Short Story

TW - Arson and Murder Ashes of Apathy

The fire licked hungrily at the library roof, spilling embers into the night. The crowd stood frozen, their faces illuminated by the flickering orange glow. He stood among them, arms slack at his sides, his eyes fixed on the flames, as though hoping they would consume more than just wood and paper. He wanted them to burn something deeper—something inside him.

Fire trucks arrived, their sirens wailing, red lights flashing against the smoke-filled sky. The firefighters worked with practiced urgency, dousing the roaring flames with jets of water. A cordon was quickly erected, police officers pushing the growing crowd back while barking orders to keep the area clear. Somewhere in the chaos, the teacher heard someone shout, “There’s still someone inside!” But the fire had already swallowed too much.

By the time the flames were extinguished, the library was little more than a skeletal ruin, its charred remains smoldering in the cold night air. Mr. Thomas hadn’t made it out. They’d found his cleaning cart overturned near the door, a silent marker of his last moments. Someone murmured that he’d probably been mopping the stairs, the one task he always grumbled about, a small ritual he kept to ensure the place was spotless long after the students had left. He was always there, cleaning up after everyone, making sure no trace of the day remained.

The teacher felt the weight of the crowd’s shock pressing on him, but beneath it was something else—guilt, thick and bitter. He’d walked by the library earlier that afternoon, noticed the broken lock, and done nothing. He’d seen the kerosene cans stacked in the supply closet, dismissed them as routine inventory. Even when whispers ran through his class about strange smells and odd behavior, he’d ignored it.

He was tired. Too tired to care.

The next morning, the school called for an assembly. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood, an acrid reminder of what had been lost. The Principal stood at the front, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her glasses.

“We’ve lost something irreplaceable,” she said, her voice hollow, as if the words were made of sand. “And someone irreplaceable.”

The words hung in the air, devoid of conviction. The teacher glanced at the students sitting in neat rows, their faces devoid of grief. They weren’t mourning—they were angry. A girl in the back twisted the strap of her bag, her jaw clenched. Beside her, a boy hunched forward, his thumb chewing into the skin, eyes distant.

When the assembly ended, the teacher found the pair behind the gym, isolated from the crowd. The girl flicked a lighter open and shut, its tiny flame a constant, hypnotic rhythm. The boy sat on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, his vacant eyes unfocused.

“You were there,” the teacher said, his voice low. It wasn’t an accusation, just a question that had been gnawing at him since the night before.

The boy’s head snapped up, his face pale. The girl didn’t look at him, her gaze locked on the flame, her fingers trembling.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice sharp but quick, like she was trying to bury something deep inside.

He pulled a charred notebook from his bag and held it out. The boy flinched, and the girl’s eyes flickered, but she said nothing.

“You left this,” the teacher said. “I found it in the ruins.”

The girl snatched it from him, flipping through pages of scribbled flames and jagged words: “Burn it down. That’s the only way they’ll care.” Her fingers tightened around the book, shoving it into her bag without meeting his gaze.

“What do you want me to say?” she muttered, her voice hollow.

“The truth,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm.

The boy’s voice cracked first. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he said, his words tumbling out, desperate. “We thought it would be empty. We thought no one would be there.”

The girl cut him off, her voice sharp and distant. “We thought it didn’t matter,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “They slashed the library budget. They fired the librarian. They took away the Arts and Games. Now it’s just exams, day after day, pushing us to our limits with more work, more rules, more pressure. Like we’re just numbers on an excel sheet. So yeah, we made them notice.”

Her anger hung in the air, thick and bitter. The teacher watched her, and something in his chest tightened. He thought of the librarian, her tearful goodbye as she packed her desk. He thought of Mr. Thomas, who always stayed late to clean up after everyone else. He thought of the students he had watched, day after day, as they grew louder in their complaints and quieter in their resolve. And he thought of himself, walking by the library, seeing the lock, the cans of kerosene, the whispers... and doing nothing.

