Episode 2: Five Years of Silence

 

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FIVE YEARS AGO - THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WEDDING

Alessia woke to nausea rolling through her stomach like a wave. She barely made it to the chamber pot before vomiting, her whole body shaking.

When she finally stopped, she sat back on her heels, breathing hard.

Pregnant.

She was pregnant.

The realization hit her with the force of certainty. One night with her husband—one single night—and now she carried his child.

Their child.

Joy and terror warred in her chest. She pressed a hand to her still-flat belly, wonder blooming through the fear.

A baby. Sebastian's baby.

"You're ill." Helena's voice came from the doorway, cold and clinical.

Alessia looked up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm not ill. I'm pregnant."

"I can see that." Helena's expression didn't change. "Unfortunate timing."

"Unfortunate?" Alessia struggled to her feet. "How is this unfortunate? It's wonderful. Sebastian will be so happy—"

"Sebastian is occupied with more important matters." Helena moved into the room, her posture rigid. "He doesn't need to be distracted by news of a pregnancy. You'll write nothing of this to him. Do you understand?"

Alessia stared at her. "Nothing? But he's the father. He has a right to know—"

"He has a duty to the crown that supersedes your condition." Helena's voice was ice. "When the child is born, and if it survives, then we'll consider informing him. Not before."

"But—"

"You'll do as I say, or you'll find yourself on the street." Helena turned toward the door. "You have no family, no money, nowhere to go. Be grateful I'm allowing you to stay here at all, given your father's disgrace."

She left before Alessia could respond.

Alessia sank onto her bed, hands shaking.

She'd write to Sebastian anyway, she decided. She'd tell him about the baby. About everything.

She pulled out paper and ink—precious commodities in her small room—and began to write:

My dearest Sebastian,

I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I miss you terribly, though we barely knew each other. I think of our wedding night often, and of your kindness to me.

I have news that I hope brings you joy: I am with child. Our child, conceived on our wedding night. I am three weeks along, and though the morning sickness is difficult, I am happy. So very happy.

Please write when you can. Even just a few words would mean everything.

Your wife,

Alessia

She sealed the letter carefully and brought it to Helena's study, where all outgoing mail was managed.

"For Sebastian," she said, placing it on the desk. "To be posted with the next mail."

Helena glanced at it, her expression unreadable. "Of course. I'll see it's sent."

The letter was never posted.

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FOUR YEARS AGO - THE BIRTH

"Push! You must push!"

The midwife's voice seemed to come from very far away. Alessia was drowning in pain, her body tearing itself apart from the inside out.

"I can't," she gasped. "I can't—"

"You can and you will!" The midwife's hands were firm on her legs. "The first baby is crowning. Push NOW!"

Alessia screamed and pushed, her vision going white with agony.

And then—crying. A baby's cry, thin and outraged.

"A boy!" the midwife announced. "But wait—there's another—"

"Another?" Helena's voice, sharp with shock. "What do you mean another?"

"Twins! No—wait—" The midwife's hands moved quickly. "Three. She's having triplets!"

The room erupted in chaos. Alessia barely registered it, her body already contracting again, pushing out the second child, then the third. Each birth a fresh agony, each baby's cry a small miracle.

When it was finally over, Alessia lay back against the sweat-soaked sheets, trembling with exhaustion and shock.

"Three boys?" she whispered.

"Two boys and a girl," the midwife corrected, wrapping the babies in clean cloths. "All small, but breathing. Healthy, by God's grace."

Alessia started to cry. Three children. Three lives created from one night with a man whose face she'd barely seen.

"Let me see them," she begged. "Please—"

The midwife brought them over one by one. The first boy, dark-haired and serious even in sleep. The second, smaller, his face scrunched in distress. The girl, tiny but loud, already making her presence known.

"Dante," Alessia whispered, touching the first boy's cheek. "Marco. Lucia."

She named them after characters in her father's favorite texts. Names that meant something. Names with history and weight.

Her children.

Sebastian's children.

"I need to write to Sebastian," she said, looking up at Helena. "He needs to know—"

"He'll know when it's appropriate," Helena said coldly. "The midwife needs to be paid. The babies need care. You need to recover. There's no time for letters."

But when Alessia recovered enough to sit up, she wrote anyway:

Sebastian,

We have been blessed with children—three of them, born healthy and strong. Two sons and a daughter. Dante, Marco, and Lucia.

They have your dark hair, your eyes. Dante has your serious expression already, though he's barely a week old. They're beautiful. I wish you could see them.

I know your duty keeps you away, but when you can, please come home. They should know their father.

Your wife,

Alessia

She gave the letter to Helena to post.

It joined the first letter in a drawer, unsent.

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THREE YEARS AGO - FIRST STEPS

"Mama! Mama, look!"

