Chapter 1
The rain falls warm and heavy, almost sluggish, as if it belongs to summer. It drips into my hair, down my forehead, over my cheeks, gathers in small rivulets at my neck and disappears somewhere beneath the thin fabric of my dress. The air smells of wet earth and withered roses, sweet and dull, and everything about this place clings to me like sweat. Even the sky above Verona looks tired, as if it, too, has had enough of this day.
I stand there, in the middle of crooked gravestones and flickering candles, staring at the freshly turned mound before me. The earth is still dark, smells damp, and steam rises from it as if it were still alive. The stone above it is black and smooth, the golden letters shining so brightly I can barely look at them.
Lucia De Santis.
Loved and never forgotten.
My mother. My family. My home. And now nothing more than a name carved into stone, engraved among all the others the rain has long since washed away. I read it again and again while the voices behind me blur into a single quiet murmur.
My hands hang limply at my sides. I feel the rain plaster my dress to my back, water running along my arms and dripping from my fingers. Beneath my feet, the gravel turns to mud. But I don’t move. I can’t.
Behind me, they murmur. People with umbrellas, in clean shoes, with glances that cut across me like blades. “So young, so alone…” I hear an aunt whisper, and someone else says, “…and those debts…,” and then, “…no one left for her.” I press my lips together until they hurt and grip the handle of my handbag so tightly my knuckles turn white. I don’t turn around. I don’t look at them. I don’t want to see their faces.
The priest says something about dust and heaven and how we all become one again someday. His words slide off me like rain off stone. Then I hear the dull sound of the first shovel of earth hitting the coffin. One thud. Another. Each one so heavy my heart clenches with it. Each one like a kick against my ribs.
I bite down on my tongue just to hold the tears back a moment longer. They come anyway. Warm, salty, mixing with the rain, and I feel them on my skin as they run down my neck. I did everything. Paid every bill, spent every night by her bed, worked every shift I could get. And still, I’m standing here now.
Alone. Without her.
“I should have done more,” I whisper into the heavy air, so softly only the wind can hear it. “I’m sorry.”
The final shovelful covers the coffin, and the few people behind me begin to leave. I hear the rustle of their steps on the gravel, the quiet closing of umbrellas, the priest’s nod as he disappears. I remain standing. Still. Because I don’t know where else to go. Because I don’t know how to leave her here.
Slowly, I crouch down, place my hand on the cold stone, feel the water running over it, the letters rough beneath my fingers. “I tried, Mamma,” I say, my voice breaking. “That’s all I could do. I’m sorry.”
The words hang in the warm, heavy air, and no one answers. The cemetery is silent, only the rain keeps dripping. My knees ache, but I stay there a moment longer, until the candles on the graves go out, until the city around me becomes nothing more than a distant thought.
Then I stand up. My legs are heavy, my skin sticky, my dress clinging to my back as if it has become part of me. I wipe my face, though I no longer know whether it’s rain or tears.
I walk. Slowly, step by step, along the narrow gravel path back to the gate. The stones glitter with droplets, and in every puddle the sky is reflected, black and torn. I don’t turn around again as I pull the heavy wrought-iron gate shut behind me.
The air outside isn’t any better. Still sticky, still warm, still full of rain. The city lies there as if it’s holding its breath. Something inside me has broken, quietly, permanently. But I know I have to go on. Somehow. Because what other choice do I have?
With lowered head and wet hair, I set off, back through the alleys of Verona, back into a life that suddenly feels so foreign, as if it never belonged to me at all.
The door falls shut heavily behind me, with a dull bang that echoes through the small apartment. For a moment I lean my back against it and close my eyes. The rain has eased, only a soft tapping against the windows now. My dress clings coldly to my skin, the damp fabric pressing unpleasantly against my shoulders. The smell of wet earth still clings to me, sweet and heavy, like the cemetery itself.
Slowly, I slip out of my sandals, set them carelessly beside the door, and pull the dress over my head. It lands on the floor in a dark, damp heap. I stand in the hallway, barefoot, in my underwear, feeling the cool stone beneath my feet. Everywhere smells of dust and cheap detergent.
In the bathroom, I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it. Steam fills the small cabin at once, settling around me like a curtain. I step under the shower, close my eyes, and let the water run over me. For long minutes I simply stand there while the dirt, the rain, and the sweet, earthy smell wash off me. It feels like I can finally breathe again.
