Chapter 83 Ivy Doesn't Bite The Dust

• The morning in Naples had that kind of light that illuminated nothing, only revealing the shadows that had always been there, waiting. I had left the Salvatore mansion before dawn, quietly, without telling anyone; I needed a place where breathing did not feel like an act of war and where the world did not seem designed to explode beneath my feet. The city woke slowly, in an ancient murmur, among narrow streets that smelled of damp stone, old incense, and freshly baked bread. I walked aimlessly, guided by an impulse I didn’t fully understand. Five blocks later, I sensed the presence of the church before I saw it. A high wall, a worn wooden door, and a bell tower cutting into the gray sky.
• I didn’t know why I was going in. Perhaps because no one would look for me there. Perhaps because, ironically, sacred places were the only ones where people like me could hide our chaos without it seeming offensive.
• I pushed open the door, and the cold smell of melted wax enveloped me. There was no mass, only the cracked creak of silence. The pews were nearly empty; an old man slept leaning on his cane, and a woman prayed with hands lit by faith. Everything I was not. I stopped in the middle of the central aisle and closed my eyes for a moment that healed nothing but eased a point of pressure that had been tightening inside me for hours.