Chapter Text
The sky over Pompeii simmered with heat, the air clinging to Alex's skin like the breath of a furnace. He tugged at the collar of his linen shirt as he led the tour group through the winding ruins of the ancient city. His voice, smooth from years of repetition, carried over the cobbled street despite the buzz of cicadas and the distant hum of tourists.
"Here," he said, gesturing with a practiced hand toward the bathhouse, "you can still see the frescoes. Look closely—notice how the red pigment has held, even after nearly two millennia? They used cinnabar, a mercury-based mineral. Toxic, but brilliant."
A few heads leaned in closer, cameras clicking.
He checked his watch. 3:12 p.m., no messages. Not like he'd expected any, anyway.
It wasn’t heartbreak that sent Alex running from London. Not really. It was the slow erosion of something that once felt full and living, now worn down to a bare silence. Exhaustion had done most of the work—exhaustion from the weight of unsent messages, unanswered calls, and from waking up alone too many times in a flat that no longer felt like home. His partner, Jeremy, had said all the right words in the beginning. They would make it work. The distance wasn’t insurmountable. But somewhere between one missed anniversary and a cancelled flight, those words had stopped meaning anything.
Nine months. That’s how long they’d tried. When Jeremy finally said, “I can’t keep doing this,” over a crackling video call, Alex had only nodded. There had been no fight. No dramatic goodbye. Just a silence that stretched too long, followed by the quiet click of a laptop lid closing.
He packed that night. A suitcase, a duffel, and a box of books he mailed to himself. The job offer in Italy had been sitting in his inbox for two weeks, unopened. He accepted it the next morning.
Pompeii wasn’t a fresh start. It was a burial ground. But it felt honest.
The tour company that managed the archaeological site welcomed him with easy paperwork and a well-worn uniform shirt. In return, he brought a warm accent, a PhD in ancient history, and a face the tourists seemed to like. It was a job that let him talk about things that didn’t hurt. Buildings. Gods. Ash.
“This way, everyone,” Alex called to the group, his voice sharp and clear in the late afternoon air. They stood near the broken skeleton of the basilica, shoes crunching gravel and ancient dust. “The Forum,” he said, motioning grandly with one hand, “was the heartbeat of the city. Government, religion, markets—you name it. Everything passed through here.”
He smiled faintly as he walked, guiding the tourists past toppled columns and sunbaked mosaics. His words came smoothly, the product of years spent studying, rehearsing, and now performing. A couple posed with the ruins in the background, their grins wide and untroubled. Someone’s child asked about gladiators. Another tourist, older and sun-hatted, launched into a detailed question about Roman property laws.
Alex kept his tone polite, measured. “Well, what we know comes mostly from inscriptions and graffiti. Pompeii gives us slices of daily life, but not always the big picture. It’s like reading a city through its text messages.”
The sky rumbled. Low and warning.
He looked up.
Dark clouds had rolled in over the mountains, thicker and faster than expected. The wind picked up, tugging at jackets and scattering dust. The temperature dropped suddenly—too suddenly. The air crackled with something tense and unseen.
"Alright," he called out, raising his voice as the wind picked up and flipped the corner of his guidebook, "we’re going to cut the tour short. There’s a storm rolling in fast. These stones turn into ice rinks when it rains—trust me. Please stay close."
There were a few mutters of complaint, one teenager huffing about the lack of Wi-Fi, and an older American man muttered something about Zeus being in a mood. Alex managed a half-smile but was already checking the line of clouds advancing beyond Vesuvius.
They moved past the House of the Faun, the group’s pace slowed by uncertainty and the sudden tug of wind lifting hats and rustling brochures. The sunlight dimmed with unnatural speed. Alex felt that subtle pressure behind his eyes—the kind that always came with a heavy storm. The air smelled like copper and wet dust.
He made sure each tourist stepped safely past the uneven paving stones, noting how the youngest clung nervously to their parents’ hands. His fingers brushed over the worn edge of a pillar as they moved past it, grounding himself in the stone.
They reached the main gate, and Alex turned to the museum attendant, already ushering the group out with firm but calm instructions.
"Thanks for coming! Sorry for the short tour! Be safe out there—Pompeii will still be here tomorrow."
A few people laughed. A woman shouted something about getting a refund. Alex didn’t bother answering. His eyes were on the sky.
Alex stayed back, counting heads out of habit. He jogged to the side gate they’d used earlier, just to be sure no one straggled behind. It was empty, just the wind howling between the stones and a statue staring blankly across the ruin.
He reached for the latch. It jammed.
Of course it did.
He tugged harder, muttering under his breath. The rain had turned into a full downpour now, soaking through his jacket, plastering hair to his forehead. He wrestled the metal latch into place, swearing as his fingers slipped.
Just one more second. One breath more than he should have taken.
A flash.
White. Blinding. Absolute.
The entire world turned electric.
Thunder cracked, so loud it split the sky. A scream without a mouth. A roar without end.
Alex didn’t even hear himself fall. Nor did he feel the stones rushing up to meet him.
And then, silence.