Aria Valentina Moretti's POV

The first note left her lips like a ghost.

Soft, mournful, and trembling through the cold morning air that curled around the rafters. Aria stood at the edge of the marble platform, fingers trembling at her sides, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar. Latin filled her throat like incense—ritualistic, haunting, sacred.

And yet... hollow.

She didn’t need to look to know Father Matteo was watching from the far pew. His presence was a weight on her spine, pressing her into perfect posture, demanding reverence in every breath.

But her voice betrayed her heart.

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei...

Her voice cracked.

She clutched the golden edge of her robe tighter, praying no one noticed. But Sister Bianca’s glance from behind the organ betrayed the truth: Aria’s sorrow bled into the song like ink in holy water.

For weeks now, something had been shifting inside her. The prayers felt less like comfort and more like chains. The hymns, once her sanctuary, now echoed with dissonance. And that morning, as the cathedral bell struck six and the dawn light filtered through stained glass, she felt it again—that creeping sense that her silence was killing her.

After Mass, the sanctuary emptied in obedient silence.

She remained seated in the front pew, rosary beads wrapped around her hand like a tether. She wasn’t praying.

She was remembering.

The voice that used to guide her—her mother’s lullabies in the dead of night, soft and sweet like the smell of rain on stone. Aria didn’t remember her mother’s face clearly anymore, only the voice. And even that was fading.

“Aria,” Father Matteo’s voice sliced into the stillness.

She stood instinctively. “Yes, Father?”

“Come. We must speak in the study.”

She followed him through the side hall, past the mosaics and ancient confessionals, into the old wooden room lined with books and secrets. The curtains were drawn, the crucifix above his desk catching no light.

He closed the door with a click.

“You were trembling today,” he said without looking at her. “Your voice carried doubt.”

“I—I didn’t sleep well.”

His eyes narrowed. “Doubt is a disease. It begins in the heart, spreads to the voice, then rots the soul. Are you sick, child?”

“No, Father.”

He circled the desk, placing a hand on her shoulder. “The world outside these walls will devour you whole, Aria. You know that.”

“Yes, Father.”

“There are eyes on you now.” His voice dropped. “Not all eyes are kind.”

Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he handed her an envelope—sealed in wax. No return address. No markings. Just her name scrawled in ink.

She stared at it, unmoving.

“Someone left it in the confessional,” he said. “You will burn it, without opening it.”

Her fingers twitched around the paper. “But it’s addressed to me—”

“It is not from God.”

His tone allowed no argument. Yet the letter burned in her palm like temptation itself.

That night, long after the candles had been snuffed and the echo of prayers faded, Aria sat alone on the cold floor of her chamber. Moonlight slipped through the bars of her window. The letter rested in her lap.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she slowly broke the wax seal.

Inside was a single line, written in flowing, feminine script:

“Your mother never left you. She was taken.”

Her breath stopped.

The floor seemed to tilt. Her mother—taken?

It was impossible. Matteo had always said her mother died peacefully during childbirth. A tragedy wrapped in grace. A death for her salvation.

But this... this whispered of a different truth.

A truth that had been buried—like bones beneath sacred earth.

She didn’t sleep.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she returned to the choir loft just before dawn, long before anyone else stirred. The silence was heavier now. It pressed down on her like a confession unspoken.

She opened her mouth to sing again.

This time, her voice was not trembling—it was defiant.

Soft but piercing. Fragile yet filled with pain. It carried through the vast cathedral, reaching places sunlight hadn’t touched in years.

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna...

Deliver me, O Lord, from eternal death.

She didn’t hear the footsteps below.

She didn’t see the dark figure standing in the back of the cathedral, head tilted, listening like a man hearing his own soul for the first time.

Luca De Rossi.

Soaked from the rain, blood still drying on his knuckles.

Drawn not by the faith in her song, but the ache behind it.

He didn’t know her name.

But he knew one thing as he watched her from the shadows.

That voice was going to ruin him.

Aria’s letter lies hidden beneath her pillow, a secret she now carries like a ticking clock.

And Luca?

He’s already decided she belongs to him—he just hasn’t told her yet.

Aria descended the spiral steps from the loft, unaware her voice had summoned a demon cloaked in rain.

The cathedral felt different now. Charged. Like every echo carried a warning. She moved slowly through the nave, fingertips brushing the stone pews, her mind heavy with the words in the letter.

"She was taken."

Taken by who?

The candle flames flickered wildly as she passed, though no draft stirred.

Then she saw it.

A red smear—blood?—on the side door. Just a fingertip swipe, trailing toward the back alley gate. Her heart stumbled. She glanced around, but the church was empty. Or… it looked empty.

She approached the door cautiously, breath catching in her throat.

Has someone broken in?

When she opened it, the alley beyond was deserted, but fresh droplets of crimson dotted the stone path. Rain washed some away, but not all.

Something tugged inside her—a terrible knowing. That someone had watched her.

Had bled here.

And had not meant to be seen.

Behind the confessional, Luca wiped his hand on his soaked jacket, cursing the gash on his knuckles. The hymn had pulled him off the street like a noose of sound, sweet and dangerous.

He should’ve left.

But he hadn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not after seeing her.

That voice didn’t belong to the world he knew—where every word was a weapon and silence cost lives. She looked like something painted in light. Fragile, devout.

Untouchable.

But that’s what made it worse.

He leaned against the dark wood and murmured under his breath, “What are you doing to me, church girl?”

In her room, Aria slipped the blood-streaked letter beneath her mattress. She didn’t know who wrote it. I didn't know why. But she knew one thing with terrifying clarity:

Her mother hadn’t died the way she was told.

That lie had just cracked—and everything was beginning to shift.

She stood at the window again. The rain still fell. But now, a sleek black car idled just across the street.

Watching.

Waiting.

And deep within the confessional, a second letter—one she hadn’t found yet—waited in silence, written in the same hand.

This one said only