“You think they care now?” he asked quietly. “They don’t. They’ll blame you. They’ll blame all of us. And Mr. Thomas is still dead.”

The girl’s hand faltered on the lighter. Her anger shifted, softening into something more brittle. “We just wanted to take something back,” she whispered. “They take everything from us. They don’t care about the people who are here. About what matters.”

The teacher closed his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or helplessness that weighed so heavily on his chest. He thought of how, for so long, he had distanced himself from the small cruelties, the cuts too shallow to notice at first but deep enough now to drown in. Maybe he was complicit, in a way. In his silence, in his indifference. The system had failed them all.

The fire had been the spark. But the apathy had been smoldering for years.

In the days that followed, the official narrative took shape. The police conducted a perfunctory investigation, chalking the fire up to a tragic accident. The theory: Mr. Thomas had been working late, spilled something flammable, and a cigarette spark had turned it into a catastrophe. No one believed it—not really. The whispers in the halls told a different story, but no one said it aloud. The parents of the students who had been seen near the library were quick to step in with money, smoothing over inquiries, deflecting attention, and ensuring no one looked too closely.

The school moved forward, or at least pretended to. Construction workers arrived within a week, clearing the debris and erecting scaffolding over the ruins. Plans for a new, modern library were drawn up, funded by donors eager to distance themselves from the tragedy. A replacement for Mr. Thomas was quietly hired—a younger man with no connection to the school, his face blank with unfamiliarity. The teacher caught glimpses of him pushing a cleaning cart down the hall, and each time, the sight twisted something deep in his chest. There was no room for Mr. Thomas’s quiet presence anymore. He was just another casualty of a system that moved forward, no matter the cost.

Weeks later, the new library was unveiled with fanfare and speeches. The building was sleek and modern, a stark contrast to the warmth of the old one. The principal spoke at the ribbon-cutting ceremony, flanked by new librarian staff and donors who had made the reconstruction possible. The teacher stood in the back, his expression unreadable. The students clapped, but the applause felt hollow, a brittle echo of the unspoken truths that lingered.

As the ceremony came to a close, the teacher found himself standing alone in front of the new building, the blackened notebook in his hand. The weight of the moment pressed down on him. He could hear the laughter of students inside, but it felt distant, like something he couldn’t reach anymore.

He thought of the fire—the way it had consumed not just the library, but something deeper. Not just Mr. Thomas, but something inside everyone who had witnessed it. Something that had been smoldering beneath the surface all along. The apathy that once fueled it had burned away to ash. Now, what remained was the anger, the resentment, the simmering rebellion.

When The Ice Shatters

The crash came fast. One moment, my mother’s voice filled the car—sharp and grating, scolding me for not saying thank you to the waitress. My father’s hands were tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched. Then, headlights. Screaming. Metal twisting. Darkness.

When I woke, the world felt muted. The hospital room smelled of antiseptic, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows. At first, I couldn’t move my head, couldn’t feel much of anything. Nurses bustled around, their voices muffled, as if I were underwater. My uncle and aunt came to see me, their faces crumpled with something I recognized but couldn’t name.

“They’re gone,” my uncle said. “Your mum and dad… they didn’t make it.”

I blinked at him. I stared at his face, at his mouth, watching it move, but it didn’t register. The words didn’t mean anything. Nothing meant anything.

The doctors said I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury. Something about the frontal lobe. Emotions. But I didn’t understand it then. I only knew that the air had been sucked out of me, leaving a vacuum behind. The kids who weren’t loved bear scars. Did I bear the scars of being loved? Whatever part of me had known how to feel was lost in the wreckage.

The funeral happened while I was in a coma. By the time I was released from the hospital, it was over, the graves already settled into the earth. My uncle and aunt took me in. Their home was filled with the smell of baked bread and the sound of my cousin Dorian’s laughter. He was my age, the kind of boy teachers paired with new students to help them get acquainted, the kind of kid other kids were quick to claim as a close friend. Dorian started to put his arm around mine and joked that we were twins now, sharing a room and everything else. I didn’t laugh.

