Page 34 of These Immortal Truths
His smile is Piers’ smile, dimpling in the corners. “Wait here. These stories are best told with wine.”
He returns with a blanket, a bottle of wine, three glasses, and a large cut of cheese. Laying the blanket over the ground, he pours the glasses and sets one at the base of Piers’ headstone. “It is not yet All Souls Day,” he explains softly, “But if the stories are true, I suspect my grandfather will be here to enjoy a glass with us.”
Anna nods, accepting her glass with a quiet thank you.
Franco raises his glass. “Salute.”
She mimics the motion, echoes the words, and takes a drink. The wine warms the emptiness in her chest.
“Many families lost everything and everyone in those years. Genoa felt like a city of ghosts, the streets and houses were so empty. The way Mama told it, our family would have joined them if not for her father. They lived in a tiny cottage outside the city—Nonni used to joke that it wasn’t big enough for a family of three let alone six, and she hated how far from the market it was, but Nonno refused to leave it. It was his mother’s home you see, the one he grew up in. No matter how Nonni needled him to move, he held fast. Mama says that little cottage is what saved their lives when the plague came.”
He breaks off a chunk of cheese and hands it to her. Anna accepts it with a trembling hand, but doesn’t bring it to her lips. There are memories dancing behind her eyes. A small stone and mortar home with a red tiled roof and a garden off the kitchen where Piers would eat tomatoes straight from the vine.
Franco takes a sip of wine, his blue eyes sharp and unfaltering as he stares at her over the rim. When he lowers it, he glances at the name on the headstone. “She was well-learned in healing apparently—his mother. Taught Grandfather Piers enough for him to recognize a disaster when it came. They stayed at the cottage, far enough away to escape the sickness ravaging the city. Mama was only six when it happened, but she remembered not understanding why she couldn’t go see Nonna’s side of the family when they used to visit weekly … she remembers how hungry she felt when the garden had no more to give them. She remembers her father leaving to get food, of waking to find it on their front step and her father having boarded himself in the stables for a week before he would allow himself to join them again. When the food ran out, he made the trip again. And again. And again. Until the plague claimed him and he passed away alone, having kept his family safe to the very end.”
Anna’s throat is too tight to speak. She knows if she tried, the only thing likely to pass her lips is a weak sob. There’s a trembling in her limbs, her knuckles white as she grips her cup and struggles to quiet the shaking. She ducks her head, hoping Franco didn’t catch sight of the tears stubbornly gripping her lower lashes.
His hand finds hers, the calluses lining his palms are rough—a testament to how many of these graves he must have been responsible for digging. “Don’t be sad, Bisnonna.”
Anna’s head snaps up, her eyes wide and her heart wild.
The smile Franco gives her is warm and knowing. He squeezes her hand. “Your son lived well and died honorably.”
Anna learns that it was not memories alone that bound Piers to their little cottage, but the hope that someday she’d return. She learns that he passed down their story through his children, and their children to theirs. Franco took the job of groundskeeper to watch over his grandfather’s grave, the same way his widowed sister still lives in the cottage. To watch. To wait. Because Piers’ had been so certain that someday she would return.
Franco takes her to the home she raised him in over a century ago. It’s larger than before, rooms added over the generations to mold to the growing families that lived inside it. The garden is larger, too. A long table sits amongst the tall tomato vines and herbs. She lets her fingertips trace the doorways, drag along the walls. Touching it feels more real than the smiles she’s welcomed with; less surreal.
When she looks hard enough, she can see traces of Piers in all of them.
They eat in the garden, wine flowing and food lining the center table in a feast she hasn’t had in years—focaccia and salt cod,pansotti with walnut sauce and fried squid. And, of course, plenty of pesto. They eat and drink to their heart’s content, laughter filling the garden as they trade stories long after the sun sets and stars dot the sky.
It is the family Anna has never had; the family she never knew to want.
Children run around the garden after dinner, catching crickets and searching for frogs while the adults talk late into the night. Anna’s blood hums pleasantly under the wine’s spell as she shares her own stories and her own travels. The entire time, she waits for them to accuse her of lying—her entire existence feels more impossible the more she speaks. Their attention never wavers, the accusations never leave their lips.
The faith Piers’ children had in him was strong enough to pass down, generation to generation. She should have been nothing more than a character in his story, as real as mermaids and stars that grant wishes. Instead, they accepted it in their hearts as truth.
She tells stories about Piers growing up, about the way they’d mark his growth in the doorway of his room. Maria—Franco’s sister—laughs and tells her they’re still there. Only now it’s decorated with their measurements as well. They laugh and drink until, one by one, they excuse themselves. Franco’s rough, callused hand grasps her shoulder on the way out. Despite the dark, Anna can still make out the glassiness of his eyes when he tells her, “I’m so happy you came, Bisnonna.”
Anna has no other answer than, “Me too.”
She stays in the garden long after everyone has said their good nights; the last one seated at a long and empty table.
Anna swirls the wine in her glass and tries not to think about the metaphor staring back at her from their empty seats.
“You could stay, you know.” From behind her, the words quietlyunfold like the soft whisper of an old, treasured letter in the night. “Nothing is stopping you.”
Anna sets her drink down, her knuckles white. He’s wrong. “Everything is stopping me.” Looking at him over her shoulder, she offers a small smile. It’s tinged with sadness and acceptance. “This isn’t my home now anymore than it was then. Just another house I’ll someday need to leave.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the time you have.” Khiran sits beside her, their shoulders brushing as he settles into his chair. “This is an opportunity, Anna. Don’t pass over it out of fear.”
Anna’s lips thin, defensive. “Who says I’m afraid?”
He looks at her in that way she’s growing to hate—like he’s seeingintoher instead of through. “Youdo. You’ve been swinging between happiness and terror for hours.”
She cringes, beneath the tightness in her chest, her heart hasn’t stopped racing for the past hour. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t feel fair.”
Sighing, he looks up at the sky. “I wish I could tell you it was in my control, but it’s not. Some things can’t be helped.”
