Uzyskaj dostęp do tej i ponad 250000 książek od 14,99 zł miesięcznie
- Wydawca: Agnieszka Mlicka ART
- Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
- Język: polski
Julia arrives in Italy expecting nothing more than a short stay in her aunt’s old house, tucked away among the mountains. Instead, she finds herself drawn into a story that was never meant to be told.
A strange light in the valley, unanswered questions, and fragments of a past carefully kept in silence begin to surface. What started as a simple journey turns into a search for truth—about her aunt, about the women who came before her, and about herself.
Julia begins traveling through Italy with Mario, a man she meets by chance at a local market. Their journey unfolds along winding mountain roads and quiet villages, and an unexpected, deeply human love grows between them—grounded, unforced, and real.
Meanwhile, Monika and Marta set off to visit Julia, unaware that their own journey is being quietly observed. As they move closer, the sense of unease grows, and the past they do not yet understand begins to follow their steps.
Set against the breathtaking landscapes of Italy, The Italian Aunt’s Secret Journey is a story of love and friendship, hidden family secrets, and the moment when the past gently but firmly asks to be seen.
A romantic adventure in Italy, where every road leads deeper into meaning—and nothing is quite as accidental as it seems.
Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Liczba stron: 275
Rok wydania: 2026
Odsłuch ebooka (TTS) dostepny w abonamencie „ebooki+audiobooki bez limitu” w aplikacjach Legimi na:
0,0
Oceny przyznawane są przez użytkowników Legimi, systemów bibliotecznych i innych serwisów partnerskich. Przyznawanie ocen premiowane jest punktami Klubu Mola Książkowego.
Legimi nie weryfikuje, czy opinie pochodzą od konsumentów, którzy nabyli lub czytali/słuchali daną pozycję, ale usuwa fałszywe opinie, jeśli je wykryje.
Podobne
VESPER
LUMEN
The Italian Aunt’s Secret Jo u r n e y
A Mystical Past, Romantic Love, Shared Destiny
Prologue
Valpelline, AD 800
Alpinespringisa timethatonlyvaguelyoffershopefor a farewell to winter. The snows still linger stubbornly in the passes. However, with each passing day, a change in the amount of sunlight becomes more noticeable. By the end of April, the valley begins to smell of damp moss and timidly sprouting herbs. The year 800 was supposed to be like any other, yet on the night of April 30th to May 1st, something happened. The next day, a man, a lumberjack named Brannoc, worried about his wife’s disappearance, decided to search for her.
He never returned from the search. Only his axe was found stuck in a tree stump, as if he had only been gone for a moment, perhaps to investigate. However, no traces were found – no prints in the mud, no evidence of a struggle or fight, nor an abandoned cloak.
Decades later, in the same place, a braid of dark hair, twinedarounda ravenfeather,wasfoundhangingfrom a branch.A signthelocalshepherdsrecognizedimmediately. Though no one dared comment, they knew one thing:
She had returned.
A woman familiar from ancient tales – sometimes a ghost, sometimes a witch. Dressed in layers of black, the fabric rustling like dry leaves, with hands as cold as the ice ofthe Alpine peaks. She came at the moment when the veil between worlds was thinnest. It was as if she were drawing aside the curtain separating the world of the dead and lightly enjoying the world of the living. She disliked light. Her face was always hidden beneath a large hat.
No one remembered why she appeared, always on the same night. Walpurgis Night. The people who had once gossiped that the reason for her visits lay in a certain ancestral curse were no longer alive. Was she the perpetrator? Or perhaps its first victim? No one remembered this anymore, and when she appeared, people preferred to remain silent, for they remembered perfectly well the fate that befell those who sought to learn something.
And yet, whether they wanted it or not, almost everyone in this valley was marked by a fragment of the old heritage. The blood of every inhabitant carried a trace of that curse. It was said that the ancestors had sinned by making a pact with the Horned One who emerged from the mists. But no one knew the truth. Only the story remained. And fear.
