˳ 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥    ✶ 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙰  ♱ ۫

❛ una locura ti fa impazzire,

poi ti prende in giro ❜

i don't remember anymore if i
searched for you or you searched for me,
if met you or you met me, but it's fate.
my clock strikes six, it's the dawn of my new
troubles. if you leave or if you stay here, what
does it matter ? in the pitch dark, you light
me up, and even though often i want to have
you, sometimes i don't.

𝓣HE STORM outside showed no sign of relenting, its relentless rhythm drumming against the tall, stained-glass windows that loomed above the church library. The faint light filtering through the rain-speckled panes cast shifting patterns across the worn stone floor, a patchwork of muted colors that flickered with every flash of lightning. Inside, the air was cool and damp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of rain that had seeped into the old building's very bones.

Father Charlie stood at one of the towering shelves, the spine of an ancient hymnal resting against his fingertips. The pages were yellowed and frayed at the edges, their delicate texture brushing lightly against his skin as he turned them without focus. His eyes skimmed the text, but the words dissolved before they reached his mind. He wasn't here for the book, not really. He was here to think, though that too had become impossible.

His thoughts were a tangled mess, looping back to her—always her. The stranger from the pews. The way her presence lingered in his mind like a shadow in candlelight, something he couldn't quite shake. He could still see the faint gleam of her cross, the way her eyes had settled on him with a weight that felt like both a question and an answer. There was something about her, something that unsettled him more than it should have.

The sharp creak of the library door broke the silence, and he froze. The hymnal stilled beneath his fingertips, his body tensing as if caught in an act he wasn't meant to be part of. Slowly, he turned toward the sound, his breath catching in his chest.

She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway beyond. Her coat, heavy and damp from the storm, hung loosely from her shoulders, its dark fabric glistening faintly in the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. Raindrops clung to her hair, catching the light in tiny, crystalline beads before sliding down to disappear into the curve of her neck.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt suspended, charged with an energy that neither acknowledged but both could feel.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said finally, her voice low, carrying a warmth that contrasted sharply with the chill she had brought in with her. The faintest hint of something lingered in her tone, something he couldn't quite place.

"You're not interrupting," he replied, his voice calm, though he could feel his heart thudding in a way that betrayed him. He cleared his throat, steadying himself. "The library's always open."

Her lips twitched, not quite forming a smile but hinting at one. She stepped further into the library, her movements deliberate yet unhurried. Her gaze swept across the shelves with a quiet intensity, lingering on the spines of the books as though she were searching for something just out of reach. The dim light carved soft shadows along her features, giving her an air of mystery that seemed almost too fitting for the moment. Around her, the atmosphere thickened—less like a simple visitor browsing and more like someone weaving herself into the fabric of the room.

Charlie shifted his weight, his unease mounting with every second of silence. It wasn't her presence alone that unsettled him, though it had a gravity that was hard to ignore. No, it was the way she seemed to belong here, as though the library had been waiting for her arrival. And yet, she remained an enigma, her composed exterior betraying no hint of why she lingered.

He cleared his throat, the sound breaking through the stillness like the snap of a thread. "The collection's old," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. He gestured to the shelves, their contents a mix of faded bindings and gilt lettering dulled by time. "A lot of these books haven't been touched in years. But there's value in them if you know where to look."

Her attention shifted to him, her expression unreadable save for the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. It wasn't quite a smile—more a hint of amusement, as if she found his words intriguing in a way he hadn't intended.

"Is that your philosophy, Father?" she asked, tilting her head just enough to catch the faint glow of the chandelier above. Her voice was soft, but there was a teasing edge to it, something that made him feel exposed despite the harmlessness of her question. "That the old things are the most valuable?"

Charlie hesitated, unsure whether she was mocking him or genuinely curious. There was no malice in her tone, but something about her delivery felt calculated—like she was testing him, probing for a response that might reveal more than he was willing to share.

"I suppose it is," he replied, meeting her gaze with a steadiness he didn't entirely feel. "The old things carry history, lessons. They remind us of who we are and where we come from. There's wisdom in that."

Her smile deepened, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "And do you believe that's true for people, too? That their value comes from what they've endured rather than who they are now?"

The question hit harder than he expected, piercing through his composed exterior like a blade. For a moment, he was at a loss, the storm outside echoing faintly in the pause that followed. There was something disarming about her, the way she moved between curiosity and challenge with such ease.

"Perhaps," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "But I think who we are now is shaped by what we've endured. The two are inseparable."

She studied him, her expression softening ever so slightly, though her eyes remained guarded. "That's a convenient answer," she murmured, turning her gaze back to the shelves. "But I suppose it's one that fits your line of work."

Charlie frowned, the faintest flicker of frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. "And what about you?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "What brings you here tonight, to this old library filled with forgotten things?"

