Drip-drop, drip-drop, drip.
Night falls and Nana’s world grows wide, her mind expanding in the darkness. When illuminated, she can see the walls, feel the walls, but where there is no light there is no wall to be seen. There could be a cliff in front of her and she’d walk off and fall, fall, fall into the abyss. None the wiser.
It’s like space, the terrifying idea of there being no limit, before realizing that there being a limit might even be scarier. The universe in a box. The thought makes her claustrophobic. But a box one can open. A coffin? No can do.
And just like that, Nana thinks when night falls.
Of the woman lying next to her, of the child in the nursery down the hall, of the lightning crackling outside her window, and that she does not need eyes to love.
Love is blind and only in darkness, she discovered why.
Timoteo di Vongola was careful, but never quite cautious enough. His mother has known this since his birth and curses it even beyond his death. Daniela di Vongola, vibrant, stark and alive even in mourning garb. It’s a suit, immaculate as always. Crisp white against pitch black, rain dripping off her nose- or tears perhaps? - as she sets her son’s pyre alight.
The boat holding his body floats out into the open sea. Bowing over, she places her foot in the hook and straightens her leg. The pier creaks as she raises the crossbow, feeding it flames. The crackling is deafening in the silence.
She lets go. The burning quarrel hits its mark like a dream- or no, a nightmare- flames spreading.
He was an idiot, her boy. An idiot who drank too much and got shot in the head like the fool he was. By his date, of course. Who else? The Vongola like the taste of power rooted in fatality, their love a flower in a sea of fire. Timoteo was no different.
Her boy, gone like that.
As the funeral attendees avert their gazes from Ottavo’s visage, Daniela’s face turns to stone. She needs to be strong. For her famiglia, if nothing else.
The flames dance like a wildfire, reducing her son’s corpse to ashes. Their message is loud and clear:
The Vongola is heirless.
The shadows open their gaping maws and sharpen their fangs.