A Day Without Words
Morning light slipped quietly through the narrow gap in the thin curtains, brushing across the cold marble floor and reflecting softly on the white walls.
But the beam of light stopped before reaching the farthest corner of the room—the place where a girl sat curled up, hugging her knees, staring blankly at the wall as if there was something only she could see.
Gabriella.
Her body was thin, shoulders slumped, hair messy and falling over half her face. In the uneven rise and fall of her breath and the emptiness in her eyes, there was something quieter than silence itself—a fear so deep it could no longer be spoken.
She didn't move, didn't speak. She didn't eat, unless Viola coaxed her gently. And every time the metal spoon came close, Gabriella would flinch sharply, as if that small, harmless object could hurt her.
Viola stood at the doorway, watching from afar. Her white uniform was wrinkled, her face tired, but her eyes were still filled with patience. In her hands was a tray: a glass of warm milk and a piece of bread that had already cooled.
For three days she had repeated the same routine—a soft knock, waiting without an answer, then placing the food on the small table without pushing any further.
"Good morning, Gabriella," she said in the gentlest tone she could muster. No response.
Only a small twitch in the girl's fingers—barely noticeable, a reflex to a voice that still felt too foreign.
Viola took a deep breath. She knew she couldn't approach too quickly. In the past few nights, Gabriella had screamed without sound—her body shaking, her eyes wild, her hands covering her ears as if trying to block out voices that only she could hear.
Any doctor would call it severe trauma with partial dissociation. But to Viola, it was more than a clinical term. It was a wound refusing to close because the world still felt dangerous.
She slowly sat on a chair nearby, keeping a careful distance.
"I'll leave your food here, okay?" she murmured softly as she set the tray down.
Gabriella didn't look at her. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, fingers gripping the sleeve of her shirt like a frightened child who might lose something.
In that silence, only the ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the room. But in Gabriella's mind, thousands of sounds clashed into one—footsteps, screams, gunshots, and the voice of someone she once knew.
Every time she closed her eyes, those faces returned: her mother, her father, the blood on her hands, and a silhouette pulling her out of the darkness.
But everything was blurred, as if her mind refused to remember clearly.
Viola observed every tiny movement.
Gabriella's hand trembled slightly. She tried to reach for the glass on the floor but stopped just before touching it. Her hand hovered in midair, then retreated—as if she feared the glass might turn into fire.
"It's all right," Viola whispered softly. "You're safe here, Gabriella. No one will hurt you."
But the word safe no longer meant anything to the girl.
Her empty gaze stayed locked on the wall, tears slipping down her cheeks without a sound.
Viola stood slowly and glanced at the small camera in the corner of the room—a reminder that Luca was almost certainly watching from the control room.
She knew he never truly left, even at night.
But Gabriella didn't know that. She didn't even know who the man was.
"Gabriella…" Viola's voice trembled slightly, "I know you don't want to hear anyone right now, but… I'm here, every day. If you ever want to talk, or write, I'll be waiting."
Still no response. Only quick breaths and eyes brimming with tears.
Gabriella lowered her head further, hiding her face between her knees. Her body shook faintly—not crying, but trembling from fear so real that the room felt smaller around her.
Viola wanted to step closer, but she froze mid movement. She knew that if she touched the girl now, everything she had carefully built over the past few days would collapse.
So she just stood there, watching that small fragile back with quiet sorrow.
"It's all right to be silent," she whispered. "Sometimes… silence is how the body survives."
After a moment, Viola left the room, her steps slow and cautious. The door closed without a sound, leaving Gabriella in the same heavy stillness as every morning before.
Hours later, in the surveillance room, Luca stood before the CCTV monitors displaying Gabriella's room from four angles.
He didn't speak. His jaw was tense, his eyes fixed on the small figure in the corner of the room. Marco entered with a file in hand.
"Signore, the doctors say her mental state is still unstable. She hasn't spoken, doesn't recognize her surroundings yet." Luca didn't answer. He stared at the screen longer.
"How long will she stay like this?" he asked eventually, voice low but steady.
Marco hesitated. "No one knows. It could take weeks… or years."
Luca looked back at the screen. There, Gabriella sat motionless, hugging her knees like someone trying to survive in a world that had already taken too much.
He exhaled slowly, eyes hardening.
"No matter how long," he said coldly, "make sure she isn't hurt again. Anyone who comes near without permission—remove them."
Marco only nodded. He knew that tone wasn't just an order, it was a vow. The glow of the monitors cast sharp shadows across Luca's face—cold, but soft at the edges.
And in that white room, Gabriella still sat in the corner.
But her eyes moved, just a little—as if, somehow, she heard something from far away.
"A Day Without a Voice"
The afternoon sun slipped quietly through the white curtains, casting a pale glow over the young girl sitting at the edge of the bed. Her brown hair was a tangled mess, her tired eyes staring blankly at the fogged-up window.
For days, Gabriella had been waking up without a voice—without laughter, without tears, without anything at all. She only sat in silence, as if even her breathing was afraid to be heard.
Viola stood by the doorway, watching from a distance. Her hands carried a small tray with lunch and medication. She had memorized every second of mornings like this—opening the door carefully,
waiting for permission that never came,
then placing the tray on the small table beside the bed.
"Good afternoon, Gabriella," she greeted softly, as she always did.
There was no reply. Only a brief flicker of the girl's eyes, before they returned to emptiness. Viola released a slow breath.
"You look a little better today. I'm glad."
Still no reaction. Only Gabriella's fingers, pinching the corner of the blanket—a small sign her body was tightening with fear.
Viola sat down slowly in the chair across from the bed, keeping the safe distance Luca had instructed.
"I won't touch you, don't worry. I just want to talk a little. Is that okay?"
