Beyond death

Discovering family truths

Alba POV

I awoke from what felt like the most restful sleep I’d had in a long time. The room was gradually brightening as dawn approached, a reminder that the Summer Solstice was drawing near. Outside, the fickle Italian summer awaited—days that began at a comfortable 28 degrees could easily spike to 40 without warning, making the heat oppressive, even suffocating.

But this morning, I didn’t feel stifled. For once, I felt light and at peace, as though something in the air had lifted the weight that had unknowingly settled on me in recent weeks. By 9 am, I finally roused from sleep and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.

“Buongiorno, sweetheart. I was up early and picked up some pastries from the bar down the road for breakfast,” Papà greeted me warmly as I reached the kitchen bar.

“Good morning, Papà. Thank you. Yum!” I replied, offering a quick peck on his cheek before helping myself to a croissant filled with apricot jam. The flaky, buttery pastry melted on my tongue, sweet and comforting.

Papà busied himself with his coffee as he casually mentioned, “I’m heading out shortly to visit your grandparents and Giulia. I won’t be back until late this afternoon, so enjoy your lunch and be good. I know you always are, but you’ve never shown much interest in courting before, so I just feel I need to tell you that as your father.” He winked at me.

My cheeks flushed crimson. I quickly averted my gaze, feeling a rush of embarrassment. My father’s well-meaning, teasing remarks about courting had always made me uncomfortable, but today, they hit a little closer to home. It wasn’t just because of Zio’s best friend, Enzo—there was something about him that tugged at me, something deeper that I couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t worry, Papà. I’ll be good. Ti voglio bene. See you this afternoon.”

He smiled warmly as he picked up his hat and cloak. “I’ll walk to the village square now; the carriage will meet me there,” he said. I realised he’d waited for me to wake up, just to make sure I was okay before he left. That was typical of him—always caring, always watching out for me.

“Ciao, bella,” he called as he disappeared through the doorway.

“Bye, Papà!” I called after him. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, leaving the house in peaceful silence.

I poured myself a cup of warm coffee from the freshly brewed moka, adding a teaspoon of sugar to sweeten it just right. The delicious aroma filled the room, and I indulged in a doughnut from the collection of pastries Papà had brought. As I savoured each bite, a strange sense of stillness crept over me—like the calm before a storm.

After finishing my breakfast, I cleared the counter, wiping away crumbs with methodical precision. Once everything was in its place, I stood for a moment, gazing around the now-empty kitchen. Alone.

And then, almost as if it called out to me, my gaze fell on the small oak door to the servant’s pantry. The door that I had been told countless times to never enter. Papà had always been adamant about it, but not once had he locked it. He trusted me. And until now, I had always respected that trust.

But something was different today. Something stirred deep inside me, an insistent nudge, urging me forward. I had never disobeyed Papà before, but I couldn’t resist the pull any longer. My curiosity—no, my need—to know the truth was overwhelming.

I approached the door, hesitating for just a moment. The familiar weight of being the obedient daughter tugged at me, but it quickly faded. I wasn’t a child anymore. I was almost eighteen. I deserved to know what secrets lay behind that door.

With a deep breath, I pushed the creaky door open, and my heart skipped a beat.

The room beyond was much larger than I had imagined, lined with shelves filled with jars, herbs, and powders. A small table stood in the centre, and atop it, an antique book lay open, its yellowed pages delicate with age. Next to it was a mortar and pestle, surrounded by an array of strange ingredients.

I stepped inside, my curiosity only growing as I approached the table. The air felt heavier here, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. My hand hovered over the open book, and my eyes fell on the page.

"To unbind hidden magic."

The words seemed to echo in my mind. Magic? The concept felt foreign, and yet, somewhere deep within me, it resonated.

My fingers trembled as I turned the page, revealing the book's title: Il Grimorio di Jacopo Benevento, 1755–1825.

A grimorio—a spell book. My breath caught in my throat. The Benevento witches… I had heard the name in passing, part of the folklore and myths of Italy, but no one in my family ever spoke of it seriously. It was always dismissed as superstition. Yet here I stood, in what was undeniably my father’s spell room.

The truth slammed into me like a tidal wave, crashing against everything I thought I knew. Papà was a witch. My head swam as I tried to process the implications. If my father was a witch, then so were my grandparents. My aunt. And… me?

I blinked, stepping back from the table. The realisation hit me harder than I had expected. Was this why strange things sometimes happened around me? Why I always felt guided by an unseen force, a quiet intuition that led me to exactly the right place at exactly the right time? Had my powers been hidden all along?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the swirling thoughts. None of this made sense. Why had Papà never told me? Why had he kept such an enormous part of our lives hidden from me for so long?

Was it possible that everything I had believed about my family was a lie?

My gaze drifted to the shelf of books, and one, in particular, caught my eye. It was newer than the others, its cover less worn. My hand hovered over it before I pulled it down.

Il Grimorio di Francesco Benevento, 1800–.

I gasped, my fingers tightening around the spine of the book. This was Papà’s own spellbook. My heart pounded in my chest, and suddenly, the room felt too small, too suffocating.

I placed the book back on the shelf with trembling hands, backing out of the room as quickly as I could. The air seemed heavier now, laden with secrets I wasn’t ready to confront.

I stood in the kitchen, the weight of my discovery pressing down on me. Was my entire life built on lies? How could I face Papà when he returned? How could I ask him about all of this—about magic, about witches, about the truth behind our family’s history—without feeling betrayed?

And what did this mean about Mamma? The miraculous event every Summer Solstice… Was it truly a miracle? Or was it something else? Something tied to this magic that my father had hidden from me for so long?

I felt like the ground had been pulled out from beneath me, and I was tumbling, unmoored. Questions swirled in my mind, one after the other, each more troubling than the last. Who was I supposed to be now, with this knowledge weighing on my soul?

And then there was Enzo. Sweet, kind Enzo. Could I confide in him about this? Could I even begin to explain what I had uncovered without sounding completely insane? My mind buzzed with uncertainty, doubt gnawing at me.

I sighed, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. The meeting with Enzo was looming, but how could I go about my day as if nothing had changed? How could I pretend that everything was normal when nothing felt normal anymore?

All the stories I had heard growing up—folktales of witches and magic—suddenly felt more real than they ever had before. But instead of enchanting, they felt heavy. Ominous.

I was no longer the girl I had been yesterday. I had stepped into a world of secrets and shadows, and now, I had to decide what to do with the truth I had found.