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How Nonna begged the police for help after I vanished. How they gave her nothing but indifference. How she kept the café open anyway, hoping. Then one day, strangers in dark coats walked in. Said they were “asking questions.” She didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t eat the next day. By evening, she collapsed in the kitchen and never woke up the same.

Bea hadn’t asked me where I’d been.

And I hadn’t volunteered.

For that, I'm grateful. I don't want to talk about men with guns, explosions, or Vieri Tavano and his brothers. I don't want to admit how badly I miss someone I should hate.

The soup tray scrapes slightly as I stand.

“I’ll get her some water,” I say, brushing my palms against my skirt.

Bea nods. “I’ll change the sheets.”

I take two steps. Then the floor tilts. A dizzy blur sweeps up behind my eyes. My knees weaken. I reach for the table, miss it entirely.

Then arms wrap around me.

“I’ve got you!” Bea gasps, steadying me.

“Lune—hey—Lune, breathe. Sit down.”

Bea helps me lower into the chair. She crouches to my level, her brows drawn tight.

“Sit. I’ll handle Nonna.”

I nod, though the edges of the room still waver. My body feels like it might fold in on itself. Bea crosses to the other side of the bed, pouring water from the carafe into a plastic cup and holding it gently to Nonna’s lips.

Nonna sips with effort, her hand fluttering like paper as she touches Bea’s arm. A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes don’t have the same snap as before. They drift off often, unfocused, as if her mind is slipping between layers of a dream she can’t wake from. She still doesn’t recognize Bea or me.

Bea tucks the covers higher under her chin, whispering some joke I can’t catch, brushing a kiss against her forehead. Then she glances at me. Her expression flickers—concern hidden behind the mask of strength she always wears when I’m watching.

Nonna is off life support now. The machines have quieted. She can talk in fragments, hold a spoon with trembling fingers. It’s progress. They call it progress.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

This isn’t the woman who raised me.

This isn’t the Nonna who used to chase boys out of the café with a broom or scold me for using too much cinnamon in the custard. She’s... shrinking.

Her hands are thinner now, almost translucent. Her arms don’t fill the sleeves of her gown anymore. Her skin clings to bone like it’s forgotten how to hold warmth. The lines on her face have deepened in just a month.

I cover my mouth, but it doesn’t help.

The sob pushes through my chest before I can stop it. My throat tightens, and the breath stutters out of me in shudders I can’t contain.

Bea is at my side in an instant.

Her arms wrap around me. Not gentle—tight. Like she’s trying to keep the pieces of me from spilling out.

“Lune,” she whispers into my hair. “It’ll be fine. She’s going to be okay.”

But I don’t know what “okay” means anymore.

I rest my forehead against Bea’s shoulder and cry harder. My fingers grip her shirt as if holding on will anchor me, and will stop the storm rising in my chest.

I want to believe her. I want to trust that this is temporary. That Nonna will one day stand again and shout at the oven when the gas is low. That she’ll braid my hair like she did when I was twelve and worried about school.