Sleep, Piccolina
Night fell quietly over Modena, drifting down like a mist that refused to fade. A thin rain tapped against the window of the room, creating a soft, rhythmic sound—almost like a lullaby that had lost its final note.
In the dimly lit room, Gabriella slept curled tightly on her side, both hands gripping the edge of the blanket as if the world outside might swallow her whole at any moment.
Viola sat in the chair beside her, reading the medical notes now crowded with scribbles. Every night since Gabriella had awakened, her routine was the same: sit beside the bed, make sure the girl survived one more night without screams, without tears, without losing herself again.
But tonight felt different. The air in the room seemed heavier, carrying something unseen. The clock on the wall ticked softly—the sound that usually calmed her now sliced through the quiet.
Gabriella's fingers twitched. Her body stirred restlessly. Her lips moved without sound, and Viola immediately set down her notes.
"Gabriella…?" she whispered.
No answer. The girl's eyelids trembled, her breath quickening. Then, like an explosion from a world unseen, Gabriella screamed—soundless, but filled with terror.
Her hands clawed at empty air, her whole body tense, eyes flying open to reflect the lamplight with a wild, hunted look.
"No… don't… don't touch me! Mom! Dad!"
Her voice cracked, broken, like a frayed rope snapping with every breath. Viola dropped to her knees beside the bed, trying to soothe her.
"Gabriella! You're safe, sweetheart. Listen to me—you're safe here."
But Gabriella couldn't hear her. The world in her eyes wasn't the sterile room—it was somewhere else. Dark. Bloody. Echoing with voices only she could hear.
She scratched at the air, trying to escape something that wasn't there. Viola held her wrists so she wouldn't injure herself, but the girl only panicked more, trying to flee from a shadow only she could see. Viola glanced up at the camera in the corner.
"Dante! Now!" she shouted.
Seconds later, the door swung open. Dante entered swiftly, his expression firm yet calm, a syringe already in his hand.
"What triggered it?" he asked.
"A nightmare, I think. She was calling for her parents…" Viola answered, her voice shaking.
Gabriella screamed again, louder this time, her body nearly rolling off the bed. Dante grabbed her wrists while Viola tried to calm her with gentle words.
"Gabriella, listen—it's not real, you're not there, it's only a dream—" But the girl sobbed without sound, her eyes wide, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Dante injected the sedative quickly into her arm. The medication seeped into her bloodstream, and within moments her body began to weaken.
Her ragged breathing slowed, though tears still streamed down her face, a sign that the war inside her had not yet ended. Viola squeezed her hand tightly.
"Ssh… it's alright, sweetheart… it's alright…"
In the soft glow of the lamp, Gabriella looked like a lost child in a world with no direction left. Viola bowed her head, tears falling freely.
It wasn't the first time she had cried—but tonight felt different.
The wounds she saw in this girl were not just physical—they were shards of a shattered soul, buried so deep the world might be too cruel to ever mend them.
Dante stood beside the bed, glancing at the now-empty syringe.
"The sedative will take full effect in a few minutes," he said, calm but heavy. "If these episodes continue, we may need to reduce the dosage, but administer it more frequently."
Viola nodded slowly. "I'm afraid her body won't handle it, Dante…"
"That's not what worries me," Dante replied quietly. "It's her mind. If these nightmares persist, she could lose the line between sleep and waking."
Silence settled between them. Only the rain outside remained, tapping softly against the glass.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. The steps were steady, quiet.
Luca.
He said nothing—just looked at Dante and Viola, giving them a silent gesture to leave. Dante hesitated, then nodded and stepped out. Viola glanced at Luca for a moment before lowering her gaze and following.
Now only Luca and Gabriella remained.
He stood beside the bed, looking down at the girl who finally lay still under the effect of the sedative. Her hair was damp with sweat, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Luca pulled a chair closer and sat down slowly. His hand brushed her hair, sweeping the strands away from her forehead.
"Piccolina…" he whispered, "just sleep. No one can hurt you here."
His voice was barely audible, soft—the same gentle tone he used every night when everyone else had gone to bed. He leaned closer, speaking near her ear.
"Don't be afraid, Piccolina… I'm here. I'll always be here."
A faint smile touched Gabriella's lips, though her eyes remained closed. Her breathing steadied, her body no longer tense.
Luca sat silently, listening to the fragile rhythm of her breaths—soft, steady, delicate. Something stirred in his chest, something he rarely allowed to rise.