Nine months after Brannoc’s disappearance, his wife gave birth to a daughter with eyes so black that even the candlelight in them faded. She named her Mhyrra, a name that had lingered in her mind throughout her pregnancy. She didn’t know that the name meant “she of the mists” in the old tongue.
Mhyrra, too, lived with this ignorance. From then on, every few generations, a woman was born with eyes as black as coal. They all possessed an extraordinary gift, for they were clairvoyants, able to bridge two worlds. However, none of these women was aware of their destiny. They were born and died without knowing they had a mission to fulfill.
And yet, despite their ignorance, for centuries Lunestèra was celebrated – an ancient Alpine rite of passage. A night of fire and shadow, in which the song of the ancestors could be heard even before the first bonfire was lit. The festival was similar to the Celtic Beltane, but the inhabitants could not have known this. Back then, each village was a separate world, often unaware of the existence and customs of other cultures.
The women of the clans, old and young, donned cloaks of dark linen and wreaths of mugwort, mint, and rue. They wandered the village in silence, knocking on the door of every house, singing a song of purification. They were called the Nostrelles, Guardians of the Earth.
Four fires were lit on the hills. One for the body, one for the spirit. Athird for the memory of the ancestors, afourth for the shadow. One walked between them silently, barefoot, to leave behind all that no longer served life.
At the heart of the ritual was the “offering to the shadow.” A wicker doll, woven by three women on the equinox, tied with strands of hair and dried herbs, burned in the fire of the last bonfire as a gift. A gift for survival, for the forgiveness of the sins of the living and their ancestors, and with a prayer for continued prosperity.
Amidst the nightly whispers, as the flames of the fire writhed in a circle of nettles and smoking herbs, He appeared – the Shadow of the Horned One. A human figure, yet unreal: His face was hidden by a goat’s skull, and his shoulders were wrapped in a dark cloak, sewn from animal skins and linen threads, woven in an ancient spell. The Horned One was a symbolic figure, but also a veryreal one – he appeared when the veil between worlds grew thin, and human intentions began to mingle with fear. He was the guardian of the threshold and the embodiment of the primal power of nature.
Finally, before dawn, the braid of one of the women, woven from hair and a raven feather, was hung on the oldest tree in the valley. It was a sign that the shadows had been fed, and the villagers could safely survive another year.The same sign was found decades later, hanging above the stump of the tree Brannoc had cut down on that fateful night. No one dared to ask who had placed it. And who,at the cost of the lumberjack’s life, wanted to remind the inhabitants of Lunestere…
Was he sacrificed?
It wasn’t until the second half of the 20th century that people began to understand what these ancient signs meant. In the 1970s, humanity’s spiritual transformation began. The Age of Aquarius arrived. Mankind began to noticethathewasnotmerelya physicalbeingcreated forworkandprocreation.Thisera,whichcamewitha spiritual awakening, brought new light. It was a time of knowledge accessible to all, not just a select few. A time when inner truth, intuition, and connection with the invisible became everyday reality.
Gifts of sight and knowledge, once considered magic, became part of the evolution of consciousness, available to anyone who wanted to claim them. And people wantedto know the source of their lack of happiness, becoming more mindful of their words and their own actions. Not everyone, of course, but the number of individuals who experienced this kind of awakening at a certain point reached a critical stage. The collective consciousness began to evolve, and no one could stop this process.
It turned out that much of the evil in the lives of modern peoplestemsfromcursesandpromisesmadehundreds of years earlier. The energy of ancestors and past incarnations mixes with the present life in the great cauldron of destiny. People began to speak of soul records, ancestral lines, and ancient contracts that still live in our field. People began to recognize that their fears, suffering, and repetitive patterns might stem from something older than theirmemories.Thecurseceasedtobea conceptfrom a terrifying fairy tale and became a shadow that could be felt firsthand. And one that could be healed.
Butreturningtoourstory,a womanfromtheMhyrra linewassoontoarriveinValpelline.Thistime,however, unlike her ancestors, she would be aware of her gift. She alone would be able to confront the shadow that no one had dared to touch for hundreds of years. And then the entire story, which began on the Night of Lunestèrein the year 800, will become clear. She will discover what truly happened in the days when evil emerged from the mists.