Seasons passed. Snow melted, grass grew, leaves turned, and snow came again. I went to school, sat through classes, and had family dinners where Aunt would ask me about dishes my mother used to make. At school, Dorian was always the first to step in whenever the others called me a "freak" or a "psycho." His voice was firm, his posture protective. "Leave my brother alone," he’d say. But I never looked up. Their words slid past me like the wind. The next day, the same thing happened. "Stop it," Dorian said again, eyes fixed on me, waiting for something. I didn’t respond. I just kept eating my lunch. My aunt had tried making Pelmeni that day, but it didn’t taste right—not even close. Still, I kept eating. That evening, my aunt smiled, ruffling my hair, as if finishing my lunch was some kind of victory. I didn’t understand why it mattered to her. Maybe because it was the first time she’d made Pelmeni and wanted it to feel like a success. But I just didn’t want to get tangled up in whatever was going on with Dorian and the others, so I kept eating.

I was good at school. Always scored the highest, but Dorian always beat me by one rank. I was never good at English—not the subject, but the poetry and stories. Some students congratulated me, and the teachers patted me on the back, but academic success wasn’t new to me. Even back in our home country, I went to a private school like this one, learning in English. For some reason, Dorian took it upon himself to teach me how to analyze stories and poems so I could aim for the first rank next time. I asked him, “Why? You’re already at the top.” With a mischievous grin—the one he used to get extra cookies—he replied, “I said aim, not that I’ll make it easy for you. I’m aiming for first too.” It made sense. He liked challenges. I’d seen him climb fences and trees just because someone dared him.

As an exercise, he made me watch all the Disney animated films and asked me about the characters. When we watched The Little Mermaid, I thought it was “dumb” that she gave up her voice to find the man she loved. “How was she going to confess if she couldn’t speak?” I asked. But Dorian just laughed and said, “The Little Mermaid was brave. She made sacrifices. She was a challenger, daring to step out of her comfort zone to find love.” For a 10-year-old, those were some smart words. But Dorian was always a genius, so I replied, “Then you’re like the Little Mermaid.” He laughed again and said, “I wish. Then I’d be in the water instead of writing exams.” The thought was ridiculous, but a life without exams somehow felt simpler.

When the exam results came, I was still in second place, but I had managed to improve my English scores.

That winter, I started sitting on the roof. From there, I could see everything: the frozen pond, the big house beyond it with its blinking Christmas lights. The world looked distant, unreal, like a painting. The sky blurred at the edges, and even the sound of my uncle’s car pulling into the driveway felt far away, muffled by the cold.

One night, as I stared across the icy expanse, I saw her. A little girl, maybe nine or ten, running from the big house. Her coat flapped behind her as she dashed toward the pond. The ice cracked the moment she stepped onto it. She didn’t stop.

The sound of her scream cut through the air as the ice gave way beneath her. She plunged into the water, her small hands scrabbling at the edges, breaking more ice as she tried to hold on. She screamed for her mother, over and over, but no one came.

Behind me, Dorian called my name, his voice fading. I didn’t respond. My eyes stayed on her, watching as she kicked and struggled. The ice splintered around her, jagged edges catching the light of the blinking Christmas bulbs. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. It sounded like it had caught something.

Dorian appeared beside me, his voice sharp. “What are you doing?” He followed my gaze, his breath catching when he saw her. Without another word, he scrambled down the ladder, shouting: “Dad… Mum… Help… A girl is drowning.”

But I didn’t move. I stayed on that roof, feeling the cold bite at my skin, the wind tugging at my clothes.

The girl had stopped calling for her mother. As if she had accepted her fate. And then, she let go. Her small body sank into the dark water, her wide eyes fixed on nothing. I tilted my head, curious. Why wasn’t she fighting harder? Why did she let go willingly?

