady. She understood — these tears weren't weakness. They were the first cracks in the walls Gabriella had built around her pain.
Slowly, Viola picked up a small notebook from the bedside table. Its cover was plain and soft beige.
"I want you to have this," she said, placing the notebook at the edge of the bed. "You don't have to write anything today. But later… if talking feels hard, you can write instead. Sometimes words come out easier through ink."
Gabriella looked at the notebook, though she didn't respond. Her eyes shifted slightly — a sign that she heard and understood.
Several minutes passed in a heavy, quiet stillness.
Birdsong from outside drifted faintly through the window, mingling with the hum of the air conditioner. The world seemed to move again, slowly but surely.
Viola rose to her feet.
"I'll come back this afternoon. If you need anything, press the button beside the bed. Only female nurses will come in — don't worry."
Gabriella gave a tiny nod, barely visible, but it was enough for Viola to offer a small, relieved smile.
When the door closed behind her, Gabriella looked back at the notebook on her lap. Her fingers trembled as they touched the cover. In her mind, a faint voice from the night before still echoed — deep, warm, yet unfamiliar.
"Don't be afraid… you're safe here…" Gabriella gazed toward the window, her eyes still wet.
She didn't know whose voice that was — perhaps just a hallucination. But for some reason… the memory of it made her chest feel a little less heavy.
"The Voice That Wouldn't Come Out"
The midday sunlight crept into the room like something uninvited—warm, but only on the surface.
Gabriella sat quietly on the wooden chair, her back to the window. Her posture was upright yet fragile, like a statue carved out of fear. Her hands rested on her lap, her gaze fixed downward as if the floor was the only place in the world that didn't threaten her.
Across from her, Viola sat with no pen and no folder of notes. Today, she wasn't here as a doctor—but as someone willing to listen to whatever might escape from the cracks in the girl's heart.
"How did you sleep, Gabriella?" she asked softly.
Silence answered first. The steady hum of the air conditioner became the only sound brave enough to fill the air. Viola didn't push. She let time take whatever shape it needed.
Only much later did Gabriella finally speak. Her voice was quiet, nearly breaking.
"I… heard the voice again." Viola leaned forward slightly, gentle, careful.
"What kind of voice?" Viola ask softly.
"A man's." Gabriella swallowed. "He said… I was safe."
Her tone was flat, but her eyes flickered, as if trying to free themselves from a memory clawing at her. Viola held all of it in her mind—she didn't want paper or pens to scare the girl who had only just begun to unlock a small door inside herself.
"Did the voice frighten you?" Viola asked. Gabriella gave a small shake of her head.
"No. But… I don't know why he's in my dream." Viola offered a faint, empathetic smile.
"Sometimes our mind creates voices to help us survive. And sometimes… someone in the real world is watching over you, even if you don't realize it yet."
Gabriella looked at her—long and searching—as though she was trying to find something: the truth, or maybe just a reason not to shatter.
But she didn't ask anything further. She simply lowered her gaze and ran her fingers along the small notebook Viola had given her the night before.
The first few pages were filled with chaotic scribbles: circles, broken lines, shapes that had no name. As if her hand was more honest than her mouth.
"Did you draw something?" Viola asked softly.
Gabriella shrugged. "I don't know. My hand just… moved."
"That's okay," Viola replied. "Sometimes, before words come out… our body speaks first."
Silence fell again—but not a frightening silence.
This one felt like an empty space slowly learning how to breathe.
Viola placed a stack of drawing paper and a box of colored pencils on the small table.
"If you're not ready to talk… you can draw anything. Your dreams, your fears, even just shadows."
Gabriella hesitated, but eventually picked up a sheet of paper. The pencil moved under her fingers—slow, unsure, trembling.
Lines formed: a dark sky… a small house… two figures standing at the door… And then, gradually, red began to spread across the page.
Viola froze. Her eyes followed every stroke, but she remained silent. She knew—even the slightest interruption might snap the thin thread of courage the girl was holding onto.
After several minutes, Gabriella stopped. Her hands were shaking violently. She stared at the drawing as though looking at a wound she had hidden too long, then whispered:
"They… left me there." The words cracked—splitting in the middle like glass thrown onto a dark floor.
Tears fell, but there was no sobbing. Only trembling shoulders and breaths trying not to break under the weight of memory.
Viola took a step forward, then halted—she didn't want to frighten the girl who had just dared to speak. She spoke from where she stood, her voice as soft as a hand that comforts without touching.
