Page 34 of The Slug Crystal

We scatter like dandelion seeds in the wind, each heading toward different sections of the commune. I follow a narrow path between cabins, Alex's terrarium a familiar weight against my ribs. The blue snail seems unbothered by the jarring movement, exploring his glass home with leisurely curiosity.

The first artist I approach, a woman creating intricate mandala patterns on recycled wood, remembers Sarah immediately.

"The crystal witch," she says, nodding. "Beautiful energy. She helped balance my root chakra." The woman's hands don't stop working as she speaks, adding dots of white paint with methodical precision. "Left about three weeks ago. Very suddenly."

"Did she say where she was going?" I ask, the question becoming a familiar refrain.

"That's the thing," the woman says, finally looking up from her work. "She never mentioned leaving. Then one morning, poof, gone. Her cabin cleaned out, no note, nothing."

I thank her and move on, hearing variations of the same story from three more artists. Sarah was here, Sarah was respected, Sarah disappeared without warning. Each time, hope rises and falls in my chest like a bird unable to sustain flight.

By the time we reconvene, the sun has shifted in the sky, casting longer shadows across the commune. One look at the others' faces tells me they've had no better luck than I have.

"She left without telling anyone where she was going," Ben confirms, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"But she was definitely here until about three weeks ago," Marco adds. "Several residents mentioned she was working on some special project. Something that required rare ingredients."

"The herbs from the shop in Florence," Jake says, connecting the dots.

Luca leans against a nearby sculpture, his casual posture belying the intensity in his eyes. "One woman told me Sarah received a phone call the day before she left. Said she seemed agitated afterward."

"Did she hear what it was about?" I ask, clutching at this thin thread of information.

Luca shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no. Just that Sarah kept saying 'It's too soon' and 'I'm not ready.'"

I turn away from the group, frustration bubbling up like a pot about to boil over. We keep finding breadcrumbs, but they lead nowhere. I pace between two cabins, gripping Alex's terrarium so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"We'll never find her," I mutter, not caring if the others hear me.

"She's gone, and Alex is stuck like this forever, and it's all my fault.

" The weight of responsibility presses down on me, making it hard to breathe.

"What was I thinking? That we could just fly to Italy and magically find one woman in an entire country?

That she'd wave her hands and fix everything? "

A gentle hand on my shoulder interrupts my spiral.

I turn to find Marco standing there, his expression calm, steady.

"We will find her," he says, his voice carrying the same quiet authority he uses when discussing his academic research.

"Every location we visit provides new information, narrows the parameters of our search. It's a methodical process."

"But what if we're too late?" I whisper, staring down at Alex in his terrarium. The blue snail is completely unbothered by my crisis, his antennae lazily probing a fresh lettuce leaf I'd placed there this morning. "What if we never turn him back?"

The question hangs in the air between us, more vulnerable than I intended. Marco's hand remains on my shoulder, a steady anchor in my sea of doubt.

"Then we adapt," he says simply. "Just as he has adapted." His free hand gestures toward the terrarium. "Life finds a way to continue, even in unexpected forms. But we're not at that point yet. We have more avenues to explore."

There's something so grounding about his logical approach, his refusal to indulge in catastrophizing. I feel my breathing slow, my grip on the terrarium loosening slightly.

"Besides," Ben interjects, appearing beside us, "if all else fails, you've got a killer conversation starter for dinner parties. 'This is my ex-boyfriend. He's a snail.'"

The absurdity of it startles a laugh out of me, exactly as Ben intended. His green eyes crinkle at the corners, a sign of his pleasure at his success.

Jake approaches, his expression softening with my laughter. "We'll figure this out, Emma. We always do."

The "we" catches in my chest, this strange, improvised family that's formed around my magical mistake.

Luca pushes off from the sculpture he's been leaning against, his movements fluid and purposeful as he joins our circle. "I suggest we regroup at the pensione," he says. "Good wine helps clear the mind. Perhaps we need to approach this from a different angle."

"Luca's solution to everything—wine," Ben teases, but there's no real bite to it.