As soon as she let go, the adults arrived, and my uncle carried her from the water. She was wrapped in Dorian’s red Disney Cars blanket, the one he was always possessive of, like it was the only thing in the world he didn’t share with anyone. He was down there too, clutching her small fingers as if afraid they might slip away entirely, his face pinched with something like panic and concern. He clung to her hand with a desperation I couldn’t understand. The girl’s grandparents were there, along with a little boy and their helpers. Even my aunt had come.

I climbed down only hours later, slipping into my chair at the dinner table.

“Does this girl have a mother?” I asked, watching as Aunt set a plate in front of me.

She gave me a soft smile. “Of course, dear. She’s safe now. Her mother’s with her.” She reached over to ruffle my hair. I kept my gaze on the plate, her words spinning in my mind, not quite landing.

Dorian’s fork clattered against his plate. From across the table, he glared at me, his face flushed with anger. “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped.

Before I could respond, Uncle’s voice cut through the tension. “Dorian, is that how you talk to your brother?” His tone was sharp. Aunt immediately intervened, “We wouldn’t have been able to help the child if it weren’t for your brother,” she said gently.

Dorian’s expression shifted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

I could not feel the sincerity behind his words—but I knew him well enough to know that it was sincere. That was Dorian’s logic. His logic was simple: if he thought he’d been wrong, he’d admit it. I looked at him, unblinking.

The pond would freeze over again by morning, smooth and untouched. The Christmas lights would keep blinking. And I would keep watching.

TW: This story contains themes of manipulation, violence and power imbalance. The story and characters are fictional.  Reader discretion is advised.

She woke to the feeling of someone in her room.

It was him.

He was waking her up.

"When did you come back?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

"This morning" he replied. "Your dad said you weren’t feeling well. I made you soup."

Not feeling well. That was the polite way of putting it. What Dad actually said would be more like, "She’s having one of her episodes, holed up in her room like a loser—so you go and drag her out."

He helped her sit up, his hands steady, careful—but not unfamiliar. He knew the way her shoulders slumped when she was exhausted, how she sometimes curled inward as if trying to disappear. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he reached for the papers and books scattered on her bed, gathering them with an ease that spoke of habit.

"For someone so methodical about everything, you do leave your papers and notes everywhere" he said.

She didn’t let go of her pen. Instead, she shifted it from her right hand to her left, as if weighing it. He noticed—he always noticed—but said nothing.

Taking the soup and the overbed table, she began feeding herself, the warm broth coating her throat, anchoring her. He sat nearby, on the bedside chair, watching her.

"Did you give Mrs. Wilson a leave? Since you’re here. It’s raining, and she shouldn’t have to travel in the rain."

He tilted his head slightly. "Yes, I did. I’m thoughtful like that."

The room smelled of something just on the edge of burning—shadows clung to the corners, thick and patient. The light above flickered, uncertain, as if deciding whether to stay or go.

"You love people" he said, amusement curling at the edges of his voice, like smoke from a wick just blown out.

Something in his tone made her hesitate.

"I do not hate people," she answered carefully, avoiding his gaze. "Unless they give me a reason to."

She lifted another spoonful of soup to her lips, letting the warmth settle inside her, willing it to chase away the numbness.

His fingers trailed along the edge of the wooden table—slow, absentminded. A habit. A waiting.

"I thought it was because you were trained to level with them," he mused. "Make them feel special. Being humble and common. Your dad’s socialism."

She exhaled, long and steady. "I was raised to be kind," she said. "Though his methods were far from kind. And we are far from socialists. It’s called being human." You would not know. She kept that part to herself. She was not being kind. She just was being. It was never a performance, though everything else in her life was.

A pause.

She could feel him studying her, measuring her response.

