Chapter Text
The day it first appeared, Bruno Bucciarati was seven years old.
A colorful sunset, painted with bright yellows and reds reflected off of the ocean as they walked. Each of them carried buckets in their hands that sloshed and gurgled with every step on the cobblestone path. In the far distance, much further than the path back home from the piers that Bruno’s legs could handle with the added weight, the edges of wispy bushes doused in the stark light almost mirrored the silhouettes of the few boats still out at sea. The familiar creaking of the vessels reliably guided their way towards the half-timbered houses covered with ivy and climbing roses that made up most of the small townscape. One by one, nearby lights in the windows flickered on, their glow only slightly hindered by the dust on the warped glass. In the hills, the crickets began to chirp their songs while windchimes in the gardens played their lazy songs. Up above, a squabble of seagulls circled and squawked. Their small, beady eyes bore almost uncomfortably into Bruno’s bucket.
His dad didn’t seem to care much about the unwanted attention and simply gave his son an amused smile when he scurried up next to him as fast as he could.
Bruno looked up at his dad and tried his best to shake off the nagging discomfort with a brave face. “Will we need to check the nets today?”
“No, not today,” he hummed. “What we have should be enough.”
And with those words they kept walking, merrily and carefully down the winding cobblestone roads, upwards by the metal railings, between the rectangular houses with their angled roofs as the familiar warmth of their home up by the cliffs got closer and closer.
“Quaint” was what the tourists that sometimes made their way down the coast called it. And it might seem quaint and small and old-fashioned to some people, especially those travelling between Naples and Pompeii and all those larger cities Bruno had never been. What bothered him about it was the way they said it, because they made quaint sound like a bad thing when it really wasn’t.
When they said quaint you could easily replace it with sheltered, run down, old, and decrepit, and come to the same conclusion, but that’s not what it was to Bruno.
When they passed through, they didn’t see the warm, wrinkled faces of Nonna Muscatello and Scalone waving when they met outside to bask in the sun and exchange gossip or homebrewed remedies for the various ailments that gnawed at their older bones. Neither did they see the silent rivalry between the two small stores in the centre of the village escalate to almost comedic heights every time a customer passed. They hadn’t memorized the crevices where the seagulls nested in the spring, they didn’t know which of the stones in the path you had to be careful on because they’d lost footing in the ground many years ago, and they certainly didn’t dare stay long enough to watch the colorful bands on the market stalls flow in the wind on those busy Wednesday mornings.
He didn’t judge them for it, he simply wished they took the time to see and appreciate the small things once in a while.
Maybe this was one of the reasons Bruno enjoyed these walks, when they carried the day’s catch back home after Papà docked the boat.
He enjoyed the feeling of hard work well done, the gentle push and pull of the waves against the rocky shoreline and the rocking of the boat under his feet. Though it was tiring, a little painful, and hard to memorise all the different methods, seeing Papà’s work come to fruition when a net was tied tightly enough or when he reeled in at just the right moment made Bruno’s chest swell up with pride.
He knew Papà was proud of him too, even though he would often stay silent or only nod when Bruno showed him his accomplishments. That was simply what he was like. He wasn’t good with people, he didn’t say too much or stay to chat with the other villagers like Mamma often did in the plaza, but he was kind to those who needed it and did good, honest work for good, honest pay. That was something the people respected, even if he came off a little reclusive at times.
And so, while they walked, leisurely and without a word as they always did, the sunset continued to progress on the horizon. Bruno’s eyes followed the familiar figure of his dad next to him.
In this lighting, it wasn’t hard to miss the black shapes stretching up from his wrist to his elbow like ink blots in the places where a soulmark might once have graced his now aging arms. He didn’t speak about it often—even less than Mamma did about her still faded, yet present marks that she often hid under longer sleeves or gloves—but when he did, he never seemed resentful.
“Bruno,” he had once said, when the child had gathered up the courage to ask him about it out on sea. “Fate is a fickle thing. These marks appear and disappear the longer you live, show you aspects of who your true soulmate might be and those lucky enough to find theirs can even form a bond that will last a lifetime.”
He had then gently ruffled Bruno’s hair. “But not everyone is that lucky. And sometimes, people will never get to meet their soulmate, no matter what they do. Even people who find each other aren’t guaranteed to be happy their whole lives.”
Then he’d simply cast his line back into the tossing waves and gazed out to sea.
“You have to make your own happiness, Bruno. Make the right choices, meet the right people. I’m very happy out here with you and your mom, okay? Even if she isn’t my soulmate and I’m not hers, I love you both very much. Remember that.”