This time, Gabriella lowered her head slightly—a nod so faint it almost wasn't there.
"Good…" Viola smiled gently. "You know, the garden outside has started to bloom. I thought maybe… someday, when you're ready, I could take you there. Just sit under the tree. No one else around."
Suddenly, Gabriella lifted her head. Her empty eyes looked straight at Viola. She seemed as if she wanted to say something, but her lips trembled too much to form sound. Instead, she reached for the small writing board by her bed and wrote one short, shaky sentence:
"Why am I alive?"
Viola fell silent. A thousand answers came to mind, but none felt right. She stared at the words for a long moment before replying quietly:
"Because someone saved you. Someone who believes you deserve to live."
Gabriella looked at the board again, then wrote a second word:
"Who?"
Viola swallowed. She wanted to answer, but the words stuck in her throat.
"In time… I'll tell you, when the moment is right."
The girl didn't respond. She lowered the board, drew her knees up to her chest, and looked back out the window. The sky outside was bright, but to her eyes, every color seemed faded.
She closed her eyes, letting the sunlight touch her cheek.
And for the first time, Viola saw something different— not fear, but exhaustion so deep it looked like surrender.
Viola stood and stepped out of the room slowly. Before closing the door, she turned back once more. On the small table, the writing board still displayed:
"Why am I alive?"
And in the mirror reflecting the afternoon light, Gabriella's face looked impossibly fragile — like a piece of glass barely holding itself together.
****
Rain began falling softly over Modena, tracing thin lines down the cloudy window beside Gabriella's room. The sound of the droplets became the only music in the dim space. The curtains were drawn, the air cool with the faint scent of sedatives.
Gabriella stayed in the same corner she had occupied for days—knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if the world might slip through the smallest crack.
Her hair was messy, her face pale, her lips dry.
But this evening, something was different:
her eyes were not completely empty.
There was a faint light — fragile, wavering, but real.
Viola stepped inside quietly. She didn't knock, only paused a moment before entering. In her right hand was a cup of hot chocolate; in her left, a thin blanket. Every movement was gentle, as if even a dropped breath could shatter the girl before her.
"Good evening, Gabriella," she whispered.
No answer. But this time, Gabriella's head turned slightly— just enough that a single strand of hair shifted. It was enough to make Viola's breath catch.
She sat on the small chair near the bed, placing the blanket and the drink on the table.
"I brought something warm. I know you don't like milk," she said softly, trying to fill the silence. "So I changed it to chocolate. You like chocolate, don't you?"
Gabriella didn't reply. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor. Her fingers clutched the edge of her white pajamas, trembling every now and then.
Then, between her uneven breaths, a sound escaped—small, shaky, as if echoing from somewhere far away.
"…Mom…" Viola flinched quietly. The voice was so faint it would've been missed entirely if not for the silence around them.
Gabriella closed her eyes, and the voice came again.
"…Dad…"
Two simple words that shattered something inside Viola.
She bowed her head, biting her lower lip to stop herself from crying, but her eyes began to water anyway.
Oh dear God… she thought. This child doesn't even know she survived…Viola swallowed hard and looked at the girl, her heart breaking.
"They… they're not here anymore, sweetheart," she said in the softest tone she could manage. "But they wanted you to live. You hear me? They wanted you to survive."
Gabriella opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred with the tears clinging to her lashes, but for the first time since she'd awakened, she was looking at something.
Not the wall, not the floor. But at someone, at Viola.
Just a few seconds—but they were deep, unbearably deep. As if all the sorrow in the world had collected inside those small eyes, reflecting a loss too heavy to measure.
Viola held her breath. A tear ran down her cheek before she could stop it.
"Yes…" she whispered, half to herself.
"You're not alone here, Gabriella. I'm here. Every day."
Gabriella didn't reply, but the grip on her clothes loosened slightly. She turned her face away, though the movement no longer carried fear—only exhaustion, like someone who had been hiding from the light for far too long.
Viola quickly wiped her tears. She knew Luca could see everything from the monitoring room, and for some reason, she didn't want him to see her cry. She drew a breath, then stood and walked toward the small table, picking up the cup of hot chocolate.
"This won't heal you," she said softly as she set it down on the floor beside Gabriella. "But it's sweet. Like the memories that aren't all bad."
Gabriella looked at the cup. Her hand hesitated. The trembling returned—her fingers almost touched the handle, then retreated again. But before she could pull back completely, Viola reached out, stopping her hand in midair, never forcing it closer.
"You can take it later. I'll leave it here," she whispered, her voice almost like a prayer.
Silence returned. But this silence was different from before. There was a hint of life inside it—a small spark flickering in the dark. Viola gave the girl one last look before stepping out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, a soft sound filled the control room. Luca sat in front of the screen, watching every detail—the subtle movement of Gabriella's hand, the first look she gave Viola, the tears on her cheeks. Everything was recorded in the quiet.
Marco stood behind him, unsure if he should speak. He recognized that expression on Luca's face—cold features, but eyes unable to hide something dangerously close to pain.
"Signore," Marco finally said, "are we going to keep monitoring her like this?"
Luca didn't answer right away. He stared at the screen a moment longer, watching Gabriella slowly bow her head again, then nudge the cup a tiny bit closer to her knees—small, almost nothing, yet enough to make his breath falter.
"Yes," he said at last, his voice flat but quiet. "Until she can look at the world without fear."
Marco lowered his gaze. "And if she never can?"
Luca exhaled slowly, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Then the world will have to change for her."
Silence filled the room again. Outside, the rain grew heavier. On the screen, Gabriella remained curled in the corner, but just before she closed her eyes, her lips moved—soft, faint, almost swallowed by the sound of the storm.
"…Viola…"
And for the first time since the tragedy, Gabriella spoke the name of someone who was still alive.