But knowledge isn’t everything. Will she have the courage to delve into the healing process and be able to cleanse the centuries - old curse that has befallen the inhabitants of Valpelline?
1
Valpelline, 1990
The village of Valpelline, picturesquely nestled in the heart of the Alpine mountains, looked like a postcard in early spring. Old stone houses with slate roofs, narrow streets winding between them, and views as if carved by a divine artist – all this gave the place an almost mystical atmosphere.
The inhabitants lived a seemingly peaceful life here, and the only unexpected visitors so far were tourists, seeking peace and views found nowhere else.
One day in 1990, as the first green blades of grass were breakingthroughthestonepaths,a mysteriouswoman arrived in the village. No one knew where she came from or why she had chosen Valpelline. She carried onlya leather bag, the weight of which seemed disproportionate to her small frame, and a brimmed hat that shielded her face from prying eyes. Without saying a word to anyone, she took over an old cottage on the outskirts of the village, overlooking the valley and mountains. Even the oldest residents had difficulty recalling the history of this shack. In their memories, it had always stood abandoned, serving only as a base for youthful drinking sprees. However, these usually ended very quickly, as if the estate had some invisible guardian who could drive away unruly youths with sheer force of will.
The house itself must have been very old, though itseemed not to be subject to the same laws of time as other buildings. It was surrounded by an aura of enchantment, powerful and instilling irrational fear in anyone who so much as considered what it might conceal. Over time, the villagerslearnednottothinkaboutit—aboutitshistory, let alone the future. So it stood there, ominously and eternally, while the village life beside it passed by without question.
Andsuddenlya womanappeared,enteringthecottage as if it were her own. Nothing could drive her away, no apparition stood in her way. The village was abuzz with gossip. The Valpelline residents were wary of strangers, and the woman they simply referred to as “the stranger” immediatelypiquedtheircuriosity.Shewasseenonly at dusk, slipping between the houses, dressed in a dark cloak and a hat that concealed most of her face. An aura of inaccessibility surrounded her, precisely the same as that of the old house. Even the most daring and curious feared her gaze, which could reveal her true nature. Her cottage glowed with warm candlelight, and in its glow, a motionless, hunched shadow sat by the window. He didn’t resemble her, so could he reveal what truly lay beneath the woman’s guise during the day? Some swore that at night, even when the house seemed empty, they heard the sound of footsteps on creaking boards or strange whispers echoing along the rocky road along the edge of the village.
A few days after her arrival, a man was reported missing in the nearby town of Aosta. He wasn’t a resident of Valpelline, but whispers quickly began among the villagers and surrounding hamlets that his disappearance might be connected to the mysterious visitor.
The Aosta police finally arrived in the village and began asking questions. The officer leading the investigation tried to determine if anyone had seen the missing man before andif they recognized him, but the Valpelline residents denied it. The officers visited most of the houses, eventually being forced to knock on the most terrifying door as well.
When Sergeant Rossi reached the door of the old cottage, he hesitated for a moment, made the sign of the cross, and then knocked forcefully three times. He tried to remain calm, but he couldn’t control himself. Everything inside him screamed at him to turn around immediately and lie in his report, saying that no one had opened the door. However, too many people suggested that this was where the person connected to the tourist’s disappearance might be hiding.
The longer he waited, the more he hoped no one would answer. The silence inside was so profound that for a moment it seemed the house was completely uninhabited. But to his dismay, after a few long seconds, the lock creaked, and the door slowly, ominously opened.
– Good evening – he said, straightening slightly. In the hallway, behind the slightly ajar door, a figure stood. It didn’t stepout,didn’tleanout,anddidn’tmakeeyecontact with him. Despite this, the man tried to sound confident:
– Sergeant Lorenzo Rossi, Aosta Police. He didn’t receive a response.
It seemed to him that a shadow had passed in the dark room beyond the hallway. A chill ran down his spine, and fear spread through his heart. Fearless, with no way out, Rossi continued his police procedure. Behind him stood two of his men, who also had grim expressions.