"You're not alone anymore, Gabriella. No one here will hurt you."
And finally, the tears broke— not screams, not hysteria,
but a quiet, honest cry.
A cry from a soul that had finally stopped holding itself together. Viola's eyes glistened. She knew this wasn't a setback. This was the first pulse of life returning.
And behind the glass—hidden in the shadows—Luca stood frozen.
His dark eyes were fixed solely on the girl, witnessing every tear that fell.
Marco appeared behind him, bowing slightly.
"She's beginning to respond, Signore." Luca didn't answer.
He only watched, like someone who no longer knew how to face a feeling he had buried for far too long. And whether the words were for her, or for himself, he whispered so quietly:
"Brava, piccolina… keep holding on."
Viola Explains Gabriella's Progress to Luca
The corridor outside the recovery room was quiet—too quiet for a place meant to hold life.
The white lights overhead cast pale reflections across the marble floor, creating long shadows beneath Luca and Viola's steps as they walked.
Luca walked ahead, his stride steady but heavy—like a man carrying something he refused to acknowledge.
Viola kept pace beside him, holding a small tablet filled with medical notes, even though she had already memorized most of it.
They stopped near the long window, where the outside light traced a thin line separating the hospital from the world beyond. Viola exhaled softly before she spoke.
"Gabriella showed her first response today." Luca didn't turn, but his shoulders tensed. That alone told her he was listening.
"How?" he asked, his voice flat—yet something lingered beneath it. Sharp, Controlled. Like the edge of a blade long sharpened.
Viola glanced at his profile. Dark. Calm. Impossible to read.
"She started talking," Viola answered. "Just a few sentences, but… it's a big step." Luca finally turned toward her, his gaze deep and piercing.
"What did she say?"
"A voice," Viola replied. "She said she heard a man's voice—telling her she was safe." There was a flicker in Luca's eyes. Small, barely visible. But Viola saw it.
"Was she afraid?" Luca asked.
"No," Viola said. "That's what surprised me. The voice… comforted her." Luca looked away, as if hiding something he didn't want seen.
Viola let him. She knew the man hated when his emotions were exposed.
"Besides that," she continued, "she started using the notebook. The scribbles are chaotic, unfocused, but that's a good sign. It means her mind is searching for a way to release the pressure."
Luca's voice dropped low, rough. "She drew this?"
Viola nodded. She handed him the paper, and he took it without gloves—something he rarely did for anything. A few seconds passed before Luca asked:
"Why a house?"
There was no anger in his tone… only confusion.
And something else—something small and trembling, like a fear only someone who has lost knows. Viola took a slow breath.
"Because trauma doesn't choose a place, Luca. It chooses meaning." Luca shot her a glance, dissatisfied.
So she continued:
"The attack did happen on the road." She pointed to the jagged marks at the bottom of the drawing, reminiscent of headlights and shadows.
"But in Gabriella's memory… the separation began at home." Luca frowned. Viola stepped closer, her voice dropping to a heavy whisper.
"Home was the last place she saw her parents alive.
The last place they spoke. The last moment she felt safe." She looked at the drawing with quiet sorrow.
"So even though the violence didn't happen there… the loss happened here." She tapped her chest. "Inside." Luca fell silent.
Viola went on, her voice soft but dark:
"Children who go through severe trauma don't draw the event itself. They draw the wound. For Gabriella, it wasn't only her parents' bodies that were destroyed…"
She looked directly into Luca's eyes. "…but her entire definition of 'home.'"
Luca turned toward the one-way glass.
Behind it, Gabriella sat with her back to the window, her small shoulders still trembling.
"You say a home is a safe place," Luca murmured. "If that is shattered… what's left for her to trust?"
Viola looked at him for a long moment before answering with painful honesty:
"Only one thing can replace a home, Luca…" She held her breath.
"…the presence of someone who makes her feel safe, even before she understands why."
Luca closed his eyes briefly—a rare expression on his face. When he opened them again, they were darker, deeper, and somehow steadier.
"I understand," he said quietly.
But the hard line of his jaw said something else: Luca Moretti, a man who had lost everything, had just decided to become something he himself was not ready for—
a safe place for someone once more.
Viola saw it, and her heart tightened… yet felt a faint sense of relief.
"Protect her from a distance, if that's what you can do," Viola said gently.
Luca looked down at the drawing again—the small house, the two figures, the endless red.
"No," he whispered, almost like a threat to himself.
"This time… I won't protect her from a distance."
Luca stood silent long enough that Viola wondered if she should continue or remain quiet.