"Raised is not the word for us. We were not exactly raised, were we? Raised is a warm word." His voice was an ember that refused to die. "But you actually love people. Its not fake. You care about them and you love them. Though you are wary of them."

"People tend to be wary of things they love." It was a challenge.

The spoon in her hand hovered just above the soup, rippling the surface.

His demeanor did not shift. "I never loved—" he stared at her with the intensity of a kid with a magnifying glass trying to crush an ant—"anything I should be wary of."

Something cracked in her chest—anger or maybe something older.

Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand.

I could drive it into his jugular. I could watch the ink run red.

He watched her watching him, amusement flickering in his eyes like a cat watching a mouse debate its own mortality.

"I heard you love setting fires," she said, her voice smooth as oil on water. "Shouldn’t you be wary of arson? Fire is not easy to control."

A low blow. A precise one.

His beautiful hand—the one with the faint burn scar—reached for her throat.

She should flinch. She hated that she didn’t.

"The trick to controlling fire...." he murmured "...is not to control it."

His fingers ghosted over her skin—a whisper, a threat, a promise.

"I control the air instead. Let the fire burn to my air’s will... my will."

She remembered the first time he touched her. The polite handshake at the dinner, his beautiful fingers too cool, too careful. The way her father had beamed with approval. The second time—at his brother’s wedding—that hand had settled on her waist, possessive. A silent reminder that her choices were no longer her own. The third time—after a particularly bad argument—those fingers had curled around her wrist, gentle but firm, a grip made to look like affection in front of her father’s watchful eyes.

Now, they rested at her throat.

She thought of the pen in her hand. Of the delicate skin just beneath his jaw.

She could drive it into his jugular. She could watch the ink run red.

And then, she moved.

The pen plunged deep, the resistance brief, then yielding. A sharp inhale, his lips parting in surprise as warmth spilled over her fingers. A wet, gurgling sound filled the room as he staggered back, clutching at his throat, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. His eyes—wide, stunned—met hers, searching for something he did not find.

His body crumpled. The chair tipped. The sound of his fall barely registered over the roaring in her ears. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, seeping into the floorboards like ink staining parchment.

She stared.

Then, he sighed.

Took the empty bowl from her hands.

Picked up the spoon and placed it neatly on the tray.

She blinked.

Her fingers were still curled around the pen, unmoved.

The chair was still upright.

The room still smelled of invisible blood.

His eyes—still bright, still measuring her—held the faintest flicker of amusement, like the way a child looks at moth wings before he plucks them off, just to see what happens.

"You’re quiet today" he noted, standing up. "Maybe you should rest more."

He reached out and ruffled her black hair.

A mockery of comfort.

A mockery of anything human.

Outside, it was raining—the downpour steady and relentless. She wished she could drown in it.

@azurePond Not bad, not bad at all... Noticed you focused on what was in the main character's mind. Perhaps that's the way to handle a story like this one. It reminds me of a song I once heard by Willie Nelson: "I Just Can't Let You Say Goodbye".

The Watch

8:42 AM 

Today was supposed to be a good day.  

I had a job interview lined up—well, sort of. More of an “opportunity to discuss possibilities” which is what people say when they have no intention of hiring you but enjoy the power trip of watching you sweat in an ill fitting blazer.  

I was running late. But then, in my defense, I was always running late.  

That’s probably why I didn’t notice the dead guy at first.  

8:45 AM 

The alley smelled like damp cardboard and yesterday’s disappointment. And there he was.  

Face down. One arm bent at an unfortunate angle. Dressed like someone who owned important things.  

Now, let’s be clear—I am not a bad person. I have never actively murdered anyone, which I think already puts me ahead of a solid 40% of the population. But I am also not an idiot. And there, gleaming on his wrist, was a watch.  

Not just a watch. The watch. Gold, heavy, expensive enough to fix several of my problems.  

I took it.  

Quick. Clean. Like a magician palming a coin, except significantly less legal.  

Then I walked away.  

