CHAPTER 72
NINA MARCHESI
I never thought I would set foot in Khione again.
I hesitated to leave, to abandon the island, but after I did, I understood how much this place had hurt me.
Until my life was completely derailed by them, I had always thought gossip was harmless—maybe even a little entertaining.
Maybe it is, and maybe I’ve been letting people off the hook.
The truth is that, over the years, as much as I missed home, I didn’t want to come back. Yes, one day I wanted to show my son the place where I was born, where I grew up, and where he was conceived—but not if that meant reliving the hell I left behind or exposing my child to it.
So I spent the last few years living with mixed feelings whenever the island came up. I wanted it, yes—but the version that welcomed me, not the one that rejected me. The problem is that they were the same place, and you can’t have one without the other.
The car leaves the airport road as I hold a sleeping Kael in my arms.
My mother sits beside me, between Nero and me. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze as we enter the village, and I look at her, knowing that she—better than anyone—is the only one who truly understands me.
I nod, reassuring her without saying a word, and notice Nero’s foot tapping incessantly against the floor of the car, a nervous reflex.
I wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t insisted so much. Kael was registered in Italy. Our boy is Italian—there was no need to come to the island for Nero to amend his birth certificate. We came only because my son’s father wanted this so badly. Now I wonder if his anxiety is a sign of regret.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and only then do I realize he’s looking at me.
“I am. I am,” I confirm, before turning my face toward the window, ready to let my eyes wander over the cobblestones and colorful houses that were the only home I knew for most of my life.
But my plan to see everything without really seeing anything is thwarted when banners start catching my attention. They hang from most houses—on doors or windows—and I tilt my head to read.
“Welcome back, Nina, Rosa, and Kael.”
“We’re happy you’re back, Nina and Rosa! Welcome to Khione, Kael!”
“So glad you’re home!”
“Welcome home, Marchesi family!”
There are countless variations of the same words, and I read them all again and again until I’m certain I’m not hallucinating. I nudge my mother with my elbow so she can read them too.
“What is this?” I ask no one in particular, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“They’re apologizing,” Nero explains, and I turn to him, my eyes already burning with unshed tears—but I can’t stop them. I simply can’t. This is my home.
“Was it you?” I ask. “Did you do this?” Nero shakes his head.
“All I did, Little Fae, was make sure people heard the truth. Everything else—that was up to them.”
“They know?” I ask, still unable to believe it. “They know what really happened?”
“Every detail. And I’m sure a few extras, too, probably… That’s the curse of Khione,” he says, and I nod again.
I turn back to the streets, and the farther we go into the island, the more banners appear—and more than that.
There are walls painted with our names, and even some with my mother’s face and mine.
The words welcome home are everywhere, and when the car reaches the central square, I finally understand why the streets were so empty: everyone is here.
Gathered beneath a sky of colorful ribbons, they welcome our car as it passes, waving at us. I can’t stop myself—I cry. Not because of the people, not because I care what they once said about me. It’s just a weight being lifted from my shoulders.
The car doesn’t stop, but with every person we leave behind—each smile, each wave—my heart feels freer to beat, no longer bound by the lies that once chained my good memories of this place.
***
Nero wasn’t very precise when he said that “people knew what had really happened.” The world knows.
When we arrived at the hotel and I put Kael to bed, Nero explained to my mother and me exactly how everything unfolded, in detail.
Atlas, Apollo, and Drako returned to the island with a mission: to spread the truth. And they did it with excellence, because the story of a mother who devised sordid schemes to tear her son away from his family for nothing but caprice spread across the internet in recent days.
I had no idea.
I stopped paying attention to what happened online shortly after arriving in Pienza. I isolated myself in what the small town had to offer because I was terrified of falling back into my teenage habits—tracking Nero’s life through the internet.
If Nero hadn’t shown me the dozens of news sites covering our story and Instagram accounts spreading it almost like a fairy tale, I never would have known.
As my mother and I walk through what once was the path to our home, former neighbors approach us, hugging us and welcoming us back with spoken words to match the written ones we already saw.
Everyone is kind, and most truly apologize. They all rush to update us on the latest gossip on the island, and I feel like shaking them by the shoulders and asking if they learned nothing from all of this. But I don’t.
I politely close the conversations, and my mother and I continue on—only to be stopped again moments later by the next person. It takes a long time for us to finally reach our old house, and even then, I’m not prepared for what I find.
From the outside, the house is exactly as I left it. Nothing has changed. The walls are still perfectly white, the fences intact—but that’s not the most striking part.
There’s a carpet of pomegranate seeds covering the sidewalk, and several stone arrangements—the same ones tradition tells us to leave on our neighbors’ thresholds at New Year’s. And hanging from our front door is a macramé—not made of fabric, but of vassilopita coins.
My mother’s sobs are loud, and I wrap my arms around her. The banners were for me—but this, this is for her. She loved this island with her whole heart. She was part of this community for far longer than I was, and because of that, she suffered far more when it turned against us.
People know that. Because despite everything, they know us.
The traditions fulfilled abundantly at our door—representing every year we lost here—make my mother’s shoulders shake as she cries. I hold her tight.
“We’re home, Mom. Home.”