Prologue #2
While the rice simmered, she drifted toward the living room, drawn to the familiar photographs clustered on the mantle and walls.
There was a faded image of her as a child, gap-toothed and laughing, her father’s arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Another picture from her graduation, her father beaming proudly at her side, his eyes bright with the pride and warmth he always reserved for her alone.
But no photos showed a woman who resembled Giulietta, no evidence that someone else might have been part of this quiet, loving life. Her father had made their small, intimate world whole and complete, protecting her from the harsh reality that someone else had chosen not to be there.
The scent of toasted garlic and mushrooms drew her back into the kitchen.
She returned to the stove, methodically adding broth and stirring until the risotto grew creamy and tender.
When it was finished, she served a single portion onto her plate and sat at the small dining table, once a place for conversation, now achingly silent.
Giulietta ate slowly, as though each mouthful carried memories too precious to rush.
She felt the sting of tears pressing at the corners of her eyes but blinked them back resolutely.
Her father would not have wanted her grief to consume her; he would have wanted her to move forward, even if she didn’t yet know what that looked like.
As she finished, she placed her utensils precisely beside the plate and remained seated, eyes drifting toward the darkened window.
Night had fully descended, the street below lit faintly by soft amber streetlamps, casting pools of muted gold on the cobblestones.
She drew a deep breath, the quiet heavy around her.
“Non ereditare la sua freddezza,” she repeated softly into the quiet apartment. “Non lo farò, papà. Te lo prometto.” (I won’t do it, Papa. I promise you.)
The vow was whispered fiercely, a promise spoken to the ghost of the man who had shaped her. She rose, rinsing her plate and setting it aside, each action deliberate, as though by moving carefully enough, she might somehow keep the weight of her grief at bay.
She knew, however, that silence wouldn’t hold the truth at arm’s length forever. She’d made a promise, and Giulietta Romano kept her promises. Even when the promise was to a man who no longer stood beside her.
Even when it meant confronting the woman who had never once looked back.
Giulietta drew the curtains shut against the quiet hum of Rome’s night, creating a cocoon of solitude within the familiar walls of the apartment.
Her movements were calm, a ritual performed nightly to close out the world and reclaim a moment of silence.
Tonight, however, that silence felt stifling, thickened by memories, grief, and the unresolved ache that pressed persistently against her heart.
She crossed to the sideboard and opened the cabinet, revealing rows of carefully arranged bottles, each one an intimate story from her father's travels.
Choosing without hesitation, she drew out the Barolo he had always favored, the deep, dark glass cool beneath her fingers.
As she pulled the cork, a rich fragrance filled the room, soft notes of cherry and leather mingling with a faint hint of licorice, a scent so vividly him it momentarily stole her breath.
Giulietta poured the wine slowly, listening to the familiar sound of liquid against glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the bottle in her hand.
She lifted the glass, swirling it and watching the wine cling momentarily to the curves before slipping away.
She took a sip, letting it coat her tongue, bittersweet with memory, a soft, intimate ache blooming quietly in her chest.
Carrying the glass, she moved into the small study, pausing briefly at the doorway to survey the familiar scene.
Her father's desk was positioned beneath the window, cluttered yet orderly, stacks of medical journals piled neatly beside a vintage typewriter he stubbornly refused to abandon.
Giulietta lowered herself into the well-worn chair, hearing it creak softly beneath her weight, a sound so distinctly associated with him that it brought an unexpected lump to her throat.
She placed the wineglass beside her laptop, opening it slowly, fingers hovering briefly over the keyboard as the screen flickered to life, illuminating her face with a soft, ghostly glow.
Her email inbox was still empty, though an unread notification hovered persistently in the "drafts" folder, a digital reminder she had avoided for days.
Giulietta clicked open the folder, her gaze falling upon a carefully worded email titled simply, "Resignation.
" She'd written it weeks ago, intending to submit it upon her father's passing, knowing instinctively she couldn't remain at her post in Rome without him.
