روايات بقلم Ann Lottimore

The evening continued long after the conversation had ended. Neither of them seemed willing to be the one who finally stood up and put things away. The photograph remained on the floor between them. The chess box sat beside it, still open, the velvet lining exposed beneath the warm glow of the lamps. One forgotten white pawn rested near the edge of the board, casting a tiny shadow across the wood. Outside, Milan carried on without them. A tram bell echoed somewhere beyond the buildings. A scooter passed. A dog barked once and was answered by another farther away. The sounds arrived muted, distant, as if the city itself understood it wasn't invited into this moment. Inside the apartment, everything felt suspended. No threats. No phone calls. No reports waiting on a desk. No Lucetti. No La Serpenta. No war demanding attention. Just silence. The kind that didn't need to be filled. Lucia slept peacefully down the hall. Every so often the apartment offered proof of it — a faint r

Evening settled slowly after the game. The apartment had fallen into that rare kind of silence that felt earned rather than empty. The chessboard remained on the table where they had left it, folded shut, its worn brass hinges catching the last traces of sunlight. Somewhere beyond the shutters, Milan continued its endless conversation with itself — distant traffic, a tram bell, a voice rising briefly from the street before dissolving into the warm dark. Lucia had been asleep for almost an hour. Siena checked on her once more before returning to the living room. The child had somehow managed to lose half her blanket and gain two stuffed animals during sleep. Siena tucked the blanket back around her, kissed her forehead lightly, and closed the bedroom door until only a narrow strip of light remained. When she returned, Adriano was in the kitchen making coffee. Not because either of them needed it. Just because the evening felt unfinished without something warm in their hands. Th

The afternoon lay over the apartment like warm glass — heavy, unmoving, clear enough to see every particle of dust turn gold where the light caught it. The city beyond the half-closed shutters hummed in a faraway key: a scooter passing two streets over, a window creaking somewhere higher up, the soft insistence of summer trying to outlast itself.Lucia had fallen asleep on the sofa, one arm draped over a small herd of toy animals she’d left mid-adventure. A marker rolled lazily from her open hand, leaving a pale green streak on the pillow. Siena moved it aside, brushed a curl from the child’s forehead, and stood there for a moment, watching the even rise and fall of her chest. The rhythm grounded the room.The air was thick enough to slow thought. Siena crossed to the bookshelf and opened the lowest drawer — the one she hadn’t touched in months. Inside lay a small wooden box, its corners worn smooth, its velvet lining faded from blue to a kind of thoughtful gray. She lifted it with bo

The morning entered without knocking — soft, wide, yellow. It slid over the tiled floor and climbed the edges of the table, finding what the night had left behind: two cups, a half-folded towel, and the smell of boiled water cooling in the kettle. Siena opened the kitchen window with the slow precision of someone who hadn’t slept properly but refused to let exhaustion decide the day. The latch clicked; air moved in. Milan’s hum rose from below — coffee machines, early scooters, someone dragging a chair across a terrace. The apartment was no longer a refuge under siege. It was simply awake. She moved quietly through her small rituals: kettle refilled, flame lit, cups arranged in a straight line though no one asked her to. Her hands carried a faint tremor of fatigue, the kind that lingers after vigilance rather than fear. Steam began to bloom again, and the kettle started its first shy hiss. The front door lock turned. Footsteps, unhurried. Adriano entered, sleeves rolled, jacket fo

Morning came quietly, like it didn’t want to wake anyone.No alarms, no noise from the street yet — only a pale kind of light slipping around the curtains.Siena sat on the edge of the small bed, shaking down the thermometer. The red line climbed, then settled. 36.9. Good.She breathed out. “Okay, piccola. All good.”A small voice, still fogged with sleep: “Mama?”“I’m here,” Siena said, brushing a curl from her daughter’s face. “Morning.”Lucia blinked. “Bath?”“Just a little one. Warm water.”Lucia smiled, eyes still half-closed. “Bubbles?”Siena laughed softly. “Always bubbles.”---Steam filled the small bathroom, smelling of soap and something like almonds.Siena tested the water with her wrist, nodded once, and poured in a handful of bubble mix.Lucia’s eyes went wide. “Look! It’s puff-puff!” she said, slapping the surface gently.“The bubbles are laughing,” Siena answered, rolling her sleeves higher.Lucia blew at the foam until it scattered, then squealed when a drop landed on

Morning arrived the way hospitals prefer it — orderly, fluorescent before it was golden. The corridor lights brightened by degrees, the night monitors handed off their pens, and the soft wheels of the vitals cart resumed their half-hour pilgrimage from door to door. Through the thin, pale blinds of Observation 7, daylight gathered itself into a sheet and laid it across the floor.Lucia slept on her back, the blanket a neat line under her arms, the pulse-ox clip blinking its tiny red heart at the tip of her finger. The monitor read it in calm numbers: oxygen 99, heart rate in the high eighties, respirations even, blood pressure a narrow, sensible bookend to the night. Siena, who had not closed her eyes so much as taught them how to rest while open, sat where she had sat for hours, one hand on the blanket at Lucia’s shoulder, the plastic parent band warmed to her skin.A nurse slipped in first, wristwatch set five minutes fast the way some people bait time. “Good morning,” she said in a

