Beyond death

Alba’s POV  Sitting in the plush passenger seat of Papà’s dark carriage, I watched the countryside of Lazio roll past, golden fields and ancient olive trees blurring together as the road curved ever upward toward Bracciano. The rhythmic creak of the wooden wheels and the gentle clopping of the horses’ hooves melded with the warm breeze, carrying the scents of sun-warmed earth and distant lavender fields. The journey felt both timeless and heavy, as if the air itself was laden with anticipation. Every summer since I could remember, we had made this pilgrimage. Bracciano was more than just a town; it was a thread woven deep into our family’s tapestry, a place that held both sanctuary and shadows. But this year, something was different. I could feel it—a shift in the air, a new weight pressing against the edges of tradition. “Alba,” Papà said, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” I turned to look at him. Papà’s dark eyes, so much like mine, were focused on the winding road ahead, his expression thoughtful but distant. The deep lines etched around his mouth betrayed years of grief and burdens carried in silence. “I’m thinking about Mamma,” I admitted, watching for his reaction. He nodded, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “We’ll see her soon,” he said, the words heavy with both hope and something unspoken. Papà never spoke of Mamma’s death—or her return. Like everyone in Bracciano, he accepted it as a miracle, a blessing bestowed upon the village. But at seventeen, I couldn’t settle for vague reassurances or blind faith. This summer, I needed answers. “Papà,” I said, my voice steady, “why does she come back? Why does everyone who died that year come back?” He glanced at me sharply, his knuckles tightening around the leather reins. “Alba, it is not for us to question these things. It is a gift—a miracle. Be grateful for it.” A miracle. The word tasted hollow on my tongue. If it was a gift, why did it feel so heavy, so shrouded in secrecy? The road turned, and the first glimpse of Lake Bracciano appeared, its surface shimmering like molten gold under the late afternoon sun. The sight stole my breath, as it always did. The lake seemed to stretch endlessly, cradled by rolling hills that were kissed by the sun and shadowed by ancient forests. Its beauty was almost deceptive, hiding the ancient power I was certain lay beneath its surface. Bracciano came into view, its medieval castle standing sentinel over the village as it had for centuries. The cobblestone streets wove through the town like veins, connecting squares where locals would gather to share gossip and legends. The village always felt like it existed in two worlds—one foot in the past, the other barely touching the present. Yet this summer, even the timeless charm of Bracciano couldn’t mask the undercurrent of unease that followed me here. We pulled up to the family villa, its pale yellow façade glowing warmly in the sun’s final rays. The terracotta roof tiles, weathered by countless summers, added to the sense of permanence. I stepped out of the carriage, feeling the crunch of gravel under my boots and the familiar weight of the air around me. The house seemed to watch us, its windows glinting in the fading light like eyes full of secrets. As Papà unloaded our bags, I lingered, taking in the villa. Its two stories held countless memories, but they also held the answers I sought. The upstairs bedrooms, the hidden servant’s kitchen no one used, the dining room with its heavy oak table—all of it seemed steeped in the kind of history that left a mark on its inhabitants. I thought of Zio Alessandro, who always seemed to know more than he let on. His cautious words last summer still lingered in my mind: "Some truths are better left where they are." I hadn’t pressed him then, but this year, I was determined. Alessandro’s silences, his side-glances when Mamma was mentioned, told me he knew more than anyone else about the mysteries surrounding Bracciano and the lake. But Papà wouldn’t let me see him until the proper time, and even then, tradition would bind his tongue like it bound everyone else’s. The villa smelled of aged wood and rosemary, with a faint trace of lavender from the sachets Zia Giulia tucked into every corner. The evening light filtered through the lace curtains, casting intricate patterns onto the tiled floor. It was beautiful—and stifling. I stepped out onto the balcony outside my room, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. From here, the lake stretched out before me, a vast expanse of gold fading to silver as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. The answers were there, somewhere, I was certain of it. The lake, the solstice, the return of the dead—it was all connected. The truth was buried in Bracciano, and I would find it. This summer, I would dig until the secrets that weighed so heavily on this place finally came to light. As the last rays of sunlight kissed the villa goodbye, I made a silent vow. No more half-truths. No more unanswered questions. This summer, I would uncover the truth.