Calypso

It took a while before I ran into him, before our paths literally collided. Him - the Sorrente troublemaker everyone seemed to know, the one people spoke about with a mix of fear and fascination.

-Just a tip: don’t get near him.

That was the first thing anyone told me about him.He was always mixed up in shady business, fights. A guy who solved everything with his fists. Someone who made the city tremble, with this dark aura that seemed to follow him everywhere. And I believed it, the very second I saw him. That day, he kicked the classroom door open, late as usual. Everyone jumped—even the teacher. That’s when I really noticed him.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

No, it started long before that day. It started when I left Milan, after my father died when I was sixteen. That was when my life took a turn I never expected. That’s when everything changed. Taken by one of those awful lung cancers. The kind that steals your loved ones without a word, without regret. My mother was devastated, though she had seen it coming, just like I had. He wasn’t even a smoker—he’d never touched a single cigarette in his life—and yet. We had known he was dying months before, but nothing truly prepares you for the death of a husband, a son, a brother, a father.

I remember crying every tear in my body the morning he died. I was there, in my mother’s arms, while she tried to comfort me even as she was inconsolable herself. She kept telling me it would be okay, that he had gone to a better place, that he no longer suffered. And God knows I don’t believe in Him—not in heaven, not in hell, not in any peace after death. Because what kind of god would end the life of a man as admirable as him? Not mine.

It took several days after his death for the funeral to happen. A few days of haze, of numbness, with people coming over with dishes and mechanical condolences. Everyone said the same thing, the same nonsense:He’s better off now. That’s life. He doesn’t suffer anymore.As if words could ease the pain, as if it were enough. Nothing was enough.

The day of the funeral, it was hot. A bright, mocking blue sky, like the weather didn’t care about our lives. It could’ve been any other day, the earth turning as if he wasn’t gone. I hated that contrast, that warmth while we were supposed to be grieving. My mother didn’t shed a single tear during the ceremony. Not one. Her face was frozen, carved in grief. I had never seen so much sadness in her eyes. She said nothing, didn’t move, her hands barely trembling when she held mine by the grave.

They had been married thirty years. Thirty years of love, of fights, of companionship, of routines. Thirty years of sharing everything—and now she had to learn to live without him. Rebuild a life in which he would never be a part. If life hadn’t taken him from us, it could’ve gone on for thirty more years. But it was over, abruptly, with neither of them having a say. That day, I looked at her standing by the coffin and wondered how she could ever get through it. How could I?

The days went on, all as blurry as the day of the funeral. After the last visitors left and the last trays of reheated food disappeared, the apartment emptied. Just my mother and I—two ghosts in a space suddenly too big for us. Life went on, inevitably, but something inside me had frozen. I could feel it.

I returned to school after a week of absence. I thought the worst was behind me, but I was wrong. From the moment I arrived, I felt the weight of everyone’s eyes—teachers, students, even friends. All wearing that same expression, that disguised pity I hated. As if, because I had lost my father, they didn’t know how to be around me. It was unbearable.

-Are you okay? They’d ask, every time, in that soft, syrupy voice, as if I could collapse at any moment.

-Yeah, I’m fine. I’d answer.

Always the same words, mechanical, with a nod. But in reality, nothing was fine. I had changed. I was different, and they didn’t really see it. I was full of anger—against everything, everyone. I wanted to punch every timid smile in the face. I wanted to scream,No, of course it’s not okay.How could it be okay when my father was dead, buried in a pit with hundreds of strangers?

I didn’t know exactly why this rage was growing inside me. Maybe because they were still here. Because they could go home and their lives went on, untouched. While mine had shattered, with no hope of going back to normal. So I withdrew. I spoke less. I laughed even less. There was no room for it anymore.

A few weeks later came my birthday - my seventeenth. The first one without him. I didn’t want to celebrate, but my mother insisted. She invited my grandparents, baked a cake, set the table as if everything were normal. But nothing was normal. How could I pretend to be happy when he wasn’t there?