Her fingers brushed the edge of a nearby book, her movements deliberate and slow. "Maybe I'm just looking for something worth remembering," she said, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Then she glanced back at him, her gaze lingering just a moment too long, as if daring him to pry further.

The words hung in the air, her observation cutting sharper than Charlie wanted to admit. He drew in a breath, his shoulders tense beneath his cassock, and let the weight of her question settle over him. Her dark eyes locked on his, searching, as though she could see the answers he wouldn't dare voice aloud.

She stepped closer, her movements measured, deliberate, closing the space between them until the scent of rain clinging to her mingled with a subtle trace of lavender. Charlie's throat tightened, his breath catching. The dim light flickered across her damp skin, the faint sheen on her neck catching his eye before he forced himself to look away.

"You spoke of storms earlier," she said, her voice softer now, carrying an intimacy that sent a shiver down his spine. "How they test us, but eventually pass." She paused, watching him carefully. "Do you really believe that, Father?"

The question pierced him, hitting something deep and unresolved. He wanted to respond with the strength of his convictions, to embody the certainty his title demanded. But under her gaze, all those assurances felt paper-thin. He shifted, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to answer. "I have to believe it," he said finally, his voice quieter than before, the vulnerability threading through it leaving him exposed.

Her gaze lowered, her fingers brushing along the spine of the Bible she held, the motion slow and deliberate. Charlie's eyes caught on the way her touch lingered there, almost reverent. It was an innocent gesture, and yet it held a weight he couldn't explain.

"I think," she said finally, her voice soft, almost lost beneath the faint rhythm of rain against the windows, "some storms don't pass. Some just change shape."

Her words cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp and deliberate. They lodged in his chest, stirring an ache he hadn't realized was there until now. He swallowed hard, his breath catching as her meaning sank in. She wasn't just speaking of storms; she was speaking of herself, of something unspoken that tied her presence to the chaos he felt within.

He stepped forward without thinking, the motion abrupt, almost clumsy in contrast to her deliberate poise. The space between them shrank, charged with tension that made the air heavy. His voice, when it came, was low and strained, the carefully maintained control he prided himself on slipping through his fingers. "Why are you here?"

The question came out more demanding than he intended, rough with desperation he could no longer hide. He needed an answer, something tangible to ground himself against the storm she had become in his life.

She looked up at him, her expression calm, almost placid, though her dark eyes betrayed something deeper. Something he couldn't quite reach. "I told you," she said simply, her tone unshaken. "I was looking for peace."

Her composure only stoked the fire in him, the measured certainty of her words throwing his own turmoil into stark relief. "And did you find it?" he asked, his voice sharper now, his heart pounding as if it were trying to force its way out of his chest.

Her fingers stilled on the Bible, her gaze drifting back to its weathered surface for a moment before meeting his again. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or regret. When she finally spoke, her words were quiet, almost fragile, yet they carried a weight that landed like a blow.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But peace doesn't last, does it, Father?"

The question struck him harder than he expected, shaking the fragile balance he clung to. He couldn't tell if she was taunting him or speaking from a place of shared pain, but either way, it unraveled something inside him. His hands flexed at his sides, his mind racing to find something—anything—to say.

She didn't move, didn't offer more, and the silence stretched, her presence filling every corner of the room like the lingering scent of rain. The tension between them felt unbearable, a thread pulled so tight it might snap at any moment. And yet, he couldn't step back. Couldn't let go.

Charlie stepped back, his chest tightening as though the walls of the library had suddenly closed in. His hand dragged through his hair, the movement restless, a sharp contrast to her stillness. She stood rooted, watching him, her gaze unwavering. Her calmness wasn't reassuring—it was maddening.

"I don't know what you want from me," he said finally, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. His voice was tight, strained, betraying the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "But you're not just here for peace, are you?"

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing, as though she held a secret he hadn't yet discovered for himself. "Maybe," she said softly, her voice cutting through the tense air between them, "I'm here for the same reason you are."

The words hit him harder than he anticipated, their weight landing squarely on the hollow ache he'd been ignoring for days. He tore his gaze from hers, his jaw tightening as his hands gripped the edge of a nearby shelf. The rough wood bit into his palms, grounding him as he struggled to keep control.

What reason? The question screamed in his mind, loud and insistent, but he couldn't bring himself to voice it. Her answer was too ambiguous, too open-ended, and yet it felt terrifyingly intimate, like she had reached inside him and pulled his deepest doubts into the light.

The air between them grew heavier, thick with something unspoken but undeniable. His breathing was shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape.

"Don't," he said finally, his voice low, almost pleading. He wasn't even sure what he was asking her to stop—her words, her gaze, her presence—but he couldn't handle the way she unraveled him so effortlessly.