– We’re here in response to a missing person report – he continued slowly, his tone carefully honed but laced with tension.
– A man has disappeared, recently seen in this area. We have a duty to investigate every possible lead and speak with the locals. This includes you. May I ask for your dignity?
For several agonizing seconds, the woman remained silent, her face remaining in shadow. Then she opened the door wider, making a gesture with her hand that seemed both inviting and warning.
The woman lifted her head slightly. For a split second, the officers thought they saw a smile flickering beneath her hat, uncertain whether it was friendly or sinister.
– Check it out, then – she replied.
To their surprise, her voice was warm, even seductive.
Like a predatory siren luring sailors.
Something told them that if they entered, they would be lost.A short silence fell. The interior of the house seemed cooler than the temperature of the spring afternoon should allow. The candles flickered gently. Rossi glanced at his colleagues. They avoided her gaze at all costs, and one stared open-mouthed, as if unsure where he was. He seemed to see something entirely different in that space than the rest of the officers.
The search proved fruitless. No trace of the missing man was found, no personal documents. The officers emerged from the house in unreadable moods. Rossi wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt as if a whole colony of ants were crawling over him. He resisted the urge to dance something between a shamanic exorcism and a panic attack.
They stepped outside and saw that the narrow path leading to the cottage was crowded. A crowd of residents waited there, initially keeping their distance, but now approaching boldly, eager for news.
– So? – asked old Marcellina, leaning on her cane. – Is that her? She’s guilty, isn’t she?
– What’s her name? – asked young Matteo.
– Did she say anything? What is she like? What does she look like? – People shouted over each other.
The officers didn’t respond. Their faces remained expressionless, as if they’d just been through something indescribable, even though nothing particularly remarkable had happened.
Sergeant Rossi’s eyes were glassy, and his hand, holding his notebook, was trembling slightly. One of the younger officers looked as if he were about to vomit. The other didn’t say anything at all, just walked forward like a sleepwalker.
– Hello? – Marcellina asked again, approaching Rossi. – What was there?
The sergeant stopped and looked at her.
– Nothing – he said dully. – There was absolutely nothing there… nothing. With that strange, ungrammatical jumble of words, he left the townspeople speechless. He turned and continued after his officers. The crowd parted before them as if they were leading a funeral procession.
***
Within a year of that day, all the officers who had participated in the search of the cottage had left the force. One of them soon disappeared without a trace near Como.
The youngest — the one who had been silent since leaving the woman’s house — was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Turin. His file read: “Acute paranoid psychosis of unknown etiology.” This psychiatric record meant that the man had suffered a profound mental disorder that could not be explained.
After returning from Valpelline, the young officer beganto exhibit symptoms of a serious mental disorder. He lost touch with reality, sometimes not even recognizing his own mother, and his statements became incoherent and filled with anxiety. He experienced delusions — he was convinced that the woman in the cottage was following him, that he saw her outside the window at night, even though no one was there. He also experienced auditory hallucinations, hearing whispers coming from the walls and rustling sounds that no one else could hear. Sometimes, while returning home at night, he thought he sawa horned figure in the fog shrouding the mountains.
News of the policemen’s fate spread through Valpelline faster than a mountain wind. Residents whispered about it at the well, in the shop, and outside the church — as if trying to understand, yet daring not to say anything too loudly. When it was learned that one of the officers had been committed to a psychiatric facility, and others had resigned and disappeared, no one doubted that the house on the outskirts of the village was no place for ordinary people.
Since then, no one had approached its fence, and the very thought of peeking through the window or knocking on the door seemed blasphemous. Not even a suicide would do such a thing. Because ending one’s life physically was one thing, condemning oneself to eternal damnation was quite another.
The house became what it had been before — a silent guardian of a secret best left unexplored. The rumorssoon intensified when an elderly woman from the village swore she’d seen a visitor at night in the cemetery, wandering among the graves with what appeared to be a small object, perhaps a leather purse. This was so unusual that the old woman lay awake all night, wondering what she might have just seen. The villagers had their own beliefs and ghost stories, passed down through generations. And although the world was changing, old fears, prejudices, and superstitions were still alive and well. In the face of such stories, it was hard to deny their validity.