He knew this connection had grown far beyond that of rescuer and victim. But with this girl, every boundary felt blurred.
Before leaving, he adjusted her blanket, making sure no cold air touched her shoulders. Then, as he did every night, he paused at the door and whispered:
"Sleep well, Piccolina. The world will wait for you when you're ready."
The door closed gently. In that room, Gabriella lay bathed in the soft glow of the night lamp—peaceful for a moment, far away from the shadows that chased her in her sleep.
"The Note at the Door"
Night arrived like a thin mist—quiet, but heavy with something unspoken. In the dim room, Gabriella still sat in the same place, wrapped in silence and the cold air that clung to her skin.
The light from outside filtered through the curtains, casting faint shadows on the floor: shadows like bars, as if the world outside was still keeping her confined.
Viola had left an hour ago. On the table, the glass of milk she'd brought earlier remained untouched, its surface beginning to form a thin film.
Only the clock on the wall marked time—the gentle tick-tock echoing like the breath of someone waiting.
And in the middle of that silence, something began to emerge. A single note—soft, almost imperceptible at first. Then another. And another.
A melody. Gentle, melancholy, the sound of a piano.
Gabriella lifted her head. Her hands, which had been gripping her knees tightly, loosened just a little.
Her fingers trembled faintly in the air.
She knew that sound…She didn't know how, but something within her shifted, like a leaf stirred by the first wind.
The notes floated through the air—broken but beautiful.
Comptine d'un autre été. She didn't know the name, but her heart knew the feeling: she had heard it once, long ago, in a room filled with warm light, with someone smiling beside her.
The music drifted from far below, seeping through floors, doors, and walls until it reached the place where she hid now. She stared at the door, unmoving for a long moment—then she stood.
Her first step was unsteady. Her legs felt weak, as though she was learning how to walk again after a long fall. But she moved anyway, one slow step at a time across the cold marble floor.
Each note from the piano became a guide—leading her not out of curiosity, but with something softer.
A longing.
When she reached the door, she stopped.
The music continued—descending, rising again, like someone trying to recall the pieces of a dream that was slipping away.
Gabriella placed her palm against the door.
Hesitant. Then she leaned forward, pressing her ear to the wood.
The piano became clearer now. And for the first time, there was no fear. Only warmth—a strange warmth, as if the sound was speaking to her, as if someone out there knew exactly how broken she was and wasn't asking her to heal… only inviting her to breathe.
Tears slipped down her cheek. She didn't know why.
Only that the tightness in her chest slowly melted into something calmer.
Downstairs, in the wide living room, Luca sat alone before a black grand piano. Around him, the lights were deliberately dimmed; only the glow of a single candle on the side table reflected across his face.
His fingers moved slowly across the keys—not merely playing a song, but replaying a memory.
He had heard that song once, years ago, when he and Sophia were having dinner at a renowned restaurant.
Now he played it again—for her—without words, without knowing whether the girl upstairs could hear him.
But up there, someone was listening.
Gabriella shut her eyes tightly. Images flickered in her mind: a pair of hands guiding her gently over white keys, a man's soft voice saying, "again, sweetheart, from the beginning." Then a small laugh, the golden glow of evening, and music.
Her body trembled. She pressed her cheek against the door as if trying to pass through it, as if closeness alone could erase the distance.
"Daddy…" The whisper was fragile, barely more than breath. Tears streamed down her face again.
Downstairs, Luca paused. His hands hovered above the keys. He didn't know why, but something tugged sharply at his chest. He glanced toward the stairs—the direction of Gabriella's room.
And just then, the final note faded into the air.
Silence reclaimed the vast house.
Gabriella opened her eyes slowly. She stared at the door, breathing hard, her cheeks still wet. The silence after the music ended felt heavy again, but also comforting.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't curl into herself. She simply stood there, facing the door as if someone was waiting on the other side.
Then, softly, she whispered—Just one word, but enough to make the air feel as though it had stopped moving:
"Why…"
There was no answer—only the echo of her voice swallowed by the quiet. But if someone outside had heard her, they would have known that the word was no longer a cry of fear.
It was a call. A longing.
She lowered her head, closed her eyes again, and let her body slide down until she sat against the door.
The music still lingered in her mind, filling the broken spaces.
Downstairs, Luca looked back at the piano keys.
His hands remained poised over them, unmoving.
He knew this wasn't just a song—it was a memory, a prayer, and an apology he never had the chance to speak.
