Page 5

Fioretta's room is quiet except for the faint rustle of the doctor’s coat as he moves around, preparing his instruments. I stand at the door, leaning slightly against the frame, arms crossed. Fioretta is sitting on the edge of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cool floor.

Her eyes flick to me for a split second, then dart away. She’s still hesitant. She’s always been hesitant around doctors. Her hand rests on her knee, fingers twitching with nervous energy, but she doesn't say anything.

The doctor walks over, and she looks up at him, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable.

He holds a stethoscope in his hand, moving it to his neck with the practiced ease of someone used to such a routine.

Fioretta glances at me again, a quick glance that seems to ask if this is all really happening.

“Mrs. Accardi,” the doctor says, his voice calm, almost soft, like he’s used to patients like her. “I’m going to check your vitals now.”

She nods, but her eyes never leave mine. Her lips press together, thin and tight. Her expression is blank, but I know her. She’s uncomfortable, but she’s trying to hide it. I don’t say anything.

The doctor reaches for her wrist, pulling her hand gently toward him. Her skin is still pale, almost fragile under the light, and I notice the faint tremor in her fingers, as though she’s unsure whether she should trust him or not.

“Your pulse,” he mutters as he places his fingers on the inside of her wrist. His touch is clinical, impersonal, but it makes her flinch slightly, just enough for me to notice.

She doesn’t pull away, but the way her breath catches betrays her anxiety.

Her pulse is steady under his fingers. He moves his hand to her neck, checking her carotid artery, the warmth of her skin almost visible against the coldness of the air.

“Deep breaths,” the doctor instructs, pulling the stethoscope from around his neck. He places the cold, metal disc over her chest, pressing down gently but firmly.

Fioretta’s body stiffens, the coldness of the metal sending a shiver through her. She exhales slowly, trying to control the flutter of her chest. Her eyes flick to mine again.

I stand still, not responding.

Her breath is steady as he listens, moving the stethoscope, testing the rhythm of her heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of her lungs. I see her eyes close for a moment, her face softening slightly as she tries to calm herself.

But she’s still not comfortable. I can feel it in the way her shoulders stay tight, the way she avoids looking at the doctor for too long, as though every touch on her skin is a reminder of how little she knows about herself.

“Your heart sounds good,” the doctor says, taking a small step back. His voice is reassuring, almost too gentle. “Your lungs are clear. You’re healing well.”

Fioretta’s eyes don’t flicker with relief, but I can tell she’s processing the words in her own way. She nods slightly, biting the corner of her lip.

The doctor continues his examination, gently moving her wrist to check the pulse, the delicate movement of his hands careful yet professional.

I can feel the space between us grow, like some invisible wall between Fioretta and me. She’s not mine anymore, and I’m not sure she ever was. This new version of her doesn’t belong to anyone.

The doctor finishes his examination. “All vitals are normal,” he says, offering a polite smile. “Her recovery is impressive. It’s just a matter of time now.”

Fioretta releases a breath. She sits back against the pillows, her eyes finding mine. A flicker of something—relief? Fear? Or just a blankness she can’t control.

“Thank you, doctor,” she says, her tone too sweet. Too light. It feels rehearsed, like she’s trying to make the moment pass without acknowledging it.

The doctor looks caught off guard, blinking once before stammering his response. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Accardi.” He quickly steps away, almost knocking into the table behind him in his haste to get out of the room.

Fioretta watches him leave with a strange expression. The door clicks shut, and she turns back to me, her eyes a little too bright, a little too playful.

^^^^

Later, in my office, the doctor’s file sits in front of me, but I don’t open it right away. I just stare at it for a few long moments. The words blur together.

Fioretta is healthy. Normal, the doctor says. But she’s not.

She’s different.

I stand up and walk to the window, the cold glass pressing against my palm. I look out at the villa grounds. The garden is still dark, shadows stretching long beneath the moon.

Fioretta jumped. She did it without hesitation. She wanted to die, or maybe just to escape.

But I’d anticipated it. I always knew there was a chance, and I had people ready to catch her fall. Inflatable mats, safety nets—the best I could get, just in case.

She passed out after she fell. She was unconscious for two weeks, in and out of awareness. The doctors monitored her closely. Her brain scans were fine, but it didn’t matter.

She wasn’t fine.

