The café by the seaside was already full.
The scent of coffee mingled with the smell of the sea and warm bread. Porcelain cups clinked; seagulls called above the fishing boats.
Palermo had its own way of waking up: lazy, noisy, and bright.
Naiara sat near the window, a cappuccino between her hands, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. She hadn't slept much.
That voice: "Don't look for me, Tigna", kept echoing in her mind with every heartbeat.
She had tried to convince herself she'd imagined it, mistaken the wind for a whisper. But she couldn't quite believe it.
Clara arrived late, as always, moving fast, her smile arriving before her words.
"Sorry, my time machine broke down."
"Same excuse as always," Naiara laughed.
They hugged, and Clara dropped into the chair opposite her.
"Okay, tell me everything. You've got the face of someone in a thriller."
Naiara hesitated. She'd promised herself not to talk about it, but curiosity burned too deeply.
"Can I ask you something weird?"
"With you, nothing surprises me anymore."
Naiara lowered her voice.
"What does tigna mean?"
Clara stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing, nearly spilling her espresso.
"Tigna? Why that word?" She wiped a tear, still laughing. "Literally, it's a contagious skin infection, like ringworm on your head! Can you imagine?"
Naiara frowned. "A disease?"
"Yeah, but…" Clara gestured with her hand, like wait for it. "Here in Sicily, it also means something else. It's what you call someone who's stubborn, who never gives up. A way of saying they've got a hard head."
She leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "And if someone called you that… I'd say they're not wrong."
Naiara raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, you are! You and tigna belong together. It's almost cute."
They both laughed, loud enough for the waiter to glance over and smile.
Naiara shook her head. "You don't get it. Someone actually called me that. Last night. In my garden."
Clara stopped laughing. "What?"
"I saw some men, my father's men, I think. They were taking some crates. And one of them… he spoke to me."
"He spoke to you?"
"Just that word. Then he vanished."
Clara leaned back, folding her arms. "A mysterious man working for your father calls you tigna… and you expect me not to think of romantic clichés?"
Naiara laughed, though her fingers tightened around the cup.
"Clara…"
"What? Maybe he was just flirting."
They both laughed again, but under the laughter, a shadow lingered, a question neither of them voiced.
For the rest of breakfast, they talked about the gallery: frames, lights, flyers.
Clara was radiant, her head full of ideas.
Naiara tried to match her energy, but her thoughts kept drifting back to that voice: low, rough, strangely familiar.
When they said goodbye, the sun was already high.
Clara kissed her on the cheek. "Promise me you'll rest today. You've got classic film-noir under-eye circles."
"I promise."
That afternoon, the gallery was flooded with light. Sunrays fell obliquely through the tall windows, bouncing off the glass of new frames.
Naiara and Clara worked in silence, lost in the rhythm of creation.
Everything finally seemed in place: white walls, clean lines, the faint smell of paint.
Soft music floated through the air.
Clara snapped photos from every corner.
"Your gallery is going to be a success," Naiara said.
"Only if my gallerist survives the preparations," Clara laughed, hugging her.
That simple gesture warmed Naiara's chest.
Since coming to Sicily, Clara had become her anchor, her reminder that normal life still existed somewhere. By the time she got home, the sky was a deep gold.
The villa stood quiet under the evening sun.
Her father was, as usual, nowhere to be seen. Her mother waved from the kitchen, flour on her hands and a smile on her face.
"Your favorite pasta's ready. Eat something and rest, honey."
"Thanks, Mom."
Naiara went upstairs to change. Her room was tidy as always, the mysterious canvas leaning against the wardrobe.
She slipped off her jacket and sat on the bed, her eyes drifting toward the desk.
Her breath caught. The small plastic bag was gone.
She froze, then started searching, under papers, inside drawers, behind books.
Nothing.
The canvas was still there, innocent and still, but the bag, that tiny packet she'd hidden, had vanished.
Her hands began to shake. Someone had been here. Someone knew. Her mind jumped straight to her father. He knew she'd lied. He'd asked about the package and she'd said it never arrived. If he had found it…
She tried to breathe, to think rationally.
That's when she noticed it, a slight fold in the pillow, something white tucked underneath.
She picked it up with trembling fingers.
It was a small folded note, written in dark ink, the handwriting sharp and deliberate.
"Not all blood is family."
She stood still, the note trembling between her fingers. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Who could have written it?
It didn't sound like a threat, but it wasn't comfort either.
It felt… like a warning.
She stepped back.
The curtains billowed suddenly, a gust of wind lifting the fabric like a slow wave.
Her eyes darted to the balcony.
For an instant, a single, breathless instant, she thought she saw a shadow standing there.
Tall. Still. Watching.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Only a faint sound, footsteps fading, or maybe the sea.
The curtain swayed again, and when she rushed to the window, there was nothing.
Only the wind, the salt in the air, and the vastness of the Sicilian night.
Naiara stood there, clutching the note, her pulse refusing to slow. And somewhere inside her mind, that same rough voice whispered again… Don't look for me, Tigna.
She folded the note carefully, as if it might burn her fingers.
Then she turned off the light.