CHAPTER 1

I put half a biscuit in my mouth while she ties her fiery red hair into a ponytail.

«I have to take your brother too. I can't be late for work every day.»

I know this will go on for the entire trip, so I exchange a knowing glance with the blond dwarf sitting next to me. He gives me a chocolate-smudged smile, and I can’t help but curve my lips in return.

«Don't worry, I'll take the bus.»

She tosses the cups haphazardly into the sink. «Good idea, that way I can take the car in for repairs.»

With my father's insurance money, she bought one of those self-driving cars. A Tesla, to be precise. He would have approved—he liked new technology. The night he died, he was watching a program about artificial intelligence. Salvation or damnation for humanity? Feels more like the second option to me, considering how often it breaks down. He’ll never know the answer, but at least it won’t kill him, right?

I try to accept it, with these foolish thoughts. But it’s not easy.

I liked my dad.

That night, I was sitting next to him on the couch. I thought he had fallen asleep with the remote in his hand.

It happened a couple of years ago. It feels like yesterday and, at the same time, like a century has passed. I remember every detail. My therapist says it's a normal feeling when processing grief.

I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.

«Bye, I’m off.»

I step outside, and the cool morning air lifts my hair. I don’t know who I inherited it from—so dark and straight. Along with my equally dark eyes, I’m the perfect anonymous girl. Nothing to report. Calm waters, in every sense.

I cross the courtyard, avoiding eye contact with a neighbor who will probably think I’m rude for not greeting her. Who cares.

I live in a neighborhood full of old people who are never satisfied with anything. It’s on the outskirts of downtown, with everything you need—except for a decent hangout spot or anywhere remotely interesting for young people.

I walk quickly to the bus stop. Useless rush, since twenty minutes later, I’m still there, contemplating the meaning of life. To complete the picture, the sky clouds over with a layer of gray, and fine, needle-sharp raindrops start to fall. Within minutes, the street darkens and glistens, releasing the familiar scent of wet asphalt and dust that defines this city. People scurry under the awnings of bars and beneath the spindly trees that barely provide any cover.

A girl shields her head with a folder and joins me under the bus stop shelter.

«Eight, three, M, two,» she says, pulling me away from my latest pointless TikTok video.

«Excuse me?»

«Has the 803 already passed?» she asks, flashing a bright smile.

Lucky her, being so full of life at seven-thirty in the morning.

I point to the sign. «Only the 715 stops here.»

«Oh, wrong stop. Well, thanks.»

She repositions her makeshift umbrella and rushes off, disappearing around the corner.

«Sorry for the bad news,» I murmur, with a faint trace of detached amusement.

By the way, I have no idea where that bus goes. I’ve never seen that number around here. But after another ten minutes, my bus finally arrives. My shoulder has turned to stone—inside my backpack, my Greek dictionary weighs a ton.

I get on and shut my brain off until my stop. Before reaching my school, the bus loops around the city, but maybe I’ve managed to get there on time. I yawn, grab my folder, and step off. I walk toward my high school, my mind blissfully blank.

Maybe that’s why I notice the new mural on the blackened wall between a bar and a fruit shop.

Eight-oh-three.

I should play that number—maybe I’ll become a billionaire. But then, why would someone go through the trouble of using up a decent amount of spray cans to paint something like that?

«Hey, Lilia… Have you seen him today?»

Elena throws an arm around my shoulders, adding to the already considerable weight of academia pressing down on me.

«Who?»

She sighs and tilts her chin toward a tall guy, dressed in black from head to toe.

«Emanuele...»

«Ugh, that guy thinks he’s a god because of you all drooling over him.»

I have to admit, he’s not bad. He reminds me of Tom Holland, but with blue eyes. I’ve never spoken to him, but like hell seniors would waste time talking to nobodies from the third year.

Elena adjusts her bangs. She’s dyed the tips of her hair pink, making her sweet, slightly chubby face look even more like a doll’s.

«No, seriously. That guy is a god.»

«Sure, whatever. Let’s focus on the real gods we’re about to face in the Greek test.»

«Oh, please, you’re a genius.»

Actually, ever since I lost my dad, my grades have skyrocketed. Usually, it’s the other way around, but maybe the trauma triggered some kind of incomprehensible survival instinct in me.

Even that morning, the translation isn’t a problem. I barely flip through the dictionary, except to find a bizarre aorist I’ve never seen before.

I finish an hour early and ask to go to the bathroom. I need air.

This happens more and more often. Sometimes, I feel trapped in a box, like my lungs are turning to stone.

Needless to say, my psychologist blames it on my repressed grief. She says not crying has tangled up a mess of unexpressed emotions in my subconscious. I don’t fully believe her, but she’s the expert. So I just nod every time she gives me these explanations.

As I reach the end of the hallway, I check my phone.

Not coming home tonight, my mom texts. Left Luca at Aunt’s.

Have fun, I reply.

Double shift.

So that’s what we’re calling it now.

Cut it out, Lilia.

Fine. I take her advice and shove my phone back into my pocket. As I do, my gaze meets that of the so-called god.

Emanuele is standing by the window, exhaling a cloud of vapor through the crack. I stop, my lips parting in mild shock. He’s smoking, completely ignoring the school rules.

Without missing a beat, he tucks his vape back into his pocket and walks toward me.

And passes right by.

Well done, heart, for suddenly beating like an idiot. Now how do we admit we actually believed it?

I lean against a locker and take a deep breath, trying to rebuild my self-esteem.

«Seriously,» I mutter. «I don’t even like him.»

My gaze falls on the busted lock of a locker. 801. Then 802, and, of course, 803.

I’ve never thought about it, but they all start with an eight. The desks have a five, the locker rooms a three. The admin offices, a one. I would’ve kept going, but then that number catches my eye again.

I step closer. The locker is locked.

I would’ve left. I swear I would have, if I hadn’t noticed the rotating dials for the combination. Numbers and letters, of course. Mine is 849, and the code is 0-9-H-B.

I don’t even know why I try it. Obviously, it won’t work.

I glance around like a thief. The janitors are chatting by the stairs. A strange urgency grips me, as if I know what to do, but I’m not doing it.

Maybe my trauma has messed me up more than I thought. Okay, calm down. Just think for a second and...

«Eight, three, M, two.» I enter the code as I whisper it.

«Oh, shit,» I murmur as the lock clicks open. «What the fuck…»

Swearing isn’t really my thing, but this is too much. How did I know?

My hands tremble. I hope it’s empty. Maybe it is, and the story ends here. Yes, it must be empty.

But everything would only make sense if it weren’t. Right? No, no. It still wouldn’t make sense.

I knew it. I knew it.

There’s something inside. A cream-colored envelope. Anonymous. Sealed.

«Loitering is not allowed at this hour,» a voice snaps.

The janitor’s words hit me like a bullet to the heart. The envelope slips from my hands and lands at my feet. I slam the locker shut and grab it at lightning speed.

«Uh, I was going to the bathroom.»

And I do. I rush in, lock the door, and sit down with my stomach in knots and my heart racing.

I stare at the envelope in my hands. I know I have no choice.

I have to open it.

Who wouldn’t?

Sure! Here’s the translation, maintaining the style and flow, along with your preferred quotation marks:

But if I open it, there’ll be something written inside… And then what?I know I won’t be able to pretend none of this happened.

Anyway, I can’t ignore it. Otherwise, I’d have already thrown this damn envelope away. This shitty envelope.

«How did I end up in this mess?» I whisper under my breath.

Okay, it’s not a mess—yet. I can still get out of this clean. I just need to do the right thing.

I’ll open it. Yeah, nothing to worry about.

I’ll open it.