The villagers also couldn’t understand how the woman functioned without food, since no one had ever seen her in the shop. Someone once noticed a black cat briefly appearing near the cottage with a purse around its neck, but this was dismissed as the ravings of old Eneo, who had been seeing things from another world for years. Eventually, everyone fell silent. Fear told them not to ask any more questions, not to look in that direction.
A few weeks later, the missing man was found dead in the forest, ten kilometers from the village. His body lay at the edge of the valley, wedged between rocks, as if someone had hidden him there. The case was officially closed and labeled an accident —supposedly, the man slipped while trying to descend a steep slope and accidentally hit his head. However, the residents of Valpelline knew better. The fall didn’t pin him between the rocks, after all. A different version of the incident was quickly added, suggesting that a bear might have done it.
In a mysterious twist of fate, the situation quickly resolved itself. One day, the visitor simply vanished as she had appeared. The cottage was closed, and its windows covered with wooden shutters.
After her departure, it was said she would never return, although some residents swore they had seen her once or twice afterward, hiding in the shadows, watching them from behind nearby trees. She became so deeply ingrained in the bloodstream of this place that her hologram haunted those more sensitive to signs from space for a long time.
They saw her face in the crowd, her steely eyes peering directly at them. For a long time, they remained haunted by this unpleasant presence. The mystery of her presence in Valpelline was never explained, and her very memory was soon shrouded in new legends, which took root in the village’s hard, rocky soil.
***
Bydgoszcz, April 2023
Monika will never forget the moment she realized that everything in her life was working against her. Most of them were the obvious consequences of bad choices, but suddenly she discovered something else. The love that drove her to action turned out to be something completely different.
A lie in its most perfidious form. She adored him, and he turned out to be a classic narcissist. A boring and age-old story, yet so common and painful. A typical cliché for summing up the end. Interestingly, she felt no despair. The surprise was so great that she saw the world around her in slow motion, as if anew. It must have been that famous catharsis that makes life twist and turn. He deceived her. He made her believe he cared and was his greatest love. She divorced him for him, but he didn’t do the same for her. He left her hanging, hoping for a sequel. He deceived. He hurt her. And when he left, he left a feeling of emptiness so overwhelming it froze her heart. That was a few weeks ago, but only today, in a flash of enlightenment, did she feel an anger so intense that the people around her seemed small.
What she felt wasn’t a natural feeling for the man, but something that wrapped her in ivy from within. The energetic roots of death. As if she were his power bank. And yet, her friend the witch had shown her what people like him could do to people.
She fell victim because she was fascinated, thinking his fascination would strengthen her, nourish her. And at first, it did, but then she felt like nothing more than a puppet. Like a mouse caught in a trap, tempted by a piece of cheese. Like a puppet, with his hand painfully stuck up her ass.
She threw the chosen products back on the shelf and ran out of the store. It was a warm April evening, but suddenly she felt a piercing chill. She wrapped herself in a sweatshirt and staggered to the car. The nausea from her earlier discovery was so intense that she doubled over. For a moment, she breathed heavily, as if after a long run. Images from earlier events began to flash through her mind. Many people had warned her, marveling at her love story and her obsessive fascination with this essentially uninteresting man. Objectively speaking, he wasn’t particularly handsome, nor particularly convincing or calculating. He didn’t have to be a genius of evil and deception to ensnare her. What did this whole situation say about her? And others had warned her. She hadn’t listened, hadn’t seen, and now she was reaping the rewards.
How could she live when everything she believed in had turned out to be a perfidious lie? She remembered the advice that had saved her from losing her mind more than once. To avoid going crazy from intrusive thoughts, one must remain occupied at all costs. So she drove into town, met up with a few friends, and with a smile on her face, discussed everything but what was currently important to her. But when she returned home, a surge of memories tightened her throat and took her breath away. She reminded herself that the signs from the universe would find her, if only she opened herself to them. This was an important clue—she couldn’t withdraw into herself now, close the windows, and cover herself with a blanket. That would be the beginning of the end.
