The hallway was dark when *** reached the door.
His breathing was still uneven.
His hands still trembling.
There was dried blood under his nails.
For a moment he just stood there.
Then he grabbed the handle.
Cold metal.
He pushed it down—
And in that small curved surface, distorted and unclear—
He saw himself.
A warped reflection.
Broken into pieces by the shape of the handle.
His face stretched.
His eyes wrong.
Unfamiliar.
And a thought slipped in.
Quiet.
Sharp.
I can just hear them now…
His grip tightened.
"How could you let us down?"
The words echoed like voices that weren't there.
Or maybe had always been.
Then—
Something shifted.
The reflection blurred.
And behind it—
Another image appeared.
Soft.
Unfocused.
But recognizable.
Giacomo.
His face wasn't fully clear.
Like a memory refusing to be precise.
But his voice—
That was unmistakable.
"For how hard you try…"
A pause.
"…you remain the same."
The words didn't sound angry.
Just… certain.
***'s breath caught.
And suddenly—
Everything changed.
He was somewhere else.
A garden.
Large.
Silent.
Beautiful—
Or at least it used to be.
Rows of flowers stretched in every direction.
But they were all dead.
Petals dry.
Stems bent.
Colors faded into nothing.
The sky above was pale and empty.
No wind.
No sound.
And in the middle of it—
*** stood.
But not as he was now.
His hair was long again.
Blond.
Falling over his shoulders.
Like before.
Like the version of himself he couldn't fully leave behind.
He looked at his hands.
Then up.
"…Not that I really care."
His voice echoed softly through the dead garden.
Behind him—
Giacomo stood.
Still slightly blurred.
But more present now.
More real.
"This is what you do."
His voice was calm.
"You pretend."
*** didn't turn around.
"Pretend what?"
"That nothing affects you."
A step closer.
"That you're untouchable."
The ground didn't make a sound under Giacomo's feet.
"But you're human."
Another step.
"And more than that…"
A pause.
"You've been hurt."
***'s jaw tightened.
"Stop."
Giacomo didn't stop.
"You've been hurt over and over again."
"By people."
"By expectations."
"By yourself."
"I said stop."
His voice cracked slightly now.
But Giacomo continued.
"And instead of facing it—"
*** turned suddenly.
"IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT!"
His voice exploded through the dead garden.
The silence shattered.
His eyes burned.
"It's not your fault they're all gone!"
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
"You didn't make them leave!"
"You didn't kill them!"
His voice broke completely now.
"You didn't—"
But the words collapsed before finishing.
The garden remained still.
The dead flowers didn't move.
Giacomo looked at him.
And for the first time—
His face became clearer.
Not perfect.
Not fully sharp.
But enough.
Enough to feel real.
And he spoke again.
Softly.
"…I know."
The words didn't accuse.
They didn't defend.
They simply existed.
***'s body trembled.
His anger had nowhere to go.
Nowhere to land.
And suddenly—
Darkness.
***'s eyes snapped open.
He was on the floor.
Inside his house.
His head spinning violently.
His mouth tasted like iron.
Blood.
He coughed slightly.
More blood dripped onto the floor.
His vision blurred.
The ceiling above him felt too far away.
Too distant.
He tried to move—
But his body didn't respond immediately.
Then—
A voice.
Close.
Too close.
Giacomo.
Standing there.
Clearer than before.
Not blurred anymore.
Not distant.
Right in front of him.
And he began to speak.
Slowly.
Like every word mattered.
"Life doesn't get its meaning from what you have."
He crouched slightly.
Looking directly at ***.
"It gets its meaning from who you have."
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
"You can chase strength."
"You can chase control."
"You can even chase purpose."
"But none of it matters…"
A pause.
"…if there's no one there to witness it."
***'s breathing slowed.
Just slightly.
Giacomo continued.
"You think your role is to carry people."
"To fix them."
"To survive for them."
He shook his head.
"But that's not living."
His voice softened.
"That's just… enduring."
***'s fingers moved slightly against the floor.
"You're not meant to replace anyone."
"You're not a substitute."
"You're not a continuation."
"You're… you."
The words settled slowly.
Heavy.
Real.
"And the people around you…"
Giacomo looked away for a moment.
"…they're not your responsibility."
He looked back.
"They're your reason."
Silence filled the room.
And for a moment—
It felt like something inside *** almost understood.
Almost.