Back then, Bruno hadn’t really known what to make of this answer. And how would he have? He was barely five then, even younger than he still was now. So, he had let out a simple hum, like he understood, and continued to watch the funny orange bobber wiggle back and forth in the water.
In recent weeks and months, however, that statement had started making more sense than before.
Home was still home, Mamma was still Mamma and Papà was still Papà, but there was something in their eyes, something in the way they moved and talked when they thought Bruno wasn’t around that made his heart feel heavy.
Mamma had always been the louder parent; louder colors in her wardrobe, louder speech when her passionate disposition got the better of her, a louder, clearer laugh and a louder presence in the crowds she enjoyed spending her time around. When Bruno got home, Mamma was the first to call for him, the first to berate him for getting his new shoes drenched in seawater again, but also the first to sit next to him after a nightmare and offer to read him stories. While Papà was out at sea day after day, Mamma was there to welcome him home after he'd gone to the village school with the few other kids around his age and the last to see him before he left to explore the tidepools and rocky ridges by the shore. In the evenings, when they sat together at the long oak table in the kitchen, she’d share some of the gossip she’d heard from the other women in town. Occasionally, she would scold Bruno for his recklessness, even though she barely managed to hide her smile under the facade of a concerned mother.
Her energy and devotion was what gave the house life, and yet, now it felt so much emptier, even though they were all still there.
When Bruno set down the bucket in the gravelly yard behind their house, the water threatened to spill onto the floor. Papà had already moved on to the area in front of the shed to dry the anchovies and red mullet before they’d spread them on ice and store them until the following morning to take them to the market. From the kitchen window which was cracked open, he could hear the faint bubbling of pots on the stove, the clanking of plates on the table. If he stood still and listened hard enough, he could even catch the quietest sound of one of Mamma’s favourite jazz records turning endlessly on the ancient record player she had bought before Bruno was even born.
But there were no greetings, no calls from behind the blinds, not even a mention of their names in passing.
Bruno tensed.
Usually, she would have hummed along to the music, but now, it was just muted and cold, despite the steam fogging up the windows.
It would have been easy to write off Mamma’s behaviour as her simply having a bad day, had it not been this way for months now, had she not been directing wayward gazes along the winding road. So often would Bruno catch her eyes loitering the bus that travelled through the village twice a day now. Most telling of all was something very simple; she had stopped wearing long sleeves and gloves altogether.
With the exposed skin, it was easy to spot the still bright and flourishing marks covering most of her right arm, even extending up to her shoulder like ivy wrapping around a lamppost. Though Bruno recognized them to be somewhat faded, parts of them tinged with the characteristic ashen tones he knew well from Papà’s openly absent soulmark, it was almost like they regained color every day that she leaned on the windowsill to watch as he drove away to the markets in Naples. Threads and needles, mountains and flowers all stitched together like a beautiful, evergrowing patchwork tapestry on her skin that made her lively gaze fall with longing and a melancholy he couldn’t quite place his finger on.
Crackling ice-cubes behind him pulled the boy out of his thoughts and back into reality.
“Bruno, bring over your bucket, will you?”
A quick nod was all that fit in the short timeframe he needed to grab the frigid handle and heave it upward with a glub sound. The gravel shifted underneath his feet with each heavy step, cracking and crunching as the water and fish continued to sway back and forth in Bruno’s tight grip. Wordlessly, his dad smiled and took it from his hands. Without a protest, the child let go and began to shuffle silently to the dark wooden door across the yard. In the window frame, he could see a reflection of his mom’s sunken face.
Bruno knew she disliked the life she led here in the village. He knew Papà would never fare well outside of it. He knew they wanted to get a divorce.
He’d heard them talk about it before, when they thought he was already asleep, late at night in the darkness of the living room. He’d seen how his dad’s face fell as he simply sat there, gaze glued to the floor when he couldn’t bring himself to look at Mamma. He’d seen how her eyes were overhung with shadows, heard how her voice, usually so filled with life and energy, dropped into a low monotonous flatline as she leaned on the windowsill. He’d felt his own hands tremble when he pressed against the wall and simply listened.
“So, what are you going to do now, Giulia?” Papà had asked, voice low. Defeated.
“Well, I want a change, so I’m going to leave this town. I just… I feel like I’ve been looking for someone my whole life—like there’s someone out there that’s supposed to be dear to me I have never seen before, someone I will never find if I stay stuck in this dead end town. I need to find my way,” she had replied with a sigh. A dark, pained tinge resonated in her speech that Bruno had never heard from her before.
“Up north, maybe. Turin or Milan—away from the sea. I just can’t keep going like this .”
