Bibi's Bar was older than hope and more resistant than oblivion. It had a thick air, made of hoarse jazz, lukewarm beer, and promises that no one would demand anymore. Outside, Sant'Amaranthis roared with sirens and horns. Inside, time dragged on like a wounded man who had not yet learned to fall.
It was in this scenario that Dafne appeared.
Small, frail, with the wide eyes of someone who had seen too much and barely survived. Her dress was simple, her coat worn. In her arms, a thin folder, paper and fear compressed between the folds of vinyl. She stopped at the door, as if asking permission from her own life before trying again.
She took a deep breath.
She went in.
The bar was full. Laughter cut through the room like blunt blades, the sound of glasses clinking like warnings. But she kept going. Her steps were light, almost inaudible, as if she did not want to wake the ghosts that lived in the polished floor.
In the center of it all, Bibi.
She wore graphite gray and black, like someone who knew how to move between mourning and power. The bun on top of her head looked like a military dress, but her eyes, oh, her eyes, were those of a priestess: they observed and judged, but without condemning. They just knew. She was the ruler of the place. When she spoke, the bar listened. When she was silent, the bar thought.
Dafne stopped in front of her, her throat dry. It took her two and a half seconds to find her voice.
— Mrs. Bibi?
The woman slowly raised her face. Her gaze pierced the young woman like a scalpel. Without violence. But deep.
— Yes?
Dafne held out the folder with trembling hands.
— I came... for the singer's position. For the weekends.
Bibi picked up the material with the calmness of someone who knew that important things are revealed in silence. She leafed through the scores, the thin resume, the subtext. Each page said less than it hid.
— Independent contract. Payment by the day. Call according to the house. Nothing fixed.
— Perfect. — Dafne replied. Too fast.
Bibi arched an eyebrow, still clutching a score.
— You sang in small venues. And before that?
The question was a sheathed blade. Polished. Careful. But it was a blade.
Dafne hesitated. A second. Then another.
— I had... personal issues. Resolved. I decided to move to another city. Start over.
Bibi looked up. The silence between the two was thick.
— I understand. — she said finally.
Another silence.
And then, with the calm of someone who knows the weight of each word:
— This place does not ask questions. But it also does not accept troubles. Do we understand each other?
— Yes, Mrs. Bibi. Perfectly.
The answer came out sharp, anxious. Bibi handed the folder back as if she were handing over a sacred object or a burden.
— Saturday. Eight o'clock at night. Show me what you've got.
She turned to the counter, but before the silence closed in completely, she threw one last note into the air:
— There's a small apartment for rent nearby. Basic. Furnished. If you decide to stay.
Dafne did not know what to say. But something in her, a muscle, a fear, a winter moved. It was the beginning of a thaw. Not a home. Not yet. But maybe… a new beginning.
— Thank you. Thank you very much.
Bibi did not answer. She just nodded briefly, sealing the tacit pact between two survivors.
That night, Dafne left the bar with light steps. She brought with her a chance. Small, silent, uncertain. But it was more than she had had in a long time.
…
On the soaked street, the lamps in the sign for Bibi's Bar flickered, pulsing like a tired heart. The light rain made mirrors on the asphalt, and the night seemed deeper there in that corner where the city was slowly drowning. Inside, the air tasted of old fried food and expired smoke. The darkness was punctuated by yellowish lamps, each surrounded by a sad halo. Jazz was playing from an old radio, as if apologizing for still playing. And between the clinking glasses and scattered laughter, there was an island of silence.
On stage, Dafne. Sitting on a worn stool, her feet barely touching the ground, the guitar nestled in her arms like a secret. Her fingers plucked notes with the care of someone stepping on shards of herself. Her voice, low and subtle, came out like a wisp of smoke she was not singing, she was confessing. Around her, no one was really listening. But whoever knew how to listen would understand.
At the brightest table in the room, the silent ruler of the place: Bibi. Dark blazer, silk blouse, her impeccable bun like a signature. Her eyes, deep and precise, scanned the room with the precision of someone who always knew when someone was lying and when they were just afraid.
Beside her, her husband. A man too big for his light suit, loud voice, easy laugh. He gestures, whispers indecent jokes, makes toasts that only he believes. He is the caricature of a king but there, at that table, he is still a king.
And around him, his satellites: An anxious man, his fingers always drumming on his empty glass.
A young man in a bright yellow suit, laughing too freely, telling improbable stories.
A quiet, small woman, eyes like razors hidden in velvet. She drinks slowly, but never lets the glass empty. The door creaks.
And then, him. The Man in the Suit. Young, golden blond hair, polished amber eyes. Everything about him was a rehearsed harmony: the cut of his suit, his unhurried walk, the way the silence parted for him to pass.
Bibi does not need to look. She is already holding out the glass of whiskey before he even arrives. And he sits down as if he is returning. The group welcomes him with almost respectful smiles.
But on stage, Dafne hesitates.
The time it takes for a sustained note is brief, but there, between the voice and the silence, she sees him. And he sees her.
Their eyes touch. And the world, for a second, spins in vain. Her hand wavers. Her voice falters. The guitar stumbles. And her heart changes rhythm.
