Chapter 7 Lupo
The next afternoon, Isabella appears at the barn door with a bundle of clothes in her arms.
"Elena's asleep," she says without preamble. "You can come in now. But be quiet."
I've been waiting for this since last night, anticipating it with an eagerness that surprises me. The need to be clean feels almost desperate. To wash away the blood and dirt and the smell of hay that's soaked into my skin.
Standing is easier today. Still painful, but manageable. I make it to my feet without help, though I have to brace myself against the wall for a moment when the barn tilts slightly. The dizziness still comes and goes.
Isabella watches, ready to catch me if I fall. She doesn't offer help. I appreciate that.
"Come on," she says, and I follow her across the yard.
The house is small. Cozy. I catch glimpses as we move through, a worn couch, children's toys scattered on the floor, photographs on the wall that I don't look at too closely. It smells like bread and figs and something floral. Safe. Lived-in.
Nothing about it triggers a memory.
She leads me down a short hallway and opens a door. "Here’s the bathroom. The shower's there behind the curtain. The towels are clean." She sets the bundle of clothes on the closed toilet lid. "Take your time. Just... be quiet and don’t wake Elena."
"I will."
She hesitates in the doorway, and for a moment, I think she's going to say something else. Instead, she just nods and closes the door, leaving me alone.
I stand in the small bathroom, looking around. It's dated but clean. Blue tiles, a white sink, a mirror above it that I'm not looking at yet. The shower is a simple stall with a curtain.
I peel off the ruined shirt first. It's stiff with dried blood, and removing it pulls at the cuts and bruises covering my torso. I drop it on the floor. It's beyond saving anyway. I reach for the buttons of my pants.
My hands know what to do. Unbutton, unzip, push the fabric down. The movements are automatic, muscle memory that doesn't need conscious thought.
When I'm naked, I finally look at myself.
The mirror shows a stranger.
Dark hair, longer than I expected. The swelling around my right eye has gone down enough that I can see it's dark, brown, maybe, or very dark hazel.
My jaw is covered in several days' worth of stubble, bruised purple along the right side.
There's a cut above my left eyebrow, partially healed.
The gash on my temple looks angry and red despite Isabella's care.
But it's not the injuries that make me stare.
It's the body beneath them.
I'm built like someone who's spent years training.
Broad shoulders, defined muscles in my arms and chest and abdomen.
Not gym-fit. Something harder. More purposeful.
And scars, old ones, faded white lines that tell stories I can't remember.
A long one across my ribs. Another on my shoulder.
A small circular mark on my left bicep that could be a burn or a bullet wound.
My body has seen violence. A lot of it.
I touch the scar on my ribs, tracing the length of it. Six inches, maybe seven. Knife wound, probably. It's old, years healed, but it was deep.
Who am I? What kind of life leaves marks like these?
I don't have answers. Just questions that lead to more darkness.
I turn away from the mirror and step into the shower.
The water is lukewarm at best, but I don't care. I stand under the spray and watch days of blood and dirt and sweat circle the drain. The water stings the cuts, but the pain is cleansing somehow. Real. Proof that I'm alive, even if I don't know who I'm alive as.
I find soap, basic, unscented, and wash carefully. My ribs protest when I reach too high, and my head throbs with every movement, but I'm thorough. Washing my hair is the worst. The gash on my temple screams when I touch it, and I have to grip the shower wall to stay upright.
But eventually, I'm clean.
I turn off the water and step out, reaching for one of the towels Isabella left. It's old and thin but soft. I dry off slowly, carefully, trying not to reopen any of the cuts.
The clothes she brought are neatly folded on the toilet lid. I pick up the shirt first, a plain blue button-down, soft with age and washing. Her father's. A dead man's clothes.
I put it on anyway. It fits well enough across the shoulders, though it's slightly loose in the waist. I button it up, and my hands move with practiced efficiency. I've done this thousands of times before, even if I can't remember a single instance.
The pants are dark brown, casual. They fit better than the shirt. I zip them up and realize there's a belt coiled on top of the pile. I thread it through the loops.
And that's when something shifts.
My hands know exactly how to feed the belt through. Not just the mechanics of it, but the specific angle, the exact amount of tension. And more than that, my fingers instinctively check the weight of it. The thickness. Whether it could be used for something other than holding up pants.
I freeze, the belt half-threaded, staring at my hands.
What the hell was that?
I finish with the belt, but slower now, paying attention to every movement. When I'm done, I look at myself in the mirror again.
Better. I look almost human now. Still bruised and battered, but clean. Presentable.
I move to leave the bathroom, and that's when I notice it.
I'm walking differently than I did a moment ago. Not the careful, pained shuffle of an injured man. Something else. My weight is balanced. My steps are quiet. Almost silent on the tile floor.
I'm moving like I'm trying not to be heard.
I stop, forcing myself to walk normally. But it's hard. It feels wrong. Like my body wants to move this way, heel-toe, weight distributed, every step calculated for minimum sound.
Why would I know how to do that? Why would I need to know?