Most of what he remembered otherwise were snippets ripped out of a conversation that must have been much longer and arduous. Small questions had been hidden in glances, big questions masked by the use of simple words. Answers were short, concise and clear. Both of them knew of the impact this would have, thought of the consequences, the uncertainties and unforeseeable future. Both of them had agreed it was the right thing to do. But still, neither of them had dared to look at the other. Neither of them had seen the regret that clung to both of their features when Bruno first heard his name thrown in.
After that he’d run away, silently crept up the stairs until their voices were lost to the white noise of the wind rattling the shutters. Next thing he knew, he’d leaned, trembling, against the closed door of his room. That word— divorce — still so foreign to him, had clogged up his throat. Silent tears had begun to well up in the corners of his eyes.
There weren’t a lot of other kids in the village—including himself, something around four others his age, and maybe two of which he actually liked—let alone others whose parents had gotten divorced. Nonna Scalone was the only one Bruno knew for sure lived alone, and that was just because her husband had died in his sleep earlier that year. There was nothing he could compare this to, nobody he could talk to. There was nobody but himself, alone with the burden of knowledge he wasn’t even supposed to have in the first place.
When he’d sat there, trembling on the cold floor, biting his lip and hugging his knees, his mind was racing.
What would happen now? What would change? Would Papà change? Would Mamma change? Would she leave? Was this because of Mamma’s soulmark? Was it because she couldn’t stand life in the village anymore, or was this his fault? Did he do something that made them stop loving each other? Did this mean they didn’t love him anymore?
Even if he was scared, even if he didn’t know what would happen or what this would mean for him, Bruno did not cry. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself. All those questions, all those things he would never understand the real answers to couldn’t change what was real, right? They were true, but not the truth. Not alone. Not by themselves.
And Bruno had breathed and sat there until the trembling stopped, until the unshed tears were dry, and until his grip on his knees grew slack and tired. And he’d heard movement on the stairs and the wind outside, the gentle coaxing of the tide against the cliffs. He’d stood up, hands curled into tiny fists, and closed his eyes.
There would be change, for him, for them, for everything . But he knew he loved his parents, and he knew they loved him. They must have their reasons, their own fears and thoughts, otherwise they would not have sat there and talked at all. There would have been no calm words, only screams and accusations. They would know best.
They would never hurt him. They were his parents, after all.
And so, after that night, Bruno had decided to wait. Even if knowledge of what was to come loomed over him, even if he could now see the signs he was able to ignore before, even if he saw the emotions weighing so heavily on their shoulders...he’d wait for answers, wait for the truth , no matter how long it took.
So when he entered the house after coming back home with Papà that evening, when he found Mamma cooking, when dinner passed in a silence that felt heavier than anything Bruno had ever had to carry, Bruno was not surprised. When they pulled him aside after they were done, when Papà sat down in the old armchair he liked to sit in to read and Mamma grabbed his shoulders and kneeled down, he knew.
“Bruno, I want you to know that Papà and I both love you more than anything else in this world, but...we think it would be best for us to live apart now.”
Her face was gentle, soft and vulnerable, her eyes still filled with a silent plea. Her voice trembled, faltered with each carefully crafted word.
“It’s not your fault that this is happening, Bruno…it’s just how it has to be. Please know that.”
For their sake, Bruno played the unknowing child, letting his face fall and head lower, even if more than anything he wanted to look into her eyes and ask all the questions that had been plaguing his mind. Still, he did not open his mouth, and instead offered her a silent nod.
“We know this isn’t easy for you… but we wanted to give you a say in all this.”
A say?
The sun was just about to disappear from the horizon now, leaving the living room doused in deep shadow which was only broken up by the dim light from the ceiling lamp. Outside, a seagull cried into the endless sky. Mamma’s voice rose in pitch. A mix of desperation and hope subtly began clouding her vision.
“I’ve been looking for an apartment up north in the city. Not Naples or Pompeii; far, far up in Milan. Your dad is going to stay here in the village and keep working as a fisherman. Do you want to stay here with Papà or move away with me?”
For a second, Bruno’s world seemed to shift; to break into pieces that rearranged themselves feverishly in his mind.
Of course. One would be leaving, the other would stay. It was common sense.
Suddenly, his stomach felt sick and his hands clenched into fists so tight his fingernails left imprints on his palm. Why the realisation only hit him then , he did not know. Maybe he’d suppressed that feeling of dread—the fear, the uncertainty, the endless questions—starting that day when he’d heard them because he simply didn’t want it .
