Chapter 1
I. DOLL
Present day, La Maddalena
They say time heals all wounds, that it brings peace, but I don’t know who they’re talking about.
Not me. Not when you lose someone who was your first everything.
A piece of you stays with them, buried in the space they used to fill.
It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t get better. It just…
gets quieter. And every time a memory slips back in, it’s like the wound opens wide again, raw and bleeding.
I told myself a thousand times that I’d move on, that I’d choose myself.
But how am I supposed to choose myself when I feel like I shouldn’t even be here?
He died because he decided to save me. I’m still breathing because of him.
I tried to tell myself that it was selfish of him, choosing me over him, but the truth is, I know there’s nothing selfish about love.
Not that kind of love. The kind that makes you put someone else first, even at the cost of your own life.
But why does it feel like that’s still not enough? Why does it feel like I’m failing him every time I think about letting go? Is it wrong to want to move on? Or am I just supposed to wait forever for a phone call that will never come?
This was supposed to be easy, wasn’t it?
I’d wait, I’d heal. But waiting for a ghost doesn’t make sense.
Ghosts don’t love like the living. They don’t touch, they don’t whisper sweet things at 3 a.m. They’re just shadows, fading into the background until they’re nothing but echoes.
That’s all he is now. A memory. A ghost. My ghost.
So, ten years from now, when I need someone to love… maybe I’ll just choose me.
And then, it happened. A phone rang. And every damn time that thing rings, my heart skips.
Every time, I think it’s him. But how could it be?
How could someone dead still call? It’s been a year.
A full, miserable year since I last heard his voice, felt his touch, had him near.
And still, every time the phone rings, I’m a fool. A damn fool.
I stood up, the last cigarette between my fingers, and walked to the wall where the phone sat like a ticking reminder of everything I’d lost. I picked it up, a small, stupid hope rising in my chest.
“Hello?” My voice was breaking, hoping. But it wasn’t him.
Instead, Sophie’s voice shouted through the line, high-pitched.
“You will never guess what I just saw,“ she shouted. “House of Clowns is coming to town this Friday!”
I winced, the words slamming into me like a punch. The circus. The fucking circus.
I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t stop myself from spiraling. Blaming the circus felt easier than blaming myself. Easier than accepting that I had fallen in love with a clown.
And then it hit me. I wanted to go back. I wanted to be there again, just to feel something. To be surrounded by the same people, the same chaos, the same laughter. I wanted to keep his memory alive, even if it killed me. It made me angry... at myself, at him, at the world.
“Chiara? You still there?” Sophie’s voice cut through my thoughts, her tone softer now, more concerned.
I glanced out the window at the cliffs where I used to go to get away from everything. The place where the quiet always made the pain easier to breathe through. That was where I met Sophie, of all people, her pink hat with sunflowers pulling me from my dark thoughts the first time we spoke.
She knew. She knew about the dark places in my mind, the ones I didn’t talk about. She knew about the things I thought when the loneliness felt too thick to bear. She’d been there herself.
“I’m here,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “I know.”
“Want to talk about it?” She asked, like she already knew the answer.
“No,” I said, too quickly. “I can’t even explain it.”
“Well, I could come over,” she said, “bring an Ouija board and we could try to call your clown.” She chuckled. “And I’ll bring wine. Lots of it.”
I took a slow drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling in the air, and sighed. “You can come without the board. Maybe we should leave the ghosts to rest tonight.”
“Fine by me,” she said, her voice lighter. “But I’m still bringing the wine.”
I forced a chuckle, though it came out a little too sharp. “Bring two,” I said, trying to make light of it. “It’s been a year, after all...”
Her laugh crackled through the line. “I’ll be there after midnight. But I’ll have to sneak out... Tristan doesn’t like me out this late.”
I could hear the bitter edge in her voice, how much she hated that her brother acted more like a father, how much she resented it.
And I understood. Her brother was suffocating her, turning every escape into a battle.
She needed a sibling, not a parent. So she ran whenever she could, because anywhere else felt easier than being stuck in that house.
I used to let Carlo roam free like that, hanging out with Christian, my older brother, doing whatever they felt like.
But the moment our father got locked away, it all shifted.
Carlo blamed me. Every bruise, every crack in the wall, every punch I took that was meant for him, he still blamed me.
And it tore me apart, piece by piece. And I hated myself for it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Whenever you’re here, you’re welcome.”
“See you soon,” she whispered just before hanging up.
Another call ended. Still not him.
I sighed, dragging the cigarette to my lips one last time before smothering it in the ashtray.
The burn lingered, but it wasn’t enough to numb what I felt.
I sank back into the couch, white lace shorts crumpling beneath me, my top twisting uncomfortably as I pulled the blanket tight, fingers digging into the soft fabric.
