Chapter Text
Sneaking away from your family for the afternoon feels like getting away with something small and harmless.
No schedule.
No “stand here so I can take your picture.”
No one asking if you remembered sunscreen.
Just you, Venice, and the soft click of your camera.
The air smells like salt and warm stone. You take your time. Photograph shutters with peeling paint, laundry hanging overhead, sunlight hitting the canal just right. An old woman yells something dramatic out a window three floors up. A boat bumps gently against mossy steps below you.
You pass the Doge’s Palace. Take a picture.
St. Mark’s Basilica. Another one.
The Grand Canal. Definitely another one.
You cross the Rialto Bridge because it feels necessary—like something your grandmother will specifically ask about later.
And then you remember.
Teatro La Fenice.
She’s talked about it for years. About how it burned down and was rebuilt. About how its name means The Phoenix. Her parents used to tell her stories about it when she was a kid. She’s never actually seen it.
You want to bring her proof. A photo she can hold.
There’s just one problem.
You have absolutely no idea where it is.
You stop walking. Check your bag.
Check your pockets.
Your map is gone.
You close your eyes for a second.
The streets here twist in ways that don’t make sense. They narrow suddenly, split into three directions, and the signs point everywhere and nowhere at once. Italian floats around you too fast to grab onto.
You consider asking an older couple nearby.
Your stomach says no.
And then you see her.
Leaning against a sun-warmed wall like she belongs there.
Bleach-blonde hair with dark roots. Combat boots scuffed at the toes. A faded black band tee. Rings on almost every finger. A cigarette resting between them like it’s part of her hand.
She looks bored.
She looks sharp.
She looks like she might laugh at you.
You walk over anyway.
“Um, hi. Sorry, could you help me find—”
She doesn’t even look at you at first.
“Non parlo inglese.” (I don’t speak English.)
Your confidence immediately drops about three levels.
“Oh—okay.” You swallow. Try again. “Teatro La Fenice… sai dove si trova?” (Teatro La Fenice… do you know where it is?)
That gets her attention.
Her eyes lift slowly, like she’s deciding whether you’re interesting enough to bother with.
“Sì.” (Yes.) Smoke drifts out of her mouth. “Ma tu sei… americana?” (But you are… American?)
“Half,” you say quickly. “I miei nonni sono italiani.” (My grandparents are Italian.) You feel yourself getting flustered. “English is easier for me. It’s my second language… but the one I’m most comfortable speaking.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“Ah.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Io…” (I…) She gestures at herself with the cigarette. “I know a little English.” Her accent is thick, the words shaped carefully. “Parlo poco.” (I speak little.) “But I understand. Capisco.” (I understand.)
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Half,” you say quickly. “I miei nonni sono italiani.” (My grandparents are Italian.) You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how it sounds. “English is easier for me. It’s my second language… but the one I’m most comfortable speaking.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying you like she’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth.
“Ah.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Io…” (I…) She gestures lazily with the cigarette. “I know a little English.” Her accent is thick, the words shaped carefully. “Parlo poco.” (I speak little.) “But I understand. Capisco.” (I understand.)
“That helps,” you say, a small breath of relief slipping out before you can stop it.
She notices.
Her eyes drop briefly to your hands, to the way your fingers are gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.
“You’re nervous,” she says in English, the word pronounced carefully. Then, in Italian: “Perché?” (Why?)
You blink. “I’m not.”
She raises one eyebrow.
You hesitate, then admit it. “Maybe a little.”
A beat passes. The corner of her mouth twitches like she might smile but decides not to.
“Non mordo.” (I don’t bite.)
You glance at the cigarette between her fingers. “That’s reassuring.”
That does make her smile—small, quick, gone almost immediately.
There’s a pause—not awkward, just… quiet. A scooter hums past at the end of the street. Somewhere above, a window creaks open. The canal behind you makes that soft, hollow sloshing sound against the stone.
She pushes off the wall.
“Dimmi allora…” (Tell me then…) She steps a little closer. Not threatening. Just curious. “Perché vuoi vedere La Fenice?” (Why do you want to see La Fenice?)
You weren’t expecting that.
“My grandmother,” you say. You switch to Italian, slower now. “Ne parla sempre.” (She talks about it all the time.) The grammar feels stiff in your mouth.
You drift back to English without thinking. “She grew up hearing about it. She’s never seen it herself.”
Something in Natalie’s expression softens. Just barely.
“E tu?” (And you?) she asks. “Ti piace l’opera?” (Do you like opera?)
You laugh quietly. “Non molto.” (Not much.) You shrug. “But she does. So… I wanted a picture for her.”
She looks at you for a long second.
Then at your camera.
Then back at you.
“Una brava nipote.” (A good granddaughter.)
You can’t tell if she’s teasing.
A man squeezes between you, muttering “Permesso.” (Excuse me.) You step aside automatically. She doesn’t move at all.
She flicks ash onto the ground and watches it scatter.
Then she nods toward a narrow alley.
“Vieni.” (Come.)
You blink. “Dove?” (Where?)
She rolls her eyes slightly.
“Ti mostrerò il Teatro.” (I’ll show you the theater.)
You hesitate for half a second.
She’s already walking.
You follow.