Morning begins with a calendar invitation. Not marked «Urgent.» Not marked «Confidential.» Just a simple notification appearing on Katherine's screen while she is halfway through her first email. 9:00 a.m. — Human Resources Subject: Internal Procedure Review She studies it for a second. No explanation. No agenda. Just thirty minutes reserved with the Head of Human Resources. She frowns slightly. That isn't normal. Not because HR never requests meetings. Because they almost always explain why. Across the office, the HQ Floor is already settling into another workday. Phones ring softly. Someone laughs near the coffee station. Sophie walks briskly between departments with three folders balanced against one arm. Everything looks ordinary. Which somehow makes the meeting invitation feel even stranger. Sebastian glances toward her office through the glass wall. Their eyes meet briefly. He notices the slight crease between her brows. He sends a short message. "Everything okay?"

The first sign that Mercer’s roundtable is becoming something larger arrives before Katherine finishes her first coffee. The HQ Floor is still waking up. Monitors glow to life one by one. Conversations begin in quiet clusters near the coffee station. Somewhere across the office, someone is already arguing about a budget spreadsheet. Normal. Predictable. Exactly the kind of morning. Katherine appreciates. Which is why Sophie’s appearance in her doorway immediately feels suspicious. The assistant is carrying a tablet. Never a good sign. “Good morning,” Katherine says. Sophie glances down at the screen. “That depends.” Katherine sighs. “Wonderful.” Sophie steps inside and places the tablet on the desk. “Mercer’s attendance list.” That gets her attention. Immediately. Katherine reaches for the device and begins scrolling. At first, nothing seems unusual. A few Board members. A handful of governance specialists. Corporate attorneys. The sort of people who normally a

The morning begins normally. Which is precisely why Katherine notices the difference. The office settles into its usual rhythm around eight-thirty. Coffee cups appear. Monitors glow to life. Slack notifications flicker across screens like tiny electrical storms. People move through the HQ Floor carrying laptops, folders, unfinished conversations. Everything feels exactly the way it should. At first. Katherine is halfway through reviewing vendor revisions when she hears Sebastian's office door open. She glances up automatically. Not because she's monitoring him. Because she's become aware of him in the way people become aware of sunlight through a window — constant enough to stop being surprising. He steps into the corridor, phone already against his ear. His expression is calm. Focused. He doesn't look around to see who's watching. Doesn't lower his voice. Doesn't hide. He simply walks toward one of the quieter corners near the executive meeting rooms. Talking. Listening.

Morning arrives slowly again.Not dramatically. Not with urgency.Just light.It slips through the tall windows in thin pale lines, stretching across the unfinished living room floor and catching on the edges of half-opened boxes. Dust particles drift lazily in the air, illuminated for a moment before disappearing again.The house is still quiet.Not empty.Occupied.The silence feels lived in now.The temporary kitchen setup is little more than a counter, a kettle, and two mismatched mugs they bought yesterday because the store didn’t sell them separately. The cabinets are still empty. The refrigerator contains exactly three things: water, milk, and leftover takeout.But the space smells like coffee.Sebastian stands barefoot on the cold tile, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on the counter while the kettle finishes heating. His hair is still slightly disordered from sleep. He looks less like the CEO of anything and more like a man who woke up somewhere unfamiliar and decided to m

Morning doesn’t rush in.It slips through the tall windows slowly, pale gold stretching across the bare floorboards, softening the sharp edges of the empty rooms. The house feels different in daylight — less mysterious, more honest. The walls don’t echo as loudly. The space doesn’t feel unfinished.It feels quiet.They are still on the floor.No blankets. No furniture. Just the cool expanse of wood beneath them and the warmth they created sometime between dusk and midnight.Katherine wakes first.Not fully at once — just enough to realize where she is. The unfamiliar ceiling above her. The slant of sunlight touching the far wall. The steady, grounded rise and fall beneath her cheek.Her head is resting on Sebastian’s chest.His arm is wrapped around her waist — not tightly, not possessively. Just there. Like it settled there hours ago and never considered leaving.The position looks accidental.It isn’t.She stays still for a moment, listening.His heartbeat is slow. Deep. Calm in a w

The door closes with a soft, almost careful click.Not a slam. Not a declaration. Just the quiet sound of something being sealed — a line crossed without ceremony.Katherine stays where she is, her back against the door, fingers still resting on the handle as if she hasn’t fully decided whether she’s arrived or merely paused. The house around them exists in half-light: tall windows catching the last gold of evening, empty rooms breathing softly, walls still unfamiliar enough to feel like a held breath.Sebastian doesn’t move.That’s the first thing she notices.No steps toward her. No instinct to fill the space. He lets the silence stretch, lets the quiet settle into the bones of the place like it belongs there. It’s a rare kind of restraint — not calculated, not strategic. Present.Katherine exhales slowly.Her voice, when it comes, is low. Thoughtful. Almost surprised by itself.“It’s strange,” she says.A pause.“Being alone somewhere that’s supposed to become… something.”The word