I hated this. The silence. The hollow space that only seemed to grow the longer I was alone.
I wanted to scream at the universe, beg for some other path, some different life. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t even fix the broken pieces of myself.
A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it, and I cursed under my breath. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but it was like something forced the tears from me, one after another.
I shut my eyes, trying to escape, but all I could see was his face. The curve of his lips. His icy blue eyes. The way he smelled, wood and cologne mixed together in a way that made my skin tingle. I could almost feel his hands, pulling me close, making me forget everything. Forget the world.
But when I opened my eyes, he was nothing but a ghost. The ashtray was full of burnt-out cigarettes, smoke still hanging in the air, and the taste of stale nicotine clung to my mouth.
I wasn’t a smoker. Never had been. But when you lose someone, you pick up bad habits like they’re the only thing keeping you from drowning.
The problem wasn’t the cigarettes or the alcohol I kept around for the days I couldn’t breathe.
The problem was me. And I knew it. I was the one destroying myself.
He just pushed the first brick, and the rest came crashing down.
A creak came from the hallway. My body tensed, my heart skipping. I stood up, panicking inside me. Tiptoeing, I crept to the table, hands shaking as I grabbed the vase, still full of dried flowers and stagnant water.
“Hello?” My voice cracked. “Christian? Carlo?”
No answer.
I edged closer to the door, straining my ears, expecting someone to jump out and laugh, to tell me it was just a joke. But the house remained still. Dead still.
I looked toward the window, the curtains swaying gently, as if someone had just been here. And then, my gaze dropped. A red rose, lying on the bed with a Joker card beside it.
I gasped. The vase slipped from my hands, shattering on the floor. My toes slammed into the sharp shards, the pain shooting up my leg like fire.
“Cazzo, che male!” I shouted, hopping on one foot, clutching my foot with my other hand. “Porca miseria!”
But the pain was nothing compared to that feeling of being watched, crawling up my spine. I sank to the bed, staring at the card, at the rose. I wiped at my eyes, fighting the tears, half-waiting for the whole scene to vanish like a bad dream.
When I picked up the rose, a thorn jabbed into my thumb, pulling a sharp gasp from me.
“Is he alive?” I whispered to myself.
Or was someone just toying with me?
Just as I reached for the Joker card, a knock at the door shattered my thoughts. Three short raps, too impatient to be polite, too familiar to be threatening. But still… it made my heart lurch.
I didn’t move right away. Instead, I stared at the door like it owed me an answer. Like maybe if I stared long enough, the past wouldn’t be on the other side again.
Another knock. Louder this time.
“Screw it,” I muttered under my breath, tossing the blanket aside.
The old floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet as I made my way to the door. I didn’t bother looking through the peephole. Only one person ever knocked like that.
“Sophie,” I said, pulling open the door.
She stood there with a wicked grin and smeared eyeliner, one boot tapping against the porch impatiently as her nails clicked against the glass bottle of Verdicchio. Her leather jacket was too thin for the cold, but she didn’t seem to care.
“You look like shit,” she said, cheerfully.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true. Come on, get dressed.”
“For what?”
Her grin stretched wider, practically mischievous. “There’s a party at the graveyard.”
I blinked at her. “Nope,” I shook my head. “No way in hell.”
She leaned against the doorframe, pouting now, her lower lip jutting out. “Yes way. You need people.”
“What I need is a bottle of Verdicchio,” I pointed to the wine in her hand, “a nap, and a restraining order from human interaction.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
She didn’t wait for me to protest. Sophie shoved past me, catching me off guard as she slammed the door behind her.
She placed the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter before pushing me further into the house, toward my room.
I tried to resist, but she was stronger than I felt, and she just continued to push.
As soon as I stepped into my room, my eyes moved to the bed. I didn’t want Sophie to see the rose or the Joker card. But when I glanced back, they weren’t there. The bed was empty. No rose. No card. No him.
Am I dreaming?
Sophie snapped her fingers in front of my face, pulling me from my thoughts. “Earth to Chiara.”
“Huh?” I blinked, trying to shake the fog out of my head.
“I asked if you have anything cute to wear,” she said, eyeing me.
“I might,” I whispered.
She didn’t wait. She ripped open my closet, tossing clothes around. Everything she pulled out was black or white, torn up, worn down. But then she froze, holding up a red dress. The one I wore at the House of Clowns. The one that still haunts me.
She turned to face me, locking her eyes with mine. “Put. It. On.”
I blinked, the memory of that night crashing over me, but I didn’t argue. “That dress has trauma.”
“And so do you,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Bond over it.”
“You win,” I rolled my eyes, standing up and taking the dress from her hands.
Red. It was meant for him. Now it was meant to haunt me.