Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Silence
Midnight came back to the Moretti villa with the same old clock grinding its way through the gears, the same cold cedar on the stair rails, the same lemon wax on the marble floors.
Nothing had changed, and everything was different.
I stood on the balcony of my study, looking out over the cliffs toward the dark, restless line of the sea. The wind was picking up, carrying the salt spray and the distant, lonely call of a gulls’ flight against the rocks below.
Inside the study, the dictaphone sat on the corner of the desk, its grey plastic case catching the amber light of the desk lamp. Beside it lay the black cassette case with Chiara’s name written in that tall, looping handwriting I had tried to burn out of my memory.
I didn't burn it this time.
I picked up the cassette, opened the small drawer in the mahogany desk where I kept my grandfather’s pocket watch and the keys to the Palermo warehouses, and laid it inside. Then I pushed the drawer shut until the latch clicked—clean, solid, final.
Behind me, the heavy oak door of the study opened an inch.
I didn't turn around. I knew the footsteps. They were small, hesitant, dragging slightly on the rug.
A moment later, a tiny hand brushed against my trouser leg.
I looked down. Mia was standing there in her oversized cotton pyjamas, her tired cloth doll tucked under one arm, her button eyes staring up at me through the dim light of the room.
I couldn't sleep, she whispered. The clock is too loud.
It’s just counting the hours, I said, crouching down so we were eye to eye, the same way I used to crouch when I still believed the world was something I could fix with an order or a gun.
Does it ever stop?
No, I said, resting my hand gently on her small shoulder, right where the cotton was warm from sleep. But after a while, you stop listening to the ticking, and you start listening to the silence between the numbers.
She thought about that for a second, her small forehead wrinkling in concentration. Then she nodded, satisfied, and leaned her head against my arm.
May you like
Can we stay here until the sun comes up?
Yes, I said, looking back out toward the dark horizon where the first pale streak of dawn was beginning to bleed through the black edge of the sea. We can stay right here.