9:12 AM 

The watch did not tell time.  

I discovered this unfortunate fact while standing outside the office, pretending I was the kind of person who belonged inside an office. No matter how many times I tapped the glass, the hands didn’t move.  

Dead. Broken. Or just mocking me.  

Still, it looked good. And in a world where people judge you in the first five seconds, looking like you should have money was almost as good as actually having it.  

So I kept it on.  

11:28 AM 

The interview was pointless. Shallow smiles, empty questions. The kind of thing where they thank you for coming in while actively forgetting you exist.  

I left feeling the usual mix of humiliation and caffeine withdrawal.  

That’s when I noticed him.  

Across the street. Sitting on a bench. Reading a newspaper in the way no one actually reads newspapers anymore.  

A man in a dark coat.  

Watching me.  

I told myself it was nothing. Coincidence. Maybe he liked watching underqualified men fail at corporate life. Who was I to judge?  

I walked on.  

2:45 PM 

It was raining by the time I got home. The kind of drizzle that seeps into your bones.  

I reached my door. Checked my pockets.  

The key wasn’t there.  

That was odd. I always kept it in my right pocket. Always. And yet—empty.  

I checked the left. My jacket. My bag.  

Nothing.  

A cold, creeping feeling in my chest.  

And then—just as I turned—  

A sound.  

Soft. Almost polite.  

A single knock.  

From inside my apartment.  

3:12 PM 

Let’s fast forward through the mild p@nic attack and the dignified decision to sit in a café and figure this out.  

Someone had been in my apartment.  

Someone had taken my key.  

Someone—very likely the man in the dark coat—was playing a game I did not know the rules to.  

And the only thing I’d done differently today was—  

The watch.  

5:50 PM

I was not going to d!e over a watch.  

I made a plan:  

1. Find a pawn shop.  

2. Sell the watch.  

3. Never think about it again.  

It was a simple plan. A good plan.  

But the moment I stepped outside, the man in the dark coat was there.  

Not across the street this time.  

Right there.  

Close.  

I ran.  

6:03 PM 

Alleyways are not as easy to navigate as movies make them seem. Especially in wet shoes. Especially while sprinting.  

I slipped.  

The pavement hit hard.  

And then—warm hands, firm grip—pulling me up.  

The man.  

The man pulled me up, his grip clinical, his face blank. He smelled like mint and gun oil.  

“You shouldn’t have taken it” he said. Not unkindly. Like a teacher correcting a child’s arithmetic.  

Before I could speak, his other hand flickered—a small blade, glinting in the rain.  

It didn’t hurt. Not at first. Just a cold pressure beneath my ribs. Then warmth. Then nothing.  

He lowered me to the ground. Gentle. Almost respectful.  

“It’s not even real gold,” he murmured while wiping the blade on my sleeve. “But he was sentimental.”  

I tried to say who? but my lungs had other plans.  

He pried the watch from my wrist. Walked away.  

The last thing I saw was the alley wall—graffiti, a phone number, the word LIVE half-scratched out.  

The rain kept falling.  

Somewhere, a job interview was rescheduled.  

Somewhere, a dead man’s family ate dinner.  

And here, in the damp and the dark, time finally moved again.

6: 11 PM 

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive themes including self harm, suicidal ideation and references to homophobia. Reader discretion is advised. This is a work of fiction.

A Story from Florence

The Arno River coiled like a black satin ribbon beneath the Ponte Vecchio, swallowing the gilded reflections of jewellery shops bolted to the bridge’s spine. I’d read once that the Medici nobles built this passageway to avoid mingling with peasants. How fitting! I thought, my palms slick on the ancient stone. Another outcast drawn to its shadows.

My ex’s voice still hissed in my skull: You’ll never be a real partner. He’d said it over breakfast, marmalade smeared on his lip like dried blood. Two weeks later, his social media showed him grinning beside a blonde woman from his mother’s book club, her hand cradling a bump beneath her sundress. #Blessings.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Florence smelled of river moss and history, of something ancient yet indifferent.

