The late afternoon sunlight slipped gently through the thin curtains, falling across the cold floor of the room. Inside, the scent of medicine mingled with the faint smell of wood from the furniture — the familiar aroma of a recovery place that wasn't quite a home, yet not a prison either.
Gabriella sat in the corner of the bed, her back resting against the wall. Her body was still weak, but today felt different somehow. Her gaze was no longer completely empty. She remained quiet, but now and then her eyes followed the movement of anyone who entered her room.
"Good morning, Gabriella," a soft voice greeted from the doorway. Viola stepped inside with measured steps, carrying a tray with warm chocolate and a few small pieces of bread. Her smile was thin, filled with hope.
She already knew the girl might not respond, yet every day Viola repeated the same greeting—as if those simple words could become a rope pulling Gabriella slowly back into the real world.
Gabriella didn't turn her head. But when Viola placed the chocolate cup on the small table, those eyes shifted ever so slightly. Just a fraction of a second—but enough for Viola to notice.
"This is your favorite, I think," Viola said softly. "Not too sweet. The warmth will help calm you."
Silence answered her. Viola breathed in, unfaltering. She knew healing couldn't be forced. She simply sat in the chair she always used, keeping a respectful distance, and watched the girl patiently.
Minutes passed without a word.
Then a small movement—Gabriella's hand slowly lifted. Her fingers trembled as they touched the handle of the cup. Viola held her breath, afraid even the slightest sound would break the moment.
Gabriella brought the cup to her lips, took a tiny sip, and closed her eyes as though afraid the warmth would disappear if she opened them.
It wasn't the taste she was seeking—it was the warmth.
Warmth in a world that had felt frozen for so long.
"Very good," Viola whispered, barely audible. "That's a wonderful step, Gabriella."
The girl didn't reply, but she did not let go of the cup. Viola felt something bloom faintly in her chest—such a small step, yet after days of silence, it felt like a star appearing in a moonless night.
Later that afternoon, as the Modena sky turned a soft shade of orange, a gentle sound rose from the lower floor—the soft chiming of piano keys. Slow notes, pausing here and there, then continuing again in a quiet, steady rhythm.
Gabriella straightened up.
The sound felt familiar. She didn't know why, but her heart reacted faster than her mind. Viola, who was tidying the table, noticed the subtle shift in her expression. Gabriella's once-empty gaze now followed the direction of the sound.
"That…" Viola murmured, "that's the piano from the family room."
Gabriella pushed herself up slowly. Her steps were unsteady, but clearly she wanted to move closer. Viola didn't stop her. She simply watched in silence, letting the girl's instincts guide her.
Gabriella walked toward the door. There, she stopped, pressing her palm gently against the cold wooden surface. The piano continued—soft, but clear. She closed her eyes and leaned her ear against the door.
Viola stood several steps behind her, holding her breath. In the quiet of that evening, the scene felt sacred—a fragile girl reconnecting with life through a melody that once made her smile.
Gabriella didn't know who was playing the piano.
She didn't know that Luca—the man with the cold eyes who watched her through the CCTV—was sitting in his private room, playing the same melody he played every evening: River Flows in You, a song he had once heard Gabriella hum in an old recording found on her phone.
Note by note drifted through the house. Gabriella bit her lip, and for the first time, her tears fell not from fear… but from something deeper—a longing she couldn't understand.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Viola whispered, stepping closer.
Gabriella didn't answer. But this time, she didn't shrink away from the closeness.
Viola smiled softly. She understood—no words were needed. Today, one step was enough.
In his private room, Luca stood before the CCTV screen, watching everything from afar. Viola was there, standing behind Gabriella, who still kept her eyes closed in front of the door. The piano paused for a moment. He offered a faint smile, then played again—softer this time.
Marco entered with a stack of reports and stopped at the doorway, eyes following the screen.
"She responded, Signore," he said quietly. "For the first time." Luca didn't answer.
He simply stared at the girl on the screen, then lowered his gaze to the piano keys beneath his fingers.
"Music," he murmured, "is sometimes more honest than words." Marco said nothing.
He knew that in every note Luca played, there was something unspoken—guilt, protection, and something else he could never name.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Gabriella still stood before the door. Her eyes opened slowly, watching the evening light seep through the gap in the curtains. The piano had stopped, but its echo lingered in her chest.