Finally, he spoke:
"What do you see in her?" Not a question from a man who merely cared. But from someone measuring something fragile yet essential.
Viola answered carefully.
"She's deeply traumatized, but… she's not broken. There's a part of her that's still fighting. And that means she can heal." Luca stared straight ahead, his jaw tightening.
"How long?" His voice was low.
"There's no exact time," Viola replied. "Trauma like this… can't be rushed. Push too fast, and she'll collapse."
Luca didn't like the answer—Viola saw it in the way his fist closed. But he accepted it.
Silently, but accepted. Viola continued, slower, choosing her words:
"There's one more thing…" Luca immediately turned, his sharp gaze cutting through her.
"What is it?"
"She feels… alone." Viola's tone softened. "And when she felt that, she started crying. Not hysterically. It was—"
"Awareness," Luca cut in. His voice wasn't loud, but it was certain.
"Yes," Viola nodded. "And that's good. Because the most dangerous state is when a patient feels nothing at all."
Luca looked at the floor for a moment before lifting his gaze again, stronger than before.
"Take care of her," he said quietly—yet carrying an unspoken threat. "I want her to recover… no matter how long it takes." Viola held his gaze.
Something in his voice sent a shiver through her—not out of fear, but because she knew he would do anything to make those words true.
"I will take care of her, Signore," Viola said softly. "But to truly recover… she needs more than a safe place."
Luca raised a brow—cold and sharp.
"And what is that?"
Viola gave a tired, knowing smile.
"Time.
Patience.
And someone… who won't leave her." Luca didn't answer.
But the tightening of his jaw, and the way his eyes drifted back toward Gabriella's room from afar…
Was answer enough.
"Whispers of the Night"
Night slowly lowered its curtain over the compound.
A soft breeze slipped through the tall window, carrying the scent of the first rain that had just fallen. The hallway lights glowed dimly, casting long shadows across the glass walls surrounding Gabriella's room.
Inside, the girl slept beneath a white blanket.
Her breathing was unsteady—sometimes quick, sometimes broken—as if her body was still fighting nightmares that refused to leave her.
From outside, a man stood silently.
Broad shoulders, noiseless steps, a sharp gaze that carried something rarely found on his otherwise impassive face. Luca.
He watched the bed for a long moment, making sure the female guard had already changed shifts and that every camera around the room was angled elsewhere.
Just for tonight, he wanted to cross a line he had drawn himself.
The door opened with barely a sound.
Night air drifted in, carrying the trace of rain and the faint scent of the cologne Luca always wore.
He walked slowly, like a shadow that did not wish to disturb the world.
Gabriella stirred beneath the blanket, her skin damp with sweat, her lips trembling without forming a word.
Even in sleep, she was trapped in old screams—calling for her mother and father, begging for that night to end.
Luca approached, stopping beside the bed.
A soft glow from the wall lamp lit half his face. He watched Gabriella with eyes difficult to decipher—cold from habit, yet softened by something he refused to acknowledge.
Gently, he sat in the chair beside her.
He lifted a hand, stopping just above Gabriella's head—not touching, simply hovering there.
"I know you can't hear me," he whispered. "But… you have to keep living, piccolina."
The nickname rolled off his tongue naturally, tender, almost like a prayer.
Gabriella shifted again, her brows tightening, her breaths turning shallow. Luca leaned closer, his voice softening into something like a caress in the air.
"Don't be afraid, piccolina… I will always protect you."
For a moment, Gabriella's breathing slowed.
The tension in her face eased. Her lips moved faintly, as though answering someone in her dream.
Luca watched her, the lamplight reflecting in his dark eyes. He wanted to touch her cheek, but stopped—afraid his presence would shatter the fragile calm she had found. He drew a deep breath, leaning back in the chair.
"If the world has ever broken you," he whispered, "then let me be the one who puts you back together. Little by little."
Rain outside fell harder, and inside the room there were only two rhythms— the breath of a girl learning to trust life again, and the breath of a man unknowingly learning to trust hope again.
After a long while, Luca stood. He looked at Gabriella one more time before walking toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused, turning back slightly, his eyes dim yet warm.
"Sleep peacefully, piccolina. This world… won't hurt you again, not while I'm here." The door shut softly, leaving behind a gentle quiet.
But among the steady breaths and the ticking of the wall clock, Gabriella murmured faintly in her sleep.
Not a cry of fear this time—but a soft whisper only she could hear.
"That voice again… he's protecting me."