When I’m done, I dry myself and go into the bedroom. I pull something dry from the wardrobe: black leggings, an old grey T-shirt. The clothes no longer cling, but the pressure in my chest remains. The room is quiet, only the soft rattle of a motor scooter passing through the narrow alley outside.
In the kitchen, I switch on the small light above the sink and reach for the open bottle of wine on the table. It’s been there since the day before yesterday, the cork barely resting in it anymore. I pull it out and pour myself a glass. Dark red, almost black.
I sit down at the table, bare feet resting against the crossbar, and take a deep swallow. It’s too warm, too heavy, but I don’t care. The wine burns in my throat, and for a moment I feel nothing but heat.
My gaze drifts across the table. They’re still there, neatly stacked: bills. Yellow envelopes. Payment reminders. The thickest letter from the bank lies right on top. I nudge it aside with my fingertip, as if that could make the number on it smaller.
“How?” I ask the room quietly. My voice sounds brittle, unfamiliar. How am I supposed to ever pay this? It’s not just the final hospital bills. It’s everything. Rent. Loans. Interest I no longer even understand. I could work day and night for ten years and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I take another sip of wine, larger this time. It feels like all the debt, all the empty promises, all the failure is wedged between my ribs, and the wine won’t be enough to wash it away.
If Mamma could see me now, she’d have that soft look again, proud and sad at the same time. “You’re strong, Aurora,” she always said. But I don’t believe it anymore.
Outside, the rain starts up again, heavier now. It drums against the windows, filling the silence in the room. I lean back, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Tomorrow,” I say softly. “Tomorrow I’ll do something. Tomorrow…”
But then my eyes fall to the floor. Between the letters lies an envelope I hadn’t noticed before. White. Heavy. No sender. The golden seal closing it gleams in the dim kitchen light, as if it’s moving.
For a long time, I simply sit there and stare at it. As if I first have to convince myself it’s really there. That I’m not imagining it. Finally, I set the wineglass down, lean forward, and pick it up. The paper feels cool and firm, the seal beneath my fingers smooth, almost soft. I turn it over in my hands, tilt it toward the light. The golden embossing looks like a circle crossed with fine lines whose meaning I don’t understand.
Slowly, I run my thumb over it, and the wax breaks with a soft crack. For a moment I hesitate. Then I pull the thick, cream-colored paper from the envelope. It smells strangely sweet, like rose petals left too long in the sun.
The handwriting is elegant, dark blue, gently curved:
Dear Ms. De Santis,
Congratulations. You have been selected to participate in our exclusive selection process.
As part of this program, you will have the opportunity to meet twenty carefully chosen men and, over the course of a unique process, make your decision. Each participant possesses special qualities that you will discover over time.
For your participation, you will receive an honorarium of €20,000, which will be paid out before the program begins. The remaining amount will be transferred upon completion of the broadcast.
Please appear tomorrow at sunset at the southern access of the Ponte Pietra. A staff member will be waiting to receive you and explain the further proceedings.
Please bring nothing with you but yourself and the willingness to embrace the unexpected.
We look forward to your arrival,
The Circle of Choice
My eyes move over the words. Again and again.
Twenty men.
One choice.
Twenty thousand euros.
I read the lines once more. Slower this time. The numbers are there, clear and unyielding. And yet it all feels so absurd that I let out a short laugh—a dry, brittle sound. Maybe this is some tasteless joke. Maybe a mistake.
I turn the page, check the back, but it’s blank. I hold it up to the light, as if a hidden message might appear somewhere, but it remains a letter. A strange letter that smells of roses and trembles in my hand.
Slowly, I place it back on the table. My fingers linger on the paper, as if I could somehow tell whether any of this is real. But the exhaustion in my limbs grows heavier, pulling me deeper into the chair.
I close my eyes, breathe in deeply. It’s too much for one day. Too much death, too much rain, too much silence. Too many questions.
With a distracted movement, I push the envelope and the letter slightly away from me, slide the stack of bills over them, as if they could hide it. Then I push myself away from the table, stand up almost mechanically, and go into the bedroom.
I sink onto the bed without turning off the light and draw my legs up until I barely take up any space. The words from the letter keep circling in my head, burning themselves into me while the rain beats against the windows outside.
Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
With one last glance at the door, I close my eyes.
And this time, I don’t fight the sleep anymore.
