Legenda Pedang Langit Dan Bumi

Catarina

They say desperate times require desperate measures. I felt like I could breathe freely for the first time in weeks. I stood at the port, letting the sun touch my face, breathing in the dry air that felt different from the dampness I had been used to on the ship. After almost a month on board, the land felt solid beneath my feet, I was finally on land again.

I couldn’t leave Italy with my passport, It was too risky and if I had tried, I might have been caught and sent back, going back was not an option. That was why I boarded a cargo ship headed for California, it wasn’t the kind of journey I ever imagined for myself. It was rough, long, and uncomfortable. When I got on the ship in Genoa, I hadn’t thought about how hard the weeks ahead would be, I just knew I had to leave.

Watching Italy’s coast fade into the horizon was one of the hardest moments of the trip. Deep down, I knew it would be the last time I would see my country; there was no turning back.

Days dragged into nights, and every hour felt stretched, I made sure to hide who I was, cut my hair, wear oversized clothes, and used blue contact lenses. I spoke little, deepening my voice whenever I had to say something. I was determined not to look or sound like Catarina Marco.

The crew mostly kept their distance, which was fine by me, the only person who broke through the silence was a young man I met on the ship. He struck up a conversation not long after we left Genoa.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asked one evening, leaning against the railing. I kept my voice low and deep, “Not really.”

He smiled as though he saw through me, “That’s alright, I talk enough for two people.”

He did, he talked about his past, about the places he wanted to see, about how the world was bigger than anyone realized. I listened, careful not to reveal too much. Still, I felt uneasy, Somehow, he seemed to know I wasn’t what I pretended to be, though he never said it directly.

Then, about a week into the trip, he grew sick, and it started with coughing, then fever. Soon, blood came when he coughed, and his strength faded fast. The crew couldn’t do much for him, and I could only sit nearby, unsure of what help I could give.

One night, when his fever was high, he gripped my wrist weakly. “They poisoned

I stared at him, unsure if he was delirious. “Poisoned you?”

“Back in Italy, slow poison.” He struggled for breath before forcing a bundle into my hands. His ID, passport, and a flash drive. “Find my brother, give him these, he will know what to do.”

I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. “I don’t even know your name.”

He gave a weak smile, “ Alexander Addison.”

Two days later, he was gone, and the crew members lowered his body into the sea. I stood by, clutching the things he had given me, feeling the weight of his last request.

When the ship finally docked in California, I carried my luggage and his stuff.

At the busy port, I adjusted the strap on my bag and moved carefully through the crowd. Everything was unfamiliar the voices, the pace, the wide streets beyond the gate.

I raised my hand, and a taxi screeched to a stop. The driver leaned out. “Where to, sir?”

I lowered my voice, keeping it deep and steady. “Hotel, not too expensive and not too far.”

The driver gave me a quick look in the mirror. “Got it, hop in.”

The ride took about half an hour, and the city passed by in flashes, shops, traffic lights, and people rushing everywhere. Finally, the taxi stopped in front of a tall building, paint was peeling off the walls, and a buzzing neon sign above the door read “Harbor Inn.”

“Is this good enough?” the driver asked.

I studied the building, then nodded. “Yes, thank you.” I paid him, grabbed my luggage, and walked inside.

The lobby smelled strongly of bleach. Behind the counter sat a tired-looking man who didn’t bother to smile when I approached.

“Three nights,” I said, sliding the cash toward him. He barely looked up. “ID?”

My chest tightened, I hadn’t expected the request to come so quickly. Slowly, I reached into my bag and pulled out Alexander’s ID. I slid it across the counter,

keeping my face neutral.

The receptionist opened it, glanced at the picture, and was about to type something on his computer when the phone rang. He answered, distracted, spoke briefly, then returned the ID without much interest.

“Alexander Addison,” he read aloud. “Cash or transfer?” “Cash,” I said quickly.

He took the money and counted it. “Second floor, room 109, no smoking, no noise after ten.”

I nodded, picked up my key, and turned to leave.

“Elevator’s broken,” he added without looking up. “Stairs are to your right.” “Thank you.”

I carried my bag upstairs and found the room, it was small and plain, the wallpaper faded, and the bed was narrow. I shut the door firmly, dropped my bag, and kicked off my shoes before falling onto the mattress.

I opened my bag and pulled out Alexander’s passport. His face looked back at me from the photo. Two years older than me, green eyes, average height. No family except for the friend he called a brother. He had told me once that he didn’t have a real family, he grew up in an orphanage. The man he called his brother was only a childhood friend.

Maybe I could live as Alexander Addison, for now, at least.

If my cover was blown, I would disappear again, find another identity. Anything was better than going back to Italy.

For the moment, I was Alexander Addison, Catarina Marco no longer exists.