The return did not have the metallic roar of the takeoff weeks prior; instead, it carried the soft, cautious step of one who has crossed the border between life and death and returned with a new, fragile awareness. Belinda left the London hospital after a month and a half of confinement—a time that had felt like an eternity suspended between the blinding white of lab coats and the perennial gray of the British sky. Forty-five days spent counting monitor beeps, staring at the drips falling from IV bags, and learning once again to breathe without the weight of the edema crushing her thoughts. She walked through those automatic doors on her own two legs: her steps were slow, somewhat stiff, but proud. The freezing December air hit her like a precious perfume, despite the cold piercing lungs that were still weak. But the woman preparing to return to Sicily was not entirely healed; she was a woman marked.
The cerebral edema had finally receded, leaving behind only the occasional bout of dizziness, but the true scar was invisible and silent: stage three renal failure. The London doctors, with their surgical precision, had not been overly optimistic about the future, prescribing strict diets, weekly check-ups, and an endless list of medications. But Belinda, daughter of a lineage that knew how to read the body's signs like maps of destiny, knew exactly what that diagnosis meant. She knew her kidneys were now like worn-out filters. This illness was a sword of Damocles hanging over her head by the thinnest of threads—a biological debt she would have to pay every single day. It was the "price" of lead that now weighed within her, a dull heaviness that balanced the gold obtained seven years before.
Before heading to Heathrow Airport, there was the moment of final farewell. Mattia and Erica were waiting for them outside their London home. The festive atmosphere that should have welcomed them for Christmas had transformed first into an agonizing vigil and then into a slow rehabilitation. Belinda walked toward them, refusing Elia's arm; she wanted her brother to see her on her feet, victorious.
Mattia went to meet her first. Seeing this brother of hers—so solid, so settled into his new "English" identity, with eyes reddened by weeks of tension—was a blow to Belinda's heart. They embraced for a long time, a hug that tasted of childhood and Sicilian roots. Mattia buried his face in her shoulder, holding her tight. "My little sister, don't ever play a trick like that on me again," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I spent whole nights staring into the void, waiting for news. Go back to Sicily, back to your sun, but promise me you will take care of yourself. Don't be stubborn, not this time."
Belinda looked him in the eyes, caressing his face. "Mattia, the sun of our land will do its part. But we both know the road ahead is steep. Thank you for being the anchor for Elia and Azzurra while I was wandering elsewhere."
Then it was Erica's turn. Her sister-in-law, who had been a pillar of sweetness for Azzurra, took her hands—still marked by the purple bruises of the IVs—and kissed them with devotion. "You are a warrior, Belinda. But even warriors must learn to be looked after. In this house in London, there will always be a place for you, but I will pray that you never have to cross the threshold of a hospital again," Erica said, embracing her with infinite tenderness. It was a painful goodbye, a parting that weighed more than the suitcases. Leaving London meant closing the chapter of the nightmare, but it also meant physically separating from that safe harbor.
The journey back was experienced in an almost religious silence. When the plane finally soared over the Ionian Sea and the majestic silhouette of Mount Etna appeared imposing, Belinda felt tears wet her face. They were not tears of pain, but of recognition. That land was calling her back.
At Fontanarossa Airport, the air smelled of salt and winter orange blossoms. The warmth of the Sicilian sun hit her with unexpected power. Belinda walked down the arrivals corridor with a measured pace, refusing all assistance. She felt "right" again, in her element, even though she felt the fatigue gnawing at her hips. Arriving at their villa was an emotion that took her breath away. Everything remained as they had left it that October morning: the laundry she had hung out was still there, hardened by the salt air, and the silence of the house seemed to have held its breath for that entire month and a half.
Belinda crossed the threshold alone. She stopped in the studio, the sanctuary where it had all begun. She sat down slowly in front of the loom that held a piece of embroidery started before her departure. She ran her fingers over the silks, but the pleasure of the past was now tinged with a dull bitterness. She knew she would no longer be able to work for hours without stopping; the exhaustion of her failing kidneys would impose a monastic rhythm upon her.
"We're home, Beli," Elia said from the doorway. "Yes, Elia. We're home. But I'm not the same anymore, am I?" she replied, tracing the curve of her waist. "We are alive, Belinda. And as long as there is sun over this sea, we will find a way to make everything flow again. But this time, without help from the darkness."
Azzurra entered and crouched at her mother's feet. Belinda stroked her hair, feeling the warmth of her daughter. In that moment, looking out toward the Ionian Sea, Belinda understood that her life would be a different kind of dance. No longer the great leaps on pointe, but small, precious steps. The sword of Damocles was there, but as long as she had that love, she would continue to weave her web, accepting the lead of the illness as the price for having another chance to see the dawn over her island.