He gazed toward the stairs once more and whispered, barely audible:
"If you heard it… I hope it eased your fear, even a little."
Only the ticking clock responded.
But upstairs, behind the white door, Gabriella smiled faintly in her half-sleep. That night, for the first time, she did not wake from a nightmare.
Seeing What Cannot Be Seen
The blue glow from the CCTV screens filled the underground control room. Only the hum of machines and electricity could be heard. In the middle of the room, three figures stood still, staring at the largest monitor—the one showing Gabriella in her dim bedroom.
The girl stood in front of the door, her face partly hidden by her messy brown hair. Both of her hands rested against the wooden surface, and slowly she leaned in, pressing her ear to the cold door.
Her eyes were closed, her body trembling slightly—not from fear, but from something else. From afar, faint yet clear, the sound of a piano drifted through.
Soft notes from "Comptine d'un autre été" filled the room, as though they were seeping through steel walls and surveillance glass. Viola held her breath. Her hand tightened around the back of the chair in front of her.
"Look… she's standing on her own," she whispered, barely believing it. "She's listening…" Dante frowned at the screen.
"This is the first time she's moved without instruction."
"Not just moving," Viola replied, her voice trembling, "she's… responding. That song…" She looked at Luca, who stood at the front, his silhouette blocking part of the monitor's glow.
Luca didn't answer. His hands were clenched at his sides. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on the screen with surprising intensity.
He knew that melody—because he was the one who played it in the living room just moments earlier. Not for anyone in particular, simply because his fingers wanted to speak through the piano keys.
But now, seeing the girl press her ear against the door, Luca realized something had crossed the invisible line between them.
On the screen, Gabriella slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze was empty, yet tinged with curiosity. She inhaled shakily and placed her ear back on the door—this time more gently.
Her fingers twitched, as though trying to follow a rhythm her mind faintly remembered. Viola's tears fell before she even noticed them.
"My God… she's coming back," she breathed. "It looks like she recognizes the song."
Dante turned to her, his voice low and heavy.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," Viola replied as she wiped her cheek. "From her expression… it feels like she has a memory attached to it."
Dante fell silent.
On the screen, Gabriella remained standing. Her expression slowly softened, as if the music was clearing a bit of the fog in her mind. No crying, no screaming—just a silence full of meaning.
Luca finally spoke.
"How long has she been like that?"
"Almost five minutes," Dante answered. "She didn't scream, didn't withdraw. She's just… listening."
Luca leaned closer to the monitor. The blue light reflected in his eyes, making his usually cold gaze look fragile for a fleeting moment.
"Let it play."
Viola looked at him, then whispered,
"Signore… the music is from you. Maybe her body remembers before her mind is ready. That's not a coincidence."
Luca said nothing, but his shoulders lowered slightly—something no one usually saw from him. He watched the footage until the song ended and Gabriella slowly sank back to the floor, curling up again.
But something in her face had changed. The fear was still there, but beneath it lay a faint calm—a surviving ember of light.
"She's beginning to hear the world again," Viola murmured. Luca looked at her.
"Or perhaps… the world is calling her back." His voice was almost too soft to hear.
No one spoke after that. They simply watched the screen until it dimmed, observing Gabriella drift into sleep in the corner of her bed, her head resting against the wall.
****
Night fell. The base was silent, footsteps echoing softly through the long corridors. Luca walked without a sound, heading toward Gabriella's room. The two guards standing by the door straightened immediately.
"No one enters," he said flatly. They stepped aside at once.
The door opened quietly. The room was dark, lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table. Gabriella was asleep, curled up, her face half hidden beneath the blanket.
Her breathing was soft, though traces of tension lingered—like someone still fighting off nightmares.
Luca moved closer. His gaze softened—different from what anyone outside this room ever saw. He knelt beside the bed, watching the girl in silence.
A few strands of hair covered her cheek; gently, he brushed them aside. His touch was barely there.
"Piccolina…" he whispered. "You heard it, didn't you?"
He smiled faintly, then lowered his head, his voice turning rough.
"Sleep peacefully. The world outside won't hurt you tonight."
Gabriella didn't stir, but her lips curved slightly—so faint it could only be seen from very close.
Luca stayed there a long moment before rising. At the door, he looked back once.
"I'll keep playing that song," he said softly. "Until you're ready to open the door yourself."
The door closed without a sound, leaving behind a silence that felt almost sacred. In her half-dreaming state, Gabriella shifted—her fingers tracing the air as though playing invisible piano keys.