I missed him so much. I forced myself to smile, to blow out my candles, under my mother’s and grandparents’ gentle eyes—but it all felt fake. The only real thing was the empty chair across from me that had once been his.

-Make a wish. My mother whispered, setting the cake in front of me.

I wanted to wish for one thing: to see him one last time. But it was ridiculous, and everyone knew it. So I blew out the candles, said nothing, asked for nothing. What was the point?

That day, I pulled further away from everything. I felt truly alone. And my mother noticed. She saw it in my silences, in my eyes avoiding hers. I wasn’t the same. I answered more bluntly, more coldly. I had no patience for politeness or pretenses. It was as if grief had ripped a piece of me away, leaving me partly empty, partly bitter.

That’s when my mother made her decision. One evening, she looked at me, as I barely spoke and spent my days hiding in my room. She didn’t say it outright, but I knew she was worried. She hoped this new start, this new home, would help. That leaving Milan, escaping the memories that haunted me, would be the solution. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was the only way to stop me from falling apart completely. She had prepared my favorite meal, but I wasn’t hungry. Truthfully, I hadn’t been hungry in days. She had that determined look I hadn’t seen in a long time, a look that almost scared me. She said she couldn’t stay in Milan anymore. Everything reminded her of Dad: the apartment, the streets they had walked hand in hand, even the air she breathed seemed to echo his absence. She couldn’t take it anymore - it was unbearable.

Sorrente. One word, one city. She had already planned everything. It wasn’t just an idea she threw out. No, she had researched, found a house there on the mountainside. The kind of house she dreamed of for retirement. Ironic, isn’t it? A retirement without him. And she thought of me too. She said I could finish my senior year there, that it would be okay, a new life, a fresh start. The hospital in Sorrente was looking for nurses. She had planned every detail.

When she asked me what I thought, I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth. That I didn’t want to leave. That I couldn’t imagine leaving Milan, my friends, my life, the memories I had with Dad. But how could I say no, seeing clearly that she needed it? She needed to escape, to get away from everything that reminded her of him.

So I agreed. Reluctantly, of course, but I did. She believed it would be good for both of us. Maybe she was right. Or maybe it would just make everything even more complicated.

Summer passed quickly. My friends gave me gifts before I left, little trinkets to remind me of them. Promises of visits, messages. But deep down, I knew it was empty. High school friends disappear, it’s always like that. In a few months, they’d forget me. The messages would stop, the calls grow rare, until no one bothered to reach out. I would continue my life on my side, and they on theirs. That was reality.

The day of departure, late summer heat clung to my skin. I sat in the front seat with Mom, some of our things piled in the back, the rest in a moving truck. Mom had put on her ’90s playlist, the one she always played when I was little. It made it feel like a holiday, a strangely soothing illusion, even though reality was far from it. There was a softness in the air, a sense of lightness. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, and I could see some weight had already lifted from her shoulders. She wasn’t tense anymore; her face no longer carried that desperate stiffness she had worn for months. She tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music, almost serene. I wanted to join her in that calm, but something inside me refused to let go. Maybe it was my attachment to Milan, to what I had left behind. Or maybe it was the fear of what awaited me in Sorrento. In any case, I felt like I was running away from my life.

The landscape rolled by, gradually transforming as we approached Sorrente. I had never seen the city before, not in real life. But it lived up to what I had been told. A pale strip clinging to the cliff. The road had started to spiral downward, and at every turn, the sea appeared. Nothing like Milan. Here, the air rushing through the window smelled of salt and lemon, not warm asphalt. When we entered the town, everything seemed smaller, tighter. The pale houses lined up with their peeling shutters and rusty balconies. The sound of scooters rose through the alleys, mixing with the voices of locals and tourists present at this late summer hour.

The road to the house was winding, climbing up the mountainsides. From above, the town had something majestic, almost intimidating. And finally, there it was, perched like a refuge among the pines, slightly set apart from everything. My mother was right; it was the kind of house you dream about but never really imagine living in.