I push the thought away and leave the bathroom, making my way back down the hallway. The house is quiet except for the distant sound of a clock ticking. Elena must still be asleep.
Isabella is in the kitchen, washing dishes at the sink. She turns when she hears me, and something flickers in her expression.
"Feel better?" she asks.
"Yes. Thank you." I gesture at the clothes. "These fit well."
"My father was about your size." She dries her hands on a towel. "You look more human now."
"I hate to ask what I looked like before."
She studies me for a moment. "Sit," she says, gesturing to the small kitchen table. "I'll make coffee. You probably need it."
I sit, grateful to take the weight off my ribs. The chair is wooden, sturdy, positioned with its back to the wall. I notice that I've chosen the seat that lets me see both the door and the window.
The realization unsettles me, but I don't say anything.
Isabella moves around the kitchen quickly. She fills an old stovetop espresso maker with water and coffee, sets it on the flame. The smell hits me almost immediately, rich, bitter, familiar.
I've had this coffee before. Many times. I know that with absolute certainty, even if I can't remember a single instance.
"You drink espresso," Isabella says, watching my reaction.
"I think so. It smells... right."
She nods, leaning against the counter while the coffee brews. "Anything else come back?"
I think about the belt. The way I moved. The automatic threat assessment I can't seem to stop. But why would I tell her that? Why would I give her reasons to be more afraid of me than she already is?
"Small things," I say carefully. "Nothing useful. The coffee smells familiar. The clothes feel normal. But no memories. Nothing concrete."
She looks disappointed but not surprised. "It might take time."
"Maybe."
The espresso maker begins to gurgle. Isabella pours the coffee into two small cups, brings one to me, then retreats to the counter with her own. Still keeping her distance away from me.
I take a sip. It's strong, bitter, perfect. My body knows exactly how much sugar it wants, none, and how to hold the cup, how to drink it without burning my mouth.
We're quiet for a moment, and I let my gaze wander around the kitchen. It's small but functional. Clean despite being old. But I notice things, the cabinet door that hangs slightly crooked, the dripping faucet she's placed a cloth under to muffle the sound, the loose tile near the stove.
"The cabinet," I say, nodding toward it. "The hinge is loose."
She glances at it. “It's been like that for months. I keep meaning to fix it, but..." She trails off with a shrug.
"I could fix it. If you have tools."
She sets down her cup, studying me. "You know how to fix things?"
"I’m not sure. But I could try." I gesture vaguely. "You said I could help. Earn my keep. There must be other things that need fixing around here."
"There are always things that need fixing on a farm.
" She sounds tired suddenly. "The fence post in the pasture.
The barn door doesn't close properly. Half the shutters are hanging by one hinge.
" She stops herself. "But you're still healing.
You shouldn't be doing heavy work. You might reinjure your wounds and cause a setback. "
"I'm stronger than I was. And I need to do something." I meet her eyes. "You're feeding me. Clothing me. Giving me shelter. I can't just take without giving something back."
She's quiet for a long moment, considering. "My father's tools are in the barn. In the workshop area. You can look through them, see what you can use." She pauses. "But don't overdo it. If you hurt yourself worse, I can't take you to a doctor."
"I'll be careful."
"And stay away from the house when Elena's awake. She's already too curious about you and asking too many questions."
"I understand."
Isabella finishes her coffee and sets the cup in the sink. "I need to check on her. She'll be waking up soon." She looks at me. "Thank you. For offering to help."
"Thank you for letting me stay."
She nods and disappears down the hallway. I hear a door open softly, then her quiet voice talking to Elena.
I sit alone in the kitchen, finishing my coffee, looking at the crooked cabinet door. My hands want to reach for it, to test the hinge, to see what needs to be done. There's a certainty in me that I could fix it. That I know how.
But how do I know that?
I stand, slowly, testing my balance. Better. Much better than even this morning. My ribs still ache, and my head throbs with a dull constant pain, but it's manageable.
I make my way to the sink, rinse my cup, set it in the dish rack. Through the window, I can see the barn, the olive grove beyond it, the fence line in the distance where one post leans at a dangerous angle.
There’s work here. Purpose. A way to be useful instead of a burden.
And maybe, while I'm working, my hands will remember more than my mind does.
I head back outside, crossing the yard to the barn. The workshop area is in the back corner: a workbench covered in dust, pegboard on the wall with tools hanging from hooks. Hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers. A handsaw. Boxes of nails and screws.
I reach for a hammer, testing its weight in my hand.
The grip is familiar. The balance. The way it sits in my palm like it belongs there.
I set it down and pick up a screwdriver instead. Same thing. My hand knows how to hold it, how to use it, even if my mind doesn't remember ever holding one before.
I look at the tools spread before me, and something cold settles in my chest.
These aren't just familiar. They're intimate. Like I've used them countless times. Like my hands have their own memory, separate from my blank mind.
But for what? Fixing cabinets and fence posts?
Or something else entirely?
I don't know. And that terrifies me more than the pain, more than the missing memories, more than anything.
Because whatever I was before, whatever I did, my body remembers even if my mind doesn't.
And I'm not sure I want to know what that means.