Now, she’s back, but she’s not the Fioretta I knew.

She’s louder. Happier, even. I can see it in her eyes—this energy that wasn’t there before.

The doctor’s voice echoes in my head: “Sometimes it’s best to make peace with these changes, Serevin. Patients sometimes never return to their original state.”

I clench my jaw.

“She’s different,” I say to the doctor, who looks like he would rather be in a lion’s den than in my office.

He pauses, looking at me with the concern he won’t voice aloud. “How is she different, exactly?”

I take a deep breath. “She’s loud. She’s…happier. I don’t know what’s real anymore. She used to be so quiet. So controlled.”

The doctor adjusts his glasses, letting the silence stretch out. “It’s normal. Sometimes, patients emerge from amnesia with different traits. It’s a way for the mind to cope with trauma.” He clears his throat. “You should be prepared, though. It’s possible she may never get her memories back.”

I lean against the desk, absorbing the weight of his words. The thought that she might never return to who she was—it sinks in deep.

“She might never remember?” I repeat.

The doctor nods. “If she doesn’t, Serevin…it’s important to let her find herself. Gently coax her into remembering. But don’t push too far.”

I nod, though something tightens in my chest. I wonder if she’ll even care to remember me.

She’s different now, and I don’t know how I’ll survive this new Fioretta.

I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I stare out the window.

^^^^

The afternoon light cuts through the room, casting long shadows against the dark wood of the office. I’m leaning against the desk, flicking the cigarette between my fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like my thoughts.

The door opens, and Cassian steps in, his face unreadable, a steady presence despite the tension in the air. He moves swiftly, the soft click of the door behind him barely breaking the stillness.

“Brother Stefano has arrived,” Cassian announces, his voice low and controlled.

I feel the briefest moment of discomfort tighten my chest. Stefano. I’ve been waiting for him. Fioretta's advisor, the one who knew her best before all of this. He was supposed to bring some sort of comfort—for her, for me—but it feels like an intrusion.

“He’s down in the foyer,” Cassian continues. “I had a maid go fetch Fioretta.”

I nod. The timing is right. I can already hear the quiet murmur of voices down the hall.

^^^^

I move quickly, Cassian close behind me. We both walk through the corridors in silence, the weight of the moment hanging between us. As we descend the stairs, the sounds of the house feel distant, drowned out by the heavy anticipation of the meeting.

At the base of the stairs, Brother Stefano stands near the door, his presence towering despite his age.

His dark priest’s robes flow like shadows, his face lined with the deep years of wisdom and pain.

His hands tremble slightly as he clutches the crucifix around his neck, a steady pulse of devotion in his eyes.

As soon as he sees Fioretta, he moves toward her with a rush of emotion, tears welling up in his eyes. He reaches out for her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, bless the Lord who has kept you safe, child,” he says, his voice breaking with a grief-laden relief. His arms wrap around her with an urgency as though he’s afraid she might disappear again.

Fioretta stands stiff in his arms, her expression a mix of confusion and annoyance. She doesn’t move to embrace him. Her hands hang by her sides, the only sign of discomfort the slight narrowing of her eyes.

She pulls away from him slowly, the dissonance between the affection he’s offering and her unfamiliarity with him too large to ignore. Her voice is flat, unsure.

“Who are you?” she asks, her gaze flicking to Brother Stefano and then quickly shifting back to me.

The question hangs in the air, a sharp sting.

Cassian stands beside me, his face impassive. “I told you, she doesn’t remember us,” he says, his voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration.

I feel Brother Stefano’s gaze turn to me, the anger in his eyes immediate and palpable. He’s not hiding it. It’s raw, bitter.

“This is your fault,” he says, his voice low but heavy with accusation. He steps toward me, his hands shaking with emotion, fists clenched at his sides. “What have you done to her?”

The words hit me like a slap.

My fault. The thought courses through my veins, tightening around my chest like a vise.

I stand there, still, but I feel it—the weight of his eyes, the judgment. He’s right. This is my fault.

I feel Fioretta's gaze shift toward me, those bright hazel eyes flickering with something I can’t read. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want her to see the guilt written on my face, because it’s the truth. This is my fault.

So, I look away, my jaw tightening, my throat suddenly dry. I don’t say a word. What could I possibly say?