She grabbed her phone and, despite her gag reflex, frantically began browsing the internet. The first clue came quickly. A text from a psychologist she followed on social media. It discussed how the first boundaries after a traumatic event must be overcome mentally, but subsequent barriers are crossed in physical reality.
She decided to do what should have been the first thing: call a friend.
– Hi, Marta. – Monika spoke with difficulty, her voice sounding as if she’d traveled a long way in a single breath.
– Monika? – Marta sensed in her friend’s tone that something unpleasant had happened. – What is it?
– He… – Monika inhaled, trying to calm her breathing. – I don’t know how to say this. I think it’s only now that I truly realized who he was. This whole illusion he created was one big lie. I was stupid to believe everything.
– Monika… – Marta sighed deeply. – You knew from the start that something was wrong with him. You said yourself that people warned you. A person in love simply sees the world through rose-colored glasses.
– Yes, but you know how it is when you think you’ve found someone special. I was willing to risk everything. I would do anything for him! And he… – Monika paused, feeling anger rising inside her. – I was his puppet, you understand? He turned me into… well, whatever. He was a classic narcissist, and I believed he loved me.
– Monika, what you feel is natural. Trust is the foundation, and he destroyed it, regardless of your good intentions. – Marta tried to reassure her. – But at least you see everything clearly now, right? Don’t try anything else today. It’s a process. That’s the nature of these emotions. First, pain and regret, but with time, peace comes. You need time to see this situation from a distance. Just please, don’t close yourself off, okay?
– I know, but sometimes I feel like it would be better to hide under a blanket and disappear. This world feels so alien right now, like every move would hurt me more. Today I tried to occupy myself, to go out and meet people… – Monika sighed. – Nothing helps.
– You have to be gentle with yourself. It’s normal to feel this way. But you’ll rebuild yourself. You’ll be stronger, I promise you that.
Monika felt a warmth, as if Marta’s voice had melted the ice on her heart.
– Thank you. – Monika smiled softly. – Maybe you’re right. Sometimes you have to lose everything to see what’s truly worth saving.
After talking to Marta, Monika felt a little lighter. Yet the chaos of her thoughts and emotions still overwhelmed her. Staring into the darkness of her bedroom, she searched for a way to silence this anger and pain. As if mechanically, she reached for her phone again and opened her browser. She didn’t have a specific plan; perhaps she was hoping for chance, for some words to guide her.
Scrolling through the screen, she came across an article about “emotional detox.” She was glancing through it without much concentration when her gaze settled on a sentence highlighted in the center of the page: “Some-times we have to accept the end of something to create space for the new. The universe fills the void with what can serve us best if we just stop fighting.”
That sentence struck her with incredible force. She remembered herself a few years ago, how fervently she believed that the man she loved was the one who would fulfill her life. She had been ready to abandon everything and leave her husband, believing she had finally found true love, someone who would understand her. Now, sitting in her dark bedroom, she saw it completely differently. The love she had given him was blind. She had built a wall around him, believing that only he could give her life meaning, that without him, her life would remain empty.
Looking back, she realized how much she had sacrificed to conform to his expectations, leaving no room for anything else. She had slowly rearranged herself around his moods, his silences, his unpredictable warmth, until her own needs became an afterthought. At the time, she had mistaken this erosion for devotion. She hadn’t understood then that in this relationship, her soul was shrinking, and her joy was melting like a drop of water on a hot stone—quietly,relentlessly,withoutdrama,untilnothingwas left. The thought of having to create new space inside herself now felt both overwhelming and strangely liberating, like standing on the edge of a vast, unfamiliar landscape.
What unsettled her most was not only the loss, but the realization of how deeply she had internalized his absence. Even now, her body reacted before her mind did—her chest tightening at the memory of unanswered messages, her fingers instinctively reaching for the phone as if touch alone could summon reassurance. There was grief in this awareness, but also a muted tenderness toward herself. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel compassion for the woman she had been: patient, hopeful, and painfully afraid of being left behind.