But it wasn’t just Luca. It was everything. It was growing up in a town where my father tightened his grip on the armrest every time a rainbow flag appeared on TV. It was the way my mother turned hollow when she found the one I had hidden in my desk drawer, how she clutched her rosary and whispered abomination like it was a prayer. It was the way they sent me to counseling, not to help, but to fix me.

I ran from all of it. From the sermons, the hushed conversations, the way my uncles stopped hugging me after they found out. I ran to Florence because Luca said it could be a beginning. That we could be a beginning.

And yet, here I was—another failed chapter, another bridge, another night pretending I wasn’t picturing the water swallowing me whole.

A gust of wind cut through my shirt. I’d chosen midnight for this—fewer witnesses, more dignity. But dignity felt laughable now, like trying to light a candle in a hurricane.

"Aspetta!" (Wait!)

The voice ricocheted off the bridge’s arches. I turned.

A woman sprinted toward me, a riot of contradictions: a floor-length black ballgown, its tulle skirt shredded at the hem… one satin heel clutched in her hand, the other foot bare. Her dark curls storm tossed and defiant, her diamond choker twisted askew, biting into her collarbone.

"Non farlo!" (Don’t do it!) she panted, skidding to a halt. Up close, she reeked of champagne and panic. “Per favore, non saltare—” (Please, don’t jump—)

"I don’t… non capisco," (I don’t understand) I lied. My Italian was patchy, but desperation needs no translation.

She stared at me, breathless. “American?” she blurted, switching accents like flipping a coin—sharp, sudden. “Christ. Do you know how many poets I’ve had to dodge tonight? Troppi.” (Too many.)

"Poets?"

"Sì." (Yes.) She chucked her remaining shoe into the river. It vanished with a plop. "Some guy at the party, actually. A poet in spirit, a critic in practice. Spent the entire night telling me my metaphors were ghastly. Imagine! Me!”

I blinked. "Are you… drunk?"

"Only on existential despair." She leaned against the railing, her gown’s corset creaking. "You here to jump or are you just cosplaying Hamlet?"

"Neither. I’m… sightseeing."

"At 2 a.m.? With no trousers?" She raised a brow at my rumpled linen pyjama bottoms.

"They’re breathable."

"Ah. A fashion suicide. Bold." She pulled a crushed velvet glove from her gown’s pocket (pockets?) dabbing at her smeared eyeliner. "Listen, caro, I’ll level with you. I just fled a family dinner—my nonna  wants to marry me off  because being 25 and single is a sin. So unless you want to be the subject of my family’s next scandal, step down."

My mind whirred. Mafia. That’s what this was. The black dress. The choker. The reckless confidence. I had seen this before…well  in books.

"You’re… a mafia princess?" I blurted.

She froze. Then laughed, short and incredulous. "Dio mio, you read a lot of Kindle."

I didn’t move. She sighed.

"Fine." She straightened, tilting her head. "You know what actually happens when someone drowns?"

I said nothing.

"First comes the shock. Your lungs freeze. Your body panics. You thrash, your limbs clawing for something, anything, but the water’s got you." She traced a slow circle on the stone railing. "Then comes the silence. Your body stops fighting—oxygen deprivation makes you sluggish. Calm, even. And in that strange calm, your brain serves you its finest regrets plated like a last meal. And then?"

She snapped her fingers. I was startled. "The lungs give in. Water fills them. And you don’t sink like a tragic painting. You sink like a sack of garbage."

She held my gaze, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Like once upon a time, she was the one who drowned.  "So…. Spill . what’s weighing on you instead of drowning with it"

And somehow, the words tumbled out—my parents’ razor edged sermons, the way my mother hissed abomination when she found my Pride flag.... fleeing to Florence for a man who promised me a fresh start, only to realise I was just his placeholder until a ‘real’ wife came along.

