Reclaiming My Path

At noon, Enzo brought Giovanna back from the hospital. He was carrying a small brown bag filled with disinfectant and bandages. Giovanna leaned gently against him, a strip of gauze taped to her forehead, her face pale.

When he pushed open the front door, the living room was empty. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching even the dust in the air.

His first instinct was to call out, “Lily?”

There was no response but only an echo circling the room.

“Have you organized the documents? We’ve got a video conference with the Camorra at three.” He raised his voice on the second call, but still nothing.

A hint of unease crept into him. I was usually obedient, and even when I was upset, I still handled whatever needed to be done. I never just disappeared.

Giovanna sat on the sofa and squeezed some ointment onto her hand. She said softly, “Maybe she’s in the guest room. She apologized to me this morning, so she shouldn’t be angry. She’s probably just tired and taking a nap.”

Enzo nodded and headed to the guest room. However, when he pushed the door open, the room was spotless. It looked like no one had lived there at all, and the raspberry macarons on the nightstand were still perfectly arranged, untouched.

He checked the master bedroom next, only to find Giovanna’s clothes hanging inside the closet. He checked the study, finding that the drawers were shut tight with no signs of disturbance. He checked the kitchen, but the coffee machine was cold, and the sink was empty.

He searched every corner of the house, even the storage cabinet on the balcony, and there was still no sign of me. Yet, the faint scent I always left behind seemed to hover in the air.

As he walked to the entryway, pulling out his phone to call me, he froze. Sitting on the cabinet was the spare house key that I always kept with me. Now it lay there quietly, and under it was a folded note.

He picked it up and opened it. The note read, “Hope the partnership goes well.”

The message hit him hard. His grip tightened, knuckles going pale as the note crumpled under his fingers.

“No,” he growled, disbelief cracking through his voice. “Impossible.”

He dialed my number. His hands were trembling so hard that he could barely press the screen.

A mechanical tone answered him, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.”

He tried again and again, but the same automated message replied to him each time.

He bolted out of the house. Downstairs, the security guard was reading a newspaper in the booth when Enzo grabbed him by the arm so abruptly that he dropped the paper in shock.

“Did you see Lily? A woman in a beige coat!” His voice was frantic, every breath unsteady. “About thirty minutes ago–Did she leave here?”

The guard nodded rapidly, stammering, “Y-Yes! I saw her! About half an hour ago. She took a cab headed toward the central train station!”

Enzo released him and stumbled back a few steps. His heart clenched, as if an invisible hand had reached inside and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe.

He had always assumed that I was just throwing a small tantrum, that I would calm down in a few days. He thought I wouldn’t leave him, that I would wait for him to settle things with the Camorra. Never did he imagine that I would actually walk away without saying goodbye, leaving behind just a key and a note.

He sprinted to his car, fumbling with the ignition. His hands shook so hard that he didn’t even fasten his seatbelt before hitting the gas. He ran through two red lights on the way, the scenery outside blurring past.

His mind flooded with memories of me, of the first time he saw me standing beside Papa in a white dress, my smile bright and innocent; of how I argued with the elders to help him gain control of the docks, refusing to back down even when they called me “ill-behaved.”

He remembered that I visited him every day when he was recovering in the hospital, bringing him food I had made myself. I had held his hand and cried, “You can’t get hurt. I’m scared to be alone.”

I had even given him a pair of silver cufflinks for his birthday last year, saying, “I hope you think of me every time you wear them.”

Each memory hit hard, each one like a punch to the chest. Only now did he finally understand that I wasn’t without anger or hurt. I had simply swallowed the pain, his lies, and his betrayals quietly.

“Lily… don’t leave,” he whispered, tears slipping down his face. “I was wrong. I’ll cut things off with Giovanna. I’ll end the deal with the Camorra.”

When he got to the central train station, he jumped out of the car and ran inside. The station was packed with travelers dragging their luggage through the crowds.

“Lily! Lily!” he shouted, scanning the faces around him.

His voice quickly turned hoarse, but he didn’t stop. When he saw a woman in a beige coat, he rushed toward her and tapped her shoulder, heart in his throat. However, when she turned around, it wasn’t me. He then spotted another similar figure and ran again, but still, he was wrong.

He ran around the station a couple of times until sweat soaked through his shirt. At last, he sank against a pillar, gasping for breath as people streamed past him.

His chest felt hollow, like something vital had been carved out. Only then did he understand that he hadn’t just lost a woman. He had lost me, the one person who had loved him wholeheartedly and given him everything I had.