⸻
She moves like she knows exactly where she’s going. Cuts through side passages you wouldn’t have noticed. Ducks under low archways. The shade between buildings cools the air instantly.
You nearly lose her once when she turns too quickly.
She glances back, checking if you’re still there.
You are.
She slows down a little after that.
You pass a tiny café where an old man is arguing loudly about his espresso. Natalie smirks but keeps walking.
Then she stops so suddenly you almost walk straight into her back.
She steps aside.
“There.”
Teatro La Fenice stands in front of you—pale and elegant and quieter than you expected. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just steady.
You lift your camera automatically.
Click.
Adjust.
Click.
The light hits the façade just right.
Click.
For a moment, you forget she’s there.
Until you feel her watching you instead of the building.
“Sei felice adesso?” (Are you happy now?)
You lower the camera.
“Sì.” (Yes.) You grin. “Grazie.”
She watches you say it.
“Natalie,” she says after a second, like it’s casual.
You tell her your name.
She repeats it slowly. Your name sounds different in her accent. Warmer. Rougher around the edges.
When she asks your age and you tell her—“Diciotto anni.” (Eighteen years.)—she squints slightly.
“Sembri più giovane.” (You look younger.)
You sigh lightly. “I get that a lot.”
“Quanti anni hai?” (How old are you?) you ask back.
She shrugs.
“Indovina.” (Guess.)
You look at her properly this time.
“Nineteen?”
A tiny shake of her head.
“Venti? Ventuno?” (Twenty? Twenty-one?)
She laughs—short, real.
“Sai contare bene per un americano.” (You count well for an American.)
“Do you think Americans are stupido?” (stupid?)
“Sì.” (Yes.) She starts counting on her fingers. “Stupido, eccentrico, egocentrico… ignorante.” (Stupid, eccentric, egocentric… ignorant.)
“Most are,” you admit. “Not all.”
She narrows her eyes slightly.
“Quindi sei l’eccezione?” (So you’re the exception?)
You shrug.
“Non lo so.” (I don’t know.)
That answer seems to land better than confidence would have.
She studies you again. Not like you’re annoying.
Like you’re… interesting.
“Americana,” she says quietly.
And this time, it doesn’t sound like an insult at all.
She studies you for another second.
A pause stretches between you—not awkward, just weighted.
Then she shrugs.
“Almeno sei onesta.” (At least you’re honest.)
The words come out gruff, but not unkind. There’s something in her tone that sounds almost like reluctant respect, like she didn’t expect you to admit that so easily.
She flicks ash onto the pavement again, grinding it lightly beneath her boot.
“Non tutti americani fanno così.” (Not all Americans do that.)
You nod, glancing back at the theatre, then at her again. The building suddenly feels less important than it did a minute ago.
“Grazie per avermelo mostrato.” (Thank you for showing it to me.) You hesitate, then add in English, softer, “I appreciate it.”
For a second, she just looks at you.
The smirk fades—not completely, but enough. Her expression shifts into something harder to read. Slightly surprised, maybe. Like she wasn’t expecting gratitude to land that sincerely.
She takes one last drag of her cigarette. The tip flares bright orange.
Then she crushes it beneath the heel of her combat boot with a sharp scuff against the stone.
“Prego.” (You’re welcome.)
She shrugs like it’s nothing.
But there’s a beat—just a fraction too long—before she adds, voice lower this time:
“Se torni qui… forse ci sono ancora.” (If you come back here… maybe I’ll still be here.)
It hangs there.
Not quite an invitation.
Not quite casual.
You’re still trying to decide which it is when she shoves her hands into her pockets and turns, walking away without another word.
She doesn’t look back.
You watch her until she disappears around the corner anyway.
The street feels quieter after she’s gone.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space she left behind. Your heart is beating faster than it should be for such a simple interaction.
She was different.
Sharper. Louder. Unfiltered.
Nothing like anyone you usually talk to.
A small, practical part of you wonders what your parents would say if they knew you’d just followed a local punk stranger through back alleys without a second thought.
Another part of you—the louder one—is already hoping you’ll see her again.
You let out a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Then you turn back to Teatro La Fenice.
The doors are open.
You adjust the strap of your bag, steady yourself, and step inside.
⸻
Hours later, you step back outside.
The light has changed.
Venice is washed in gold now, the kind that makes everything look softer than it really is. The canal water shimmers like it’s been dusted with something unreal. Conversations echo across the piazza. Footsteps blur together. A violin plays somewhere close, slightly out of tune.
You pause at the edge of the steps, letting the evening air cool your skin.
And then—
You see it.
Across the stretch of Piazza San Marco, weaving between tourists and vendors and couples taking pictures—
Bleach-blonde hair.
Just for a second.
Your heart kicks before your brain can catch up.
You lean forward slightly, scanning the moving crowd. The flash of black boots. The cut of a familiar silhouette.
But when you blink—
She’s gone.
Just another face swallowed by the city.
Just another almost.
Your phone buzzes in your hand, making you jump.
Mom: Where are u??
Of course.
Reality, right on time.
You exhale, thumbs hovering over the screen before you shove the phone back into your bag instead of answering right away.
The sky is deepening into orange and rose. The bells begin to ring somewhere in the distance.
You turn toward the direction of your hotel.
But not before glancing over your shoulder one last time.
At the crowd.
At the light.
At nothing at all.