He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want this to be real, for this to be the truth. He wanted them to be happy again, to love each other, to love him and be there for him when he needed them to. He wanted to go out to sea with Papà, to stay by the beach, to take him to the caves he’d found. He wanted to help him with his nets, wanted to learn and get taught, to laugh, to walk home with the day’s catch and enjoy silent moments on the shifting waves—
But he also wanted to hear Mamma’s laugh, wanted to dance through the kitchen while she made dinner, wanted her advice and her comforting presence when dreams were too much to take. He wanted to see the world, to explore it by her side and hear about it in her stories while the world raced around them because there was so much he hadn’t experienced yet.
And yet here he was, two choices laid out before him.
He didn’t want to be alone.
He didn’t want to be caught in the middle.
He wanted them to stay.
But they wouldn’t. And he couldn’t have both.
Mamma was still kneeling in front of him, both of her hands gently holding Bruno’s arms as if she were afraid to let him go; as if she were afraid he would disappear. Her eyes met Bruno’s, filled with expectations, and though her gaze was gentle, the pitch of her voice revealed her uncertainties broad as daylight.
Papà was still sitting in the armchair in the corner, face sunken almost as far as his back had hunched to allow him to lean on his elbows. Though Mamma had been speaking the entire time, Papà hadn’t uttered a single word, Bruno noticed with a sting in his heart. His eyes seemed defeated as he looked down to the floor, his features drooping down gray and colorless in the dim light of the room.
Had he given up? Did he think that he would go with Mamma either way? Did he not want Bruno to stay?
When he noticed Bruno was looking at him, a sad, tired smile appeared on his face, though Bruno could tell there was no real resolve behind it.
Reluctance. Resignment.
When their eyes met, Bruno’s heart sank.
Would he..?
Unperturbed, unaware, or maybe unwilling to acknowledge him not listening as intently as she thought, Mamma kept going, kept talking with that desperate tinge in her voice. With each word, her grip on his arms grew tighter.
“There’s better schools there, and more children your age! You’ve always been such a clever boy, and kind too! I’m sure that with the right education you could make it far! Come on, Bruno, you want to come and live with Mamma, don’t you?”
But in Bruno’s ears, her words rung hollow. In Bruno’s mind, however, thoughts were racing.
Mamma was strong. She was good with people. She knew how to act, how to find friends and favors—she didn’t need him with her. She would be sad for a while, and it would hurt to see her that way, but ultimately, she would do what she thought was right and be able to replace them… find her own happiness, driven by dreams and a desire for change. She still had a soulmate to find, a destiny to fulfill and she had the resolve to do it. If push came to shove, she’d be able to fare well anywhere with anyone— but Papà?
He was already a reclusive man with a quiet life. If Bruno went away with Mamma, who would be there for him? Wouldn’t he be left all alone? Didn’t Papà need him more than Mamma did?
“I…” While he could feel his mother’s expectant eyes resting on him, Bruno’s hands curled up into small fists. Papà needed him. “I think I want to stay here…with Papà.”
Their reaction was immediate. As Mamma’s eyes widened in shock, full of dread and fear, he could see Papà’s surprised face searching aimlessly for answers in Bruno’s own. When Bruno insisted, even after tears had begun streaming down his mother’s face, when she broke down crying in his arms and he could feel the sobs wracking her larger body, when he finally met his father’s eyes with a small smile and saw the uncertainty and dread melt from his expression, he knew he must have made the right choice, right ?
When Bruno returned to his room upstairs, the house was quiet. A distraught, heavy atmosphere still hung around downstairs, and if it weren’t for the occasional sob from the room Mamma stayed in, it would have been completely silent.
The clinging, clammy feeling of emptiness started clawing through the crevices in the brick. Through the skylight that usually sheltered the smaller room from the elements, the last remnants of the sunset beamed into the room. A salty breeze and the sound of evening tides rushing outside slowly made their way towards Bruno as he leaned quietly on the windowsill, lost in thought.
He knew couldn’t have both, and yet he still wanted them to stay, to make up and fall in love again. Deep down, however, he knew it was impossible, even if he kept wishing for it just because he loved them both and didn’t want to have to choose. Even if by chance his wish were to come true, wouldn’t it have been selfish to go? To leave his father behind for the sake of things he wasn’t sure to experience?
For the moment, he’d closed his eyes, but soon, he would be staring into the sunset. Soon, his face, too, would be wet with tears, but by then, the moon would have overpainted the gold with its silver luster and doused the village in black and blue. Just like his life had, the familiar scene would shift and change, unpredictably and according to the whims of fate—a future neither he nor anyone else could predict.
And thus, quietly, Bruno closed the window, not yet noticing the small camera objective that had started etching itself into the skin of his right arm, and blissfully unaware of what transpired at the same time some 300 kilometres away.