For the first time since the tragedy, she whispered—so soft it resembled a prayer:
"Thank you…"
Viola heard it from behind her. She covered her mouth, choking on a rising sob.
One word. Just one—but enough to make the entire house feel alive again.
Unspoken Language
Days passed, yet the air in that room remained the same—still, cold, suspended somewhere between moments.
Viola entered quietly, carrying a small tray with warm chocolate and a few sheets of blank paper. The door made no sound as it opened; only her soft steps and the careful way she held her breath so as not to disturb the girl sitting in the corner.
Gabriella was in a chair near the window. The midday light brushed against her brown hair, giving it a faint shimmer that hinted—at least today—she wasn't rejecting the sun.
Her gaze was still distant, but no longer lost. She stared outside, at the small garden dampened by the morning rain.
"Good afternoon, Gabriella," Viola greeted gently, as always.
There was no reply, but the girl's eyes shifted just a little. Viola noticed—a tiny sign, yet for someone like her, it meant more than a thousand spoken words.
"I know you like the afternoons," Viola continued as she set the tray on the table. "Maybe because the sunlight is gentle. Not too warm, not too cold."
She smiled softly and sat down, keeping her usual distance.
This time, she hadn't brought only a drink. From the pocket of her white coat, she pulled out two items—a small pencil and a clean sheet of paper. She placed them on the table in front of Gabriella without saying anything.
For several seconds, nothing moved. Only the clock ticking and the faint sound of birds outside the window.
Then Gabriella's eyes shifted. She looked at the paper.
Viola pretended not to notice, as if she were merely tidying something up. But inside, her heart quickened.
Every reaction from the girl was proof of life—proof that her awareness was still there, trapped but not extinguished.
"Sometimes," Viola said softly, "writing is easier than speaking. You don't have to think about your voice. No one is watching you." She paused, her gaze gentle.
"You can write anything. Or draw. I won't look unless you want me to."
Gabriella didn't respond. But her hands, which had been still in her lap, stirred faintly. She touched the edge of the table, then pulled it a little closer. Her gaze lowered to the paper, lingering on it for a long time, as if it were something unfamiliar yet calling her to come nearer.
Viola kept herself from speaking more.
She knew how thin the line was between encouraging and frightening someone drowning in trauma.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then it happened again—that small movement.
Gabriella lifted her hand and touched the pencil with her fingertips. She rolled it gently, as though trying to remember how writing was supposed to feel.
But the moment the pencil tip brushed the paper, her body froze. She pulled her hand away instantly, her breath quickening. Her eyes turned hollow, as if something inside her mind cracked open—echoes of screams, flashes of blood, the sharp memory of terror.
"It's all right…" Viola whispered soothingly. "You're safe. Nothing is here, only me."
She moved a little closer but didn't touch her.
Her voice was soft, paced slowly like a lullaby meant to calm a frightened child.
Gabriella closed her eyes briefly, took a short breath, then opened them again. Slowly, the tension faded. The pencil remained on the table, but this time, she didn't pull away from it.
"Good," Viola murmured with a small smile. "You don't have to write now. Just knowing you can… that's enough."
She rose, walked toward the window, and opened the curtain slightly to let the air in. The smell of rain and wild roses drifted into the room. Gabriella turned a little toward the breeze. A simple gesture — yet real.
"I heard you like flowers, Gabriella," Viola said as she looked outside. "Tomorrow, if you want, I'll bring a few white roses. You can choose the ones you like."
No answer, but Gabriella's eyes followed the movement of Viola's lips. Her gaze was no longer empty. There was life there now — faint, fragile, but unmistakable.
When Viola was about to leave, she glanced at the table again. The pencil was still there, but the paper had shifted slightly from where she'd placed it.
A small, quiet smile touched her lips. Gabriella had reached for it again.
That night, in the monitoring room, Luca stood before the screen. On it was a recording of Gabriella sitting still at the table with the paper and pencil in front of her.
There were no words on the page, but her fingers rested on the edge of it, as if trying to express something she could not release through speech.
"She reacted again," Viola said softly from behind him.
"She's beginning to… see the world."
Luca didn't turn. His eyes stayed on the screen, his expression unreadable.