When I got out of the car, I looked up. There, in front of me, stood what could be called a refuge—or at least, what was about to become one. The red-brick building seemed almost to have come out of a storybook, with its weathered tile roof and paned windows. The house was nestled in a green haven, climbing plants invading the white fence surrounding the small courtyard. A flight of concrete steps led to the front door, and I could already feel fatigue rising at the thought of the movers who would have to lug everything up here.

-Not bad, huh? My mother said in an almost joyful tone, hands on her hips, looking at the house.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed lighter, as if she had just set down part of her burdens here, on these ivy-covered steps.

-It’s fine, yeah. It’s nice. I replied, not entirely convinced.

I examined every detail, trying to tame this new vision of my life. It had a quaint charm, yes, but it didn’t change the fact that I didn’t want to be here. It was the countryside, after all. Nothing like Milan and our apartment.

The moving truck arrived shortly after, stopping just behind us. The movers climbed down, already sweating in the stifling heat. They set to work, grimacing as they lifted boxes and heavy furniture.

-Go give them a hand if you want. I’ll go open the house. Mom suggested, already climbing the steps with the keys in hand.

I hesitated for a second, watching the men struggle with the dining table, then decided to follow her inside. Once on the porch, she pushed the door open, and a breath of fresh air welcomed us. The interior was spacious, far more than I had imagined from the facade. The kitchen opened onto a large living room, surprisingly modern, and the first thing that struck me was the light. The large windows let the sun in, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow.

The kitchen, with its light wood cabinets and marble countertops, opened directly onto the living room. The latter was dominated by a massive bookshelf covering an entire wall, already partially filled with books my mother had sent ahead. A large gray sofa sat in the middle of the room, still wrapped in plastic, waiting to be set up. The room still smelled new—the scent of wood and fresh paint hanging in the air.

-See? It’s going to be great. Mom said, turning to me with a smile.

She really seemed convinced that this new start would be a good thing. I, on the other hand, was more skeptical.

-Yeah, it’s nice. We’ll see once we’re settled. I replied, shrugging.

I tried, but I couldn’t share her enthusiasm. It was all still too new, too sudden. I had masked my doubts by going along with it, but my disappointment was visible. She said nothing, because she knew I was forcing myself—for her, for us.

The movers continued going back and forth, climbing the concrete stairs with difficulty. One of them let out a curse as a box tipped over on the porch. My mother ran out to see if everything was okay, while I moved into the room, sliding my hand across the kitchen counter. It was spacious, modern, but soulless. Not yet. It would take time for this place to feel alive, something we could call “home.”

I continued my exploration, climbing the wooden stairs that creaked slightly under my steps. Upstairs, the hallway led to several bedrooms. My mother’s room was already furnished—simple but elegant, with a large canopy bed and white curtains floating in front of a window overlooking the garden.

My room, on the other hand, was still empty except for a mattress on the floor and a few scattered boxes. It was the largest of the rooms, with a bay window facing the mountains—a view I couldn’t deny was breathtaking. And a great balcony on top of that.

The dark wooden floor contrasted with the walls painted a pristine white, and a large wardrobe covered an entire wall—perfect for everything I had accumulated over the years.

I approached the window, looking at the view, the sun already dipping behind the hills. Occasionally, a gust of wind came through the open windows, bringing with it the scent of pine and salt, as if the sea itself lived in the house. It mingled with the smell of the wooden beams, warmed by the sun. All of it felt so far removed from what I had known. I flopped onto the mattress, arms spread, listening to the sounds of the house slowly filling with our things.

-Do you like it? My mother’s voice echoed from the open doorway.

She had that concerned look, as if she expected me to say everything was fine when nothing really was.

-We’ll see. I replied without turning my head.

She sighed lightly before leaving the room. I pulled my headphones from my hoodie pocket, shoved them into my ears, and played my sad playlist—the one you listen to when you want to cry.

It could have been a better start to a new life, but I didn’t want it to be better. I didn’t want a new life.