She took a deep breath, turned to the next article, and came across a quote from a psychotherapist who wrote about forgiveness. She read it slowly, the words etching themselves into her memory: “Forgiveness isn’t for others, but for ourselves. It’s like breathing clean air after leaving a stuffy room full of pain.”
“A stuffy room”—those words immediately brought back memories. She recalled many nights she’d spent sleepless, locked in a cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe while she felt unable to do so herself.
She waited for his call or a message that would confirm she still existed in his world. In those moments, she be-lieved he was her only source of air, that without him she would suffocate completely, as if her own lungs were no longer enough.
But now she saw it differently. Waiting for him hadn’t been breathing at all—it had been a slow suffocation in her own unspoken emotions. His presence, so rare and conditional, kept her suspended on the edge of despair, teaching her to fill every silence with longing rather than truth. The forgiveness she’d read about began to take on a different meaning for her. It wasn’t about excusing him or erasing what had happened. It was about releasing herself from the cycle of eternal waiting, from the belief that love had to hurt to be real.
She was ready to put her phone down when, still scrolling, she came across an article about the Japanese art of kint-sugi—the art of repairing broken objects with gold. In Japan, they believe that what is broken can become even more beautiful. Cracks are not hidden; they are illuminat-ed. Scars are a testament to strength, not weakness.
Scars—how many did she carry?
How many times had she tried to hide these invisible fractures, to smile convincingly, to avoid admitting how deeply she had been damaged? Her life now resembled a broken vase like that, once cherished, then shattered, its pieces carefully gathered. Staring at that sentence, she realized she no longer had to pretend everything was fine, that she was whole and untouched. Each scar marked a moment she had endured, a version of herself that had survived.
Maybe, she thought, she could begin to see herself as kintsugi—not repaired to look as she once did, but transformed. The golden lines wouldn’t conceal her wounds; they would tell her story. Perhaps her vulnerability was not something to overcome, but something to honor. Af-terall,shehadlivedthroughit.Thisrealizationsettled in her body like warmth, bringing with it something she hadn’t felt in a long time: a quiet, steady peace.
Monika put down the phone and closed her eyes. For the first time in weeks, her breathing felt natural again. She drifted into a long-awaited sleep, not as an escape, but as a gentle return to herself.
***
Valpelline, April 2023
Julia sat on a stone bench in front of her aunt’s house, sur-rounded by the scent of blooming flowers and the sunny aroma of the Italian soil. It was late afternoon, the sun was slowly setting, and the Valpelline mountain valley was en-veloped in a soft, diffused light that gave the landscape an almost mystical quality. She gazed at the vines climbing on wooden supports and tried to believe her life was real. Everything here was like a dream—the rugged mountains, the black contours of their slopes, the glow of sunlight reflecting off the valley, and the evening chills rolling in from the mountains.
Just a few weeks ago, Julia had been in her final year of college. She had ambitious plans, was preparing for her thesis defense, had friends, and her favorite cafes in Kra-kow, which she frequented every Saturday. But she felt something gnawing at her, refusing to let her rest. An in-ner voice tormented her with the notion that these stud-ies weren’t for her. She didn’t remember when she first heard that voice, but what she felt then stunned her. How could she not be happy?
What had seemed like the perfect goal and fulfillmentjusta fewyearsagonowbroughthernosatisfaction. She felt trapped, imprisoned in a world that fueled itself without end or meaning. If she had stayed, she probably would have found a job, rented a studio apartment, and joined the crowd. But she couldn’t bear the thought. Ev-erything suddenly seemed artificial and shallow, as if life held no more surprises for her. She felt overwhelmed and weary like never before, like so many of her peers, caught between expectations and their true feelings. She en-tered adulthood burdened by the promises life had laid before her, but which, over time, began to weigh on her like stones. There were so many possibilities—travel, ed-ucation, career, personal growth—but the more options she had, the fewer she wanted to choose. Sometimes she thoughtherparents’generationhaditeasier:choosing