She breathes. She starts again. But now, she sings differently. No longer just for herself. She sings as if she were searching. As if she remembered. As if something old, something almost erased, echoed inside her with the sound of a forgotten name.
He smiles. Small. Almost imperceptible.
She returns the gesture. A smile that tastes like a burned childhood, of something that should never end.
At the table, the Silent Woman murmurs something to the man in the suit. Quickly. Seriously. He does not answer. He just tilts his head in a gesture that could be either listening or contempt.
The music continues, but now it carries a question.
Who is he?
And why does Dafne feel like she met him in a dream she never dreamed?
The bar continues its disorderly choreography. Bibi's husband raises his glass, shouts something that is lost in the noise. The anxious man drums as if counting the seconds of a sentence. The boy in green laughs at himself, and no one else. But Dafne's eyes return. They always return to him.
Bibi's husband says something in his wife's ear. She nods with her chin, a small gesture, firm as a sentence.
Well, well! — He shouts, theatrically. — Enough with the arts and spreadsheets! Bibi! Bring another round of drinks! Let's chill our spirits and our livers!
The group laughs. The man in the suit smiles. But not at them. His eyes still return to the stage.
And then, they begin to leave. One by one. Laughter. Backslapping. Quick waves under the dirty light of the bar. The Man in the Suit is the first to walk through the door.
Before disappearing, he looks at Dafne once more.
And in that look, there is a
wordless question. Or maybe, a promise.
...
In the small apartment with freshly painted walls and furniture borrowed from time, Dafne stares at the stove with more anxiety than a crowded stage. The flames obey, for now, and the frying pan hisses under the trickle of oil. She tries to distract herself, but she still carries in her ears the echo of the night before. The melody, the look, the man.
She is distracted. For a second.
The explosion is sudden, brutal. The oil pipe breaks with a metallic snap and, in moments, flames snake through the air, voracious, hungry. The heat bites the face. The ceiling shines in orange reflections. A scream gets stuck in the throat, and then explodes.
— No, no, no, no...!
Panic takes over the body like an electric current. Hands search for water, cloth, air. Everything fails. Smoke rises. Chaos sets in like an old friend with an unwanted visit. The neighbors shout something outside, muffled by the roar of the fire. The sirens cut through the night with violence. There is a metallic taste in Dafne's mouth, as if fear had color and weight.
Hours later, or maybe minutes, time loses its meaning amidst the ruins and the fire subsides.
The apartment is half-devoured. The charred ceiling reveals the bare structure. Blackened walls. The smell of smoke, persistent as guilt. On the floor, ashes and silence. Dafne stands, trembling, covered in soot and tears, in front of the owner and some expressionless faces. She apologizes. Short, sobbed, almost inaudible words.
— I... I don't know how... I'm sorry... Please...
But the tragedy has a hierarchy: the neighbor downstairs had his ceiling and floor ripped open in the fury of the flames. He was not home. No one knows who he is exactly. Just a name on the mailbox. A mystery now seasoned with loss.
And it is this unknown that occupies Dafne's mind more strongly than the guilt itself.
She is sitting in the middle of the chaos, trying to catch her breath, when she hears the door creak.
The building manager comes in, his face tired, his clothes wrinkled, like someone who sleeps little and solves too many problems.
— That Safo guy is here,— he says, bluntly. —He's at the bar, right there in front.
Dafne looks at him as if he had summoned a ghost. Her heart, which had already been staggering, starts racing.
Safo. A name that tastes like an old poem. It could not be... But it is.
She runs to the window. She pushes the shutter open with trembling hands.
And there he is.
On the sidewalk in front, under the soft morning light, the Man in the Suit. His golden blond hair now shines in the daylight, but he is the same. The same honeyed look. The same discreet smile of someone who knows more than he is saying. The same one who, the night before, left without explanation.
And now he is there by coincidence, by fate, or by one of those life changing mistakes.
Dafne recoils, as if the air had become heavy. A whirlwind of panic hits her in the chest. She leans against the doorframe, trying to breathe. Words come out in disarray, like thoughts spoken aloud.
— He is going to hate me. Of course he will. I destroyed his roof...
Pause. A spark of hope tries to survive under the rubble of fear.
— But it can't just be a coincidence. This... This has to mean something, does not it? Both of us...
She takes a deep breath, stares at the cracked mirror on the wall.
— I have a civil obligation to clarify the situation. It is the least... That's all.
But beneath this reasoning, the same old voice throbs — whispering cruelly.
— You? Talk to him? As if... Look at you.
The wrinkled dress. The soot on your face. The chaos around you.
And yet, she stands up. Trembling, yes. But upright.
She goes to the window again. Looks.
He is no longer there.
The emptiness on the other side of the street seems to mock her hesitation. But it does not matter now. The decision has been made. And even though the moment has passed, she knows she has to go to him.
She has to knock on the door of destiny, even if it is just to hear the silence.
Dafne walks to the hallway. Her bare feet on the rough wood, her cold hands on the doorknob of his apartment.
She breathes.
And knocks.