Her smirk softened. "But why tonight?"

I hesitated. "My ex’s due date is tomorrow. Luca."

"Luca" she repeated, rolling the name like a rotten olive. "Stupid name. Sounds like a pasta shape."

A snort escaped me. She grinned, triumphant.

"There it is! I knew you weren’t a lost cause." She fluffed her ruined skirt. "Tell me... Mr. Breathable Linen—if you die tonight, who gets to tell your story? The bigots? The ex? Or you, for letting them win?"

The question hooked under my ribs. Below, a gondola drifted past, its lanterns painting the water gold.

"I… don’t know."

"Exactly. And drowning is unpleasant." She ripped a jewelled comb from her hair, tossing it over the edge. "That’s for my nonna’s bad investments."

"You’re vandalising the Arno."

"Liberating it." She nudged me. "Your turn."

I fumbled in my pocket. A receipt. The pharmacy. The antidepressants I flushed hours ago.

I let the wind take it.

"Bravo." She clapped. "Now let’s—"

A shout echoed from the bridge’s entrance. Two men in tuxedos, waving flashlights.

"Merda! The truffle brigade." (Sh!t! The truffle brigade.) She grabbed my wrist. "Run."

"What? Why—?"

"They think you’re my lover! Drama! Scandal! You could get shot, Vai!" (Go!)

We bolted—her bare feet slapping cobblestones, my pyjama trousers billowing like sails. Through alleys reeking of garlic and wet stone, past shuttered bakeries and graffiti of Maradona’s face, until we collapsed in Piazza della Signoria, breathless beneath David’s unbothered gaze.

Panic surged in my throat. "Did your fiancé send them? Will my face be on milk cartons? Will I be shot?"

She actually doubled over laughing. "Now you’re afraid of being shot? You actually want to live? I’m not a mafia princess, you idiot. I don’t know those men on the bridge.  I came from a dinner party with my family. I was supposed to meet some  friends." She smacked her forehead. "Shoot! I was supposed to call them! Well–”

"Why did you help me?" I interrupted.

"Misery loves company." She plucked a stray dry leaf from her hair. "Also—" She held up a single, defiant finger. "You looked like someone who’d appreciate a metaphor. Unlike certain poets."

Dawn crept over the piazza, gilding the marble statues. She flopped onto a bench, her gown sprawling like a shadow.

"That bridge—Ponte Vecchio? It’s the only one the Nazis didn’t bomb. They said it was ‘too beautiful.’ But really?" She leaned close, her breath warm with stolen prosecco. "They were scared of the goldsmiths’ ghosts."

I stared at her. "Is that true?"

"Who cares? It’s a better story." She kicked her legs up, dirt smudging her hem. "Stories keep us alive, caro. Even the ugly ones."  She paused for a moment.

"You know what’s funny?" she said. "Everyone thinks they want to end their lives, but in fact, they just want to end their pain. I’m not going to guilt-trip you or anything, but… do not give in. Do not give in to pain. Live to tell your own tale."

A church bell tolled. Somewhere, Florence stirred—espresso machines hissed, scooters sputtered to life. She stood, offering her hand.

"Come on. There’s a café near Santa Maria Novella. The owner’s my friend. She makes bomboloni so good, they’ll make you believe in finding true love."

I took her hand. It was calloused, warm, alive.

"Lead the way, Ghost of Ponte Vecchio."

She laughed, loud and unburdened.

" You, sir, have an overactive imagination. The name’s Alessandra, by the way. Friends call me Alex. I am  not a mafia princess and certainly not a ghost"

"Jude. Everyone calls me Jude."

Somewhere, another version of me still stood on that bridge, staring down at the water, waiting for the world to decide his worth. But this version—the one with aching legs and a stranger’s warmth at his side—was walking toward bomboloni. Toward coffee. Toward morning.

It wasn’t much. But for now, it was enough.