"It's gotten us this far," Luca responds with a shrug that somehow manages to be elegant.

As we walk back to the car, I take one last look at the commune—this place of creativity and freedom that couldn't hold Sarah any more than the shop in Florence could. The colored cabins blur slightly in the afternoon heat, the sculptures casting strange shadows across the dusty ground.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to Alex, quiet enough that the others can't hear. "I'm trying, I promise."

In his glass home, the blue snail continues his unhurried exploration, apparently content with his leafy meal and oblivious to my torment.

Sometimes I envy his simplicity, his acceptance of his current reality.

Unlike me, constantly caught between hope and despair, between past and future, between my growing feelings for four very different men and my responsibility to the one I transformed.

"Coming, Emma?" Jake calls, holding the car door open for me.

I nod and turn away from the commune, clutching my small glass world against my heart as we head back to the city, no closer to answers than when we arrived.

Saturday, 6:27PM. The pensione's pool glows an otherworldly blue under the spotlights, its surface rippling with gentle evening breezes.

I sit at the edge, jeans rolled up to my knees, feet dangling in the tepid water as I nurse my third—or is it fourth?

—glass of limoncello. Empty bottles stand like sentinels on nearby tables, a testament to our collective attempt to drown the day's disappointment.

The only true benefits of the day were a quick shopping run to find some clothing essentials for Jake, Ben, and me.

That, and the discovery of the limoncello.

The sweet, citrus liqueur burns pleasantly down my throat, numbing the edges of my frustration.

I've placed Alex's terrarium safely on a lounge chair behind me, tucked under my jacket, where the night air won't chill him.

Jake and Ben occupy the small bar area at the far end of the pool, their heads bent close in conversation, occasional laughter drifting across the water.

Marco sits alone at a table, reading something on his tablet, the screen's glow illuminating his focused expression.

Luca is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared to "find something better than this tourist limoncello" twenty minutes ago.

I swirl the yellow liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light.

Two days in Florence, and we're no closer to finding Sarah than when we arrived.

The journal with the snail sigil feels like a cruel joke, so close yet untouchable behind glass.

I take another sip, wincing at the sweetness that now borders on cloying.

"CANNONBALL!"

The shout is my only warning before Luca launches himself into the pool directly beside me.

Water explodes upward in a spectacular fountain, drenching me completely.

My glass drops from my hand, the thick plastic clattering harmlessly on the stone edge as I sit in shock, water streaming down my face, my shirt plastered to my skin.

For a moment, I'm too stunned to react. Then, instead of the anger I might normally feel, a bubble of laughter rises in my throat, unexpected and liberating. It spills out, growing louder until I'm doubled over, hands clutching my sides, laughing harder than I have since this whole mess began.

Luca surfaces, pushing dark, wet hair from his eyes, his expression a perfect blend of mischief and triumph. "Finally," he says, swimming closer. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to laugh."

I wipe water from my eyes, still chuckling. "You're insane. I'm completely soaked."

"That was the point," he replies, reaching up to grab my wrist. "And now there's no reason not to join me."

Before I can protest, he tugs at me. Not hard, but with enough surprise that I slide forward into the pool with an undignified splash. The warm water envelops me, jeans and all, as I surface sputtering.

"You are the worst," I inform him, though there's no heat in it. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in my veins, making this late night swim seem like the most natural thing in the world.

Luca moves closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water. "And yet you're smiling," he points out, his voice lower now that I'm near enough to hear his whisper.

He's right. Despite everything, I am smiling. Something about the absurdity of being fully clothed in a pool at night with a handsome man I didn’t know a week ago cuts through the tension I've been carrying.

"You're too serious about this," Luca says, floating close enough that his legs occasionally brush against mine. Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, catching the light. "About Alex, about finding Sarah, about fixing everything."

"Someone has to be," I reply, though the words lack conviction. The water feels heavenly, the weightlessness a relief after days of carrying anxiety like a stone in my chest.

"Maybe," Luca concedes, moving in a slow circle around me like a shark. "Or maybe the best revenge isn't turning him back at all."