She took a step closer, and the distance between them felt unbearably small. The scent of lavender mingled with the lingering dampness of rain, intoxicating and inescapable. Her expression remained calm, but her eyes—those dark, enigmatic eyes—told a different story.

"What are you afraid of, Father?" she asked, her tone gentle but piercing.

The question sliced through him, and he clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening against the shelf. "I'm not afraid," he replied, though his voice lacked conviction. He could feel the cracks widening, his carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of her presence.

Her smile deepened, just slightly, as though she could see through him, past the defenses he had worked so hard to build. "Lying doesn't suit you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

It wasn't an accusation—it was a truth, laid bare between them. And it left him reeling, unsteady, the ground beneath him shifting with every word she spoke. For the first time, he didn't know if he could hold on.

She stepped back, the subtle sound of her movement the only disturbance in the quiet of the library. Her hand brushed the spine of the Bible one last time, an almost reverent touch, before placing it carefully back on the shelf. There was a strange finality in the way she set it down, as if her entire visit had been leading to this singular, delicate moment. The air between them thickened, every second stretching into eternity.

"Thank you for the library, Father," she said, her voice soft, but layered with an undercurrent that made it impossible for him to ignore. There was a lightness to her words, but something in her eyes—dark, unreadable—spoke volumes. They flickered over him, touched him, and then turned away. She didn't linger on her words, didn't wait for his response, but the weight of what she had said settled heavily in the room. "It's a good place to think."

A good place to think. Charlie felt the words swirling around him, but they were not just words. They were a message. A challenge. The library had never felt more like a trap.

He stood frozen, her presence seeming to swallow the air between them. She made her way toward the door, her movements graceful, deliberate. Each step felt like an arrow lodged deep in his chest, every inch she moved further from him magnifying the tension that was suffocating him. It was as though she were unraveling him with nothing more than her presence, her words.

He didn't know why, but his body moved before his mind could catch up. The word tore itself out of him, desperate, panicked, and raw.

"Wait."

It came out harsher than he meant, the plea escaping him like a desperate cry, cutting through the stillness of the room. The sound of it rattled him, as though his own voice had betrayed him.

She paused at the door, her hand still on the handle. She turned slowly, the faintest curve of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. That smile—soft, knowing—was like a thread tugging at the rawest parts of him. It was a smile that said she understood things he couldn't yet put into words, and that knowledge gnawed at him.

"Yes?" Her voice was laced with something dangerously sweet, like honey with a bitter edge.

He opened his mouth, but no words followed. His heart hammered in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. He stood there, feeling foolish, lost, unable to bridge the space between them. The world seemed to pause. The library felt smaller now, too close. He could feel the distance between them as a physical ache in his ribs. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words collapsed in his throat, crushed beneath the weight of her gaze.

A storm raged inside him, a wild, desperate thing. And yet, in the face of her, he couldn't find the strength to speak.

Her smile lingered a moment longer, a fragile thing that threatened to shatter him. Then, with a quiet finality, she turned away. The door creaked open and she stepped through, leaving him alone with nothing but the silence that settled in behind her, thick and oppressive.

The sound of her footsteps faded, but the hollow emptiness she left behind was deafening. Charlie stood frozen for a long moment, the air in the room suddenly colder, thicker. He felt the walls closing in on him, felt the weight of everything pressing down on him.

Finally, as if his body had betrayed him too, he sank down onto the nearest bench. His head fell into his hands, the cool wood pressing against his forehead. The scent of rain, still fresh from the storm outside, lingered in the air, mingling with something faintly sweet, like lavender—like her. It clung to him, to everything, and he couldn't shake it.

His breath came shallow, ragged, as if he were fighting to remain anchored to the world around him. But the ground beneath him felt unsteady, fragile. For the first time in years, he felt untethered, adrift, as though the very foundation of everything he had built, everything he had ever believed in, was crumbling away.

Faith. Duty. Self. All of it—everything that had once anchored him, that had once made sense—was slipping through his fingers. His soul was stripped bare.

But it wasn't just that. It was her. She had taken something from him. Not just his peace. Not just his composure. She had taken something deeper, something he hadn't even known was there to lose. And now he was left with nothing but the hollow ache of it—the yearning that refused to be filled.

The door had clicked shut behind her with the quiet finality of a life being irrevocably changed. And Charlie sat there, trembling in the stillness, as the weight of everything—her presence, her absence—pressed against him, crushing him, until he couldn't breathe at all.

author's note !!!!

SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS CHAPTERRJXHCYCIDJDJ.
don't have much to say, as always i recommend you to listen to the song who inspired this chapter : LOCURA, by lazza and laura pausini !!! A really good song. And I should stop recommend you italian songs that you won't listen to !!!!!

Let me know what you think !!! Leave a star ⭐️ and a comment if you want !!! I would be so happy to read your opinions !!!

Thank you for the attention 💗💗💗