"Good," he said flatly—but there was something else beneath his tone. Something like relief, maybe even a quiet ache.
Viola watched the screen with him. "She needs time. But she's trying."
At last, Luca shifted his gaze slightly toward her.
"As long as she breathes, I can wait."
The room fell silent. On the screen, Gabriella remained sitting still. But this time, her gaze was no longer drifting through emptiness.
She looked at the blank paper before her as someone who was slowly remembering what it felt like to be human.
A Voice That Calls
Night fell slowly over Modena. The sky turned a dusky purple-gray, and the cold air slipped in through the vents of the room.
Gabriella sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in an oversized gray sweater. The small lamp on the desk glowed softly, casting faint shadows on the wall—shadows that once frightened her, now beginning to feel familiar.
Viola had just left after making sure she'd taken her medicine. On the desk lay the sheet of paper and pencil she brought that afternoon.
Gabriella still hadn't written anything, but now her fingers often brushed the surface—as if the paper had become a bridge reconnecting her to the world.
Then, in the middle of the silence—she heard something. Soft at first, barely a whisper, but slowly flowing through the stillness of the night.
A piano.
The gentle notes came from another room, somewhere far below her own. It wasn't a crowded melody, nor a grand classical piece. It was simple, flowing like a slow-moving stream — "River Flows in You."
Gabriella lifted her head. Her eyes searched for the source, her heart beating faster.
She didn't know where the courage came from, but she stood slowly from the bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor, yet she didn't stop. Her steps were cautious, careful, like someone afraid to shatter a sacred quiet.
Her hand touched the wall for guidance. She knew this song—this wasn't a stranger to her.
Her father used to play it at home, whenever her mother cooked in the kitchen, whenever the afternoon felt too long. Gabriella would sit on the floor and hum softly, following the melody with the tiny voice she no longer used.
And now someone was playing the same piece. In a strange house. On a strange night.
Yet oddly, it didn't bring fear—something else stirred instead. Something warm.
She stopped in front of her door. The piano grew clearer, rising and falling as if calling her name.
Gabriella pressed her palm against the door, then lowered her head, resting her ear against it.
Her eyes closed. Her breathing softened.
Note by note seeped into her—each one touching an old wound, yet gently enough not to hurt. She didn't know who was playing it. But those fingers, pressing the keys with such care, felt like they understood how fragile the world she lived in was.
Tears fell silently.
Not from sadness—but because something inside her, something long dead, moved again.
In his private room, Luca paused. His fingers hovered above the piano keys. His eyes drifted toward the stairs. He could feel something—like a faint tremor from the floor above.
A small smile curled at the corner of his lips.
"She hears it," he whispered. "Finally…"
Viola, passing through the corridor, also heard the music. She stopped, gazing toward the staircase that led to Gabriella's room. She didn't dare go up—only stood there, looking at the ceiling, letting the melody fill the house.
In the bedroom, Gabriella kept her ear pressed to the door. She closed her eyes tighter.
The song flowed softly to the end, fading into the quiet. But in the silence afterward, her heart felt different—not as dark as before.
She opened her eyes slowly. Her hand slipped from the door, but before she walked away, she whispered—barely audible.
"Thank you…"
She wasn't sure to whom. Maybe to the music. Maybe to the person downstairs she had never met, but who felt strangely familiar.
Minutes later, the CCTV captured her walking back to the bed. Viola and Dante, watching from the monitoring room, exchanged glances.
"She reacted to music again," Dante said quietly.
Viola nodded, her voice trembling. "That's not just a reaction… that's a connection."
Luca stood watching the footage, his gaze locked on the screen—on the small figure now sitting at the edge of her bed with her hand on her chest, as if holding something invisible.
He turned off the piano softly, and spoke in a tone that sounded almost like a prayer:
"Music knows the paths words cannot reach."
Night grew deeper.
When everything had settled, Luca went upstairs as usual. His steps were light, almost noiseless. He opened Gabriella's door slowly. She was already asleep, her breathing calm. On the desk, a cup of warm chocolate—still steaming—waited unfinished.
Luca stepped closer, standing beside her bed, studying the face that looked much more peaceful than on previous nights. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and whispered near her ear:
"Sleep, Piccolina… I'm here."
And as on the nights before, he left before dawn—leaving behind a faint warmth that somehow lingered in the room.