The sea hissed below her window, churning like it was angry at the moon. Tralalero Tralala lay curled in her bed, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted like vines around her legs. Her gills itched — though she had none — and something ancient in her chest pulsed like a war drum.
She was dreaming again.
But this time, the dream remembered her.
She stood in the center of a ruined opera house — once gilded, now scorched.
The velvet seats were melted wax. Chandeliers hung by threads of shadow, swaying with each breath of wind. And the stage… the stage was on fire.
Smoke curled around her bare feet. Ash kissed her shoulders like snowflakes. Yet she did not burn.
Instead, she opened her mouth.
And sang.
The sound was not hers. It came from some deep, submerged place — old and cracked and haunted. A voice soaked in saltwater and grief.
As she sang, flames erupted from the walls, crawling like lovers along the cracked frescoes of saints and demons. Statues wept molten gold. A ceiling fresco depicting angels and martyrs began to peel and writhe, as if trying to escape their own paint.
And on the highest balcony, a figure watched.
A man in torn poetry.
Bombombini Gusini.
He leaned lazily on the railing, a wine bottle in one hand, his other hand wreathed in flame. His eyes were tired, but there was recognition in them — not surprise.
"I was wondering when you'd sing again," he called.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't stop.
Each note brought more fire.
Each fire brought more memory.
Flash.
Ballerina Cappuccina, spinning through firelight like a doll wound too tightly, bleeding ribbons from her feet. Her eyes reflected the flames, but her expression was serene — maddened serenity, like a prayer whispered into a gas leak.
"You're late," she murmured, not stopping her pirouette. "The curtains are already down."
Flash.
Capuchino Assassino, standing in a pew, surrounded by bodies in clerical robes. His knife dripped ichor. His gloves were gone. His lips moved in silent confession.
"You woke the bell," he said, not facing her. "You cracked the seal."
Flash.
Lirilì Larilà, veiled in mist, dancing barefoot on broken glass as a flood rose behind her. She smiled with both her mouth and her eyes — which were entirely white.
"Sing louder," she whispered. "I need the world to hear it scream."
Tralalero's voice broke.
And the fire collapsed.
The opera house fell into itself, devoured by a vortex of smoke and salt. Her body was weightless. The stage vanished beneath her feet.
She fell.
And fell.
And fell—
—until she slammed awake in her bed in Genoa, choking on a scream.
The bell was still ringing.
She stumbled to her mirror.
Her reflection blinked after she did.
From behind her, the sea outside whispered a name not spoken in this world for 300 years.
"La Cantatrice di Fine."
The Songstress of the End.
She turned slowly. Her skin felt tight. Her teeth ached.
And on her nightstand, left by no one:
A scorched invitation.
Written in gold ink.
"Come to Rome. The choir awaits. The world needs your voice."
Signed only:
B.G.
Bombombini Gusini.
She looked at her throat in the mirror. There was a thin red line across it, glowing faintly, like the first crack in stained glass.
And far beneath Genoa, something stirred in the drowned catacombs.
Something that had once called her beloved.