The words stared back at her now, stark and impersonal on the screen:
Caro Dottore,
It is with regret and deep appreciation that I formally submit my resignation from the trauma surgical team at Ospedale Policlinico Umberto I. Recent personal circumstances necessitate my departure, effective immediately.
Thank you for the opportunity to serve our patients and to learn from the best.
Cordiali saluti,
Dott.ssa Giulietta Romano (Dr. Giulietta Romano)
She reread the words slowly, each sentence devoid of real emotion, polite yet detached, an announcement without explanation.
Her heart tightened at the formality she'd chosen.
Her father would have teased her about it, reminded her that warmth wasn't weakness, and urged her to write something more personal.
She hesitated for a long moment, finger hovering over the mouse. Then, with a sharp inhale, she clicked "send," watching as the resignation vanished from her drafts folder. The choice was made; there was no turning back.
Inhaling deeply, Giulietta opened a new tab and navigated to an airline’s homepage, her pulse quickening slightly as her fingers moved decisively over the keyboard.
She typed in the word she'd silently carried with her since childhood, “Boston.” It was a city she'd thought of often, though never dared visit, knowing instinctively it held nothing but questions she might never be ready to face.
The search results populated dozens of flight options laid out before her, each one a new beginning or perhaps a final goodbye.
Her heartbeat quickened, an adrenaline surge of reckless determination coursing through her veins.
She selected a flight departing early the next morning, a one-way ticket, her future undefined and yet perfectly clear.
The confirmation email chimed as she turned her attention to a different search: a directory of hospitals.
Names scrolled slowly past her vision, each with a unique promise of prestige or opportunity.
Giulietta's eyes skimmed over the renowned and respected institutions, their rankings glittering with potential she didn’t need or particularly want.
Finally, near the middle of the list, she paused.
Harrington Memorial Hospital, Boston.
Her breath caught, tight in her throat, the name feeling heavier than the rest, sharp with familiarity and potential pain.
Giulietta hesitated, the mouse pointer hovering uncertainly and her pulse hammering a protest in her temples.
This was not a place she'd chosen lightly.
It wasn't about reputation or acclaim; it was about more.
Before she could reconsider, Giulietta clicked the application link, her fingers moving deftly, confidently over the keys, filling in fields about qualifications, experience, and language skills—fluent Italian, French, and English.
She detailed her experience in emergency medicine, outlining her time in Naples during the migrant crisis and her work in Istanbul after a catastrophic earthquake.
The evidence of her expertise flowed easily, the cold clarity of her qualifications speaking volumes.
Finally, reaching the last required field, she paused, her breath catching as she typed her name into the field.
She hit submit, the decision like a lightning strike through her veins.
A new reality settled over her immediately, heavy yet freeing.
She closed her laptop and leaned back in the chair, drained, her gaze drifting slowly across the study.
Pictures on shelves and walls, her father’s face smiling warmly in various moments, captured snapshots of their quiet, shared life.
A familiar ache rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down fiercely.
She was not running, she told herself. She was claiming something for herself at last, even if she didn’t yet know what it might mean.
The early hours before dawn passed slowly, a haze of restless half-sleep and soft murmurs of memory.
When morning finally arrived, gray and muted through the curtains, Giulietta packed methodically—clothes neatly folded, documents carefully placed.
The apartment was tidy, everything precisely ordered, her goodbye contained within the silence that hung heavily in every room.
Hours later, at Fiumicino Airport, the hum of activity surrounded her, bustling travelers moving past. Giulietta stood near the departure gate, clutching her passport tightly, her eyes fixed ahead.
As boarding commenced, Giulietta straightened her shoulders, stepping forward with calm determination, eyes clear, resolve crystalized.
She lifted her gaze to the doorway ahead, the path into her uncertain future laid clearly before her. Giulietta murmured softly under her breath, her voice barely audible, but firm.
“You didn’t want me. But I’m coming anyway.”
With those whispered words—part vow, part challenge—Giulietta Romano walked steadily forward, each step leaving behind everything familiar, carrying only the promise of what she might become.
And the knowledge that from this point onward, she would write her own ending.