Rina Zante

I pulled the tapestry aside and ushered myself into the genesis of my problem. La stanza Nera.

Unlike the other two times I'd been here, I was indifferent. The echo of my footsteps didn't make me quake inwardly; neither did the insane width here pushed me into agoraphobia.

I set the bucket on the floor and started working.

I'd changed: nothing moved me anymore. The past—to put it correctly. I had now become immune to the unwanted flashbacks and the hurt that came with them.

I worked all the way to the end of the room, down to the dining and the corridor next to it. A feeling...