The plane dipped beneath the clouds, revealing the sun-drenched Italian countryside like a secret whispered just for them.
Malia stared out the window, her chin resting in her hand, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "Italy," she breathed. "Can you believe we're actually here?"
Muna stretched beside her, already unbuckling her seatbelt before the seatbelt sign turned off. "Girl, I still can't believe you managed to convince me to get on a flying tin can with wings." She glanced dramatically at the aisle. "I need to touch the ground. I don't trust physics."
Malia laughed softly, and for a moment, the heaviness in her chest lightened. "You're such a baby."
"I prefer realist, thank you very much."
They disembarked, a whirlwind of cobblestone streets, foreign words, the scent of fresh pastries and espresso floating in the air. Malia paused in the middle of a square, spinning slowly, taking it all in.
First item on her bucket list—checked.
"Don't go getting all romantic on me now," Muna teased, nudging her. "Save that energy for your mysterious, handsome Italian boyfriend you haven't met yet."
Malia rolled her eyes. "Who said anything about a boyfriend?"
"You literally wrote fall in love right under travel to Italy, boo."
"That's just… a goal," Malia mumbled.
Muna arched an eyebrow. "Uh huh. A goal with kissing under the stars, dancing, and baking involved. Sounds more like a Hallmark fantasy, not just a goal."
Malia didn't respond. She couldn't. Her chest was tight again—but not from laughter.
That night in their rented little villa, Muna snored softly on the second bed. Malia sat by the window, moonlight kissing her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the old, slightly crumpled bucket list again. She stared at the second item—Fall in love—real love.
She gently traced the words.
She wasn't afraid of dying.
She was afraid of dying without ever really living.
Suddenly, she felt… strange. Cold air brushed past her skin, though the window was shut. Her heart skipped a beat.
Far away—unseen, unknown—
In a room made of shadows and silence, a tall figure stood perfectly still. His silver-white hair shimmered beneath the faint light of the moon filtering through the open balcony doors.
His eyes, once dull and ancient with time, flared open. He inhaled sharply.
"She's here."
A pulse. Something he hadn't felt in centuries.
Alive. Powerful. Dangerous.
But not to him.
To everything else.
---
Back in Italy, Malia shook off the chill and closed her eyes.
"Maybe I'm just tired," she muttered to herself.
But Muna was awake now, watching her quietly through sleepy eyes.
"You good?" she asked, voice raspy.
Malia forced a smile. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Muna didn't press, but her gaze lingered longer than usual. She'd been noticing things. The way Malia sometimes winced when she thought no one was looking. The way she pressed a hand to her side when she stretched. The fatigue, the pale complexion under the makeup.
Muna knew something was wrong. She just didn't know what yet.
But she'd wait.
She always did.
---
That night, sleep didn't come easily to Malia. She drifted in and out of half-conscious dreams until one pulled her in too deep to escape.
She stood in the middle of a forest bathed in silver light, surrounded by trees that whispered secrets to the wind. Her feet were bare, the grass damp and cool beneath them. Ahead, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Tall. Radiant in an unnatural way.
His eyes glowed faintly, the palest silver-blue she'd ever seen, like moonlight frozen in time. His white hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands falling into his sharp, perfect face. He wore black—an elegant suit like he'd just stepped out of some gothic fairytale. A red tie glinted like a drop of blood at his throat.
He didn't speak.
He just stared at her, his gaze sinking into her bones like a question she couldn't hear but somehow understood.
Malia took a shaky breath. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head, and a smirk—just the tiniest one—tugged at his lips.
"You'll find me soon enough."
Her heart pounded.
She took a step forward—and the world shattered.
She woke up gasping.
---
The next morning, the air smelled like pastries and sunshine. Malia padded to the kitchen in fuzzy socks, rubbing her eyes, the dream still haunting the edges of her mind.
Muna sat at the counter, demolishing a croissant like it owed her money. "You okay? You were tossing like crazy last night."
Malia hesitated. "Just a weird dream."
"Ominous weird or horny weird?"
She threw a grape at Muna. "Go away."
"Girl, if you don't spill, I'll assume you were being haunted by sexy Italian ghosts."
"...He wasn't Italian," Malia muttered before catching herself.
Muna blinked. "He? Girl…"
Malia dodged the conversation with a dramatic yawn. "Let's go out. I want to see everything."
---
They hit the streets like two chaotic tourists on a mission. Muna dragged her to an open-air market where old women argued loudly in Italian and gave them too many samples. They tried gelato in three flavors, got lost in alleyways filled with flowers, and ended up dancing to live accordion music in a random plaza like main characters in a cheesy romcom.
Malia laughed.
Really laughed.
And for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was dying.
She felt...alive.
The kind of alive that made her forget hospital rooms and blood tests. The kind of alive that made her close her eyes and spin in the sunlight like she was free.
Muna watched her from across a street vendor's table, her brows pulling together slightly.
There was color in Malia's cheeks, sure. But sometimes she moved like something hurt. And her laughter, as bright as it was, had that desperate edge Muna was beginning to recognize. It was the kind of laugh that said, please don't look too closely.
She would ask again.
But not yet.
Today was for joy.
They ended the day on a rooftop, sipping lemon sodas and watching the sky blush pink with sunset. Malia leaned against Muna's shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut for a second.
"I don't want this to end," she whispered.
"It won't," Muna replied gently, wrapping an arm around her. "We've got so much more to do."
And far away… in a darkened room with ancient walls and forgotten history, he stood still—again sensing the thread that had been reawakened.
Leon's eyes narrowed toward the horizon.
"She's closer."
---