Alessia looked up from her sewing to see Dante standing on his own, wobbling but upright. Her heart swelled with pride and joy.

"You're standing! Oh, my clever boy!"

Marco, not to be outdone, pulled himself up using the edge of the bed. He took one shaky step, then another, before tumbling onto his bottom with a surprised expression.

Lucia, still the smallest, watched her brothers with fierce determination in her eyes. She wouldn't be far behind.

Alessia wished desperately that Sebastian could see this. Their children's first steps. Such a precious milestone.

That evening, she wrote to him:

Sebastian,

The children are walking now! Dante took his first steps this morning, and Marco followed this afternoon. Lucia is determined to catch up to her brothers. They're growing so fast.

I wish you could see them. They have your eyes, your dark hair. Dante has your serious expression. When he concentrates on something, his little face gets so focused—just like I imagine you must look when you're working.

They ask about you. "Where is Papa?" "When will Papa come home?" I tell them stories about you, though I barely know you myself. I tell them you're brave and strong and that you'll come home when you can.

Please come home soon. Or at least write to us. Even just a few words.

Your wife,

Alessia

She gave the letter to Helena, who promised to post it.

It was never sent.

That winter, Alessia took in more sewing work. The children needed shoes now that they were walking. Helena provided nothing.

"If you need things for the children, earn the money yourself," Helena said coldly. "Sebastian's money is for household expenses, not frivolous items."

Shoes weren't frivolous. But Alessia didn't argue. She just worked harder, sewing late into the night by candlelight, her fingers cramping from the cold and repetitive motion.

Across the hall, she could hear Giuliana laughing with Tomasso. Giuliana was pregnant now, and Helena fussed over her constantly. The best foods, the warmest rooms, a servant to help with everything.

Alessia's children shared one small room and wore clothes she patched by candlelight.

But at least they were walking. Growing. Thriving despite everything.

She held onto that.

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TWO YEARS AGO - WINTER

"Mama, I'm cold."

Marco's small voice was pitiful, his lips tinged blue. Alessia pulled him closer, wrapping her thin shawl around both of them. Dante and Lucia were pressed against her other side, all four of them huddled together for warmth.

The fire in their small room had gone out hours ago. There was no more wood, and Helena had refused to provide more.

"The household budget is stretched thin," she'd said. "Perhaps if you weren't such a drain on resources..."

Resources. As if Alessia's children were burdens rather than Helena's own grandchildren.

Through the wall, Alessia could hear laughter from the main part of the house. Tomasso and Giuliana were entertaining guests, the dining room warm and bright. She could smell roasted meat, freshly baked bread.

Her children had eaten thin porridge for dinner. Again.

"Tell us a story, Mama," Dante whispered. "About Papa."

Alessia's heart clenched. She'd been telling them stories about their father for months now—made up stories, since she barely knew him herself. Stories about a brave soldier who would come home someday and love them.

"Once upon a time," she began, her voice hoarse from cold, "there was a knight who had to go far away to protect the kingdom..."

Later, after the children finally fell asleep, Alessia wrote another letter by candlelight:

Sebastian,

It's been three years since you left. The children are growing. Marco smiled for the first time today, despite the cold. Lucia is the loudest—she makes her presence known! Dante is thoughtful, always watching.

I haven't heard from you. I hope my last letter reached you. Your mother says you're very busy with important work. I understand, but... a single letter would mean everything.

Winter is hard. The children need warm clothes, proper food. Your mother says you send money, but I haven't seen it. I've had to take in sewing work just to afford what they need.

Please write when you can. Please.

Alessia

She sealed it and took it to Helena's study, setting it on the desk.

Helena waited until Alessia left, then opened the drawer where fourteen other letters lay unread and unposted.

Fifteen letters now.

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ONE AND A HALF YEARS AGO - MARCO'S ILLNESS

"His fever won't break."

Alessia's voice was hoarse from crying. She'd been up for three days straight, bathing Marco's burning forehead, trying to force water between his cracked lips. Her baby boy was dying, and she was helpless to stop it.

"The village healer has done all she can," Helena said from the doorway. "These things happen with weak children."

"He's not weak!" Alessia's voice cracked. "He just needs real medicine. Medicine the healer doesn't have. Please—there's a doctor in the next town. Sebastian sent money, didn't he? Can't we use it for the doctor?"

"The household budget is already allocated."

"This is your grandson!" Alessia was shouting now, past the point of caution. "He's almost THREE YEARS OLD and he's DYING! Please!"

Helena's expression didn't change. "If you need money for a doctor, earn it yourself."

Alessia had stared at her, something breaking inside her chest.

That night, she'd counted every copper coin she'd saved from her sewing work. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

She'd sold her mother's locket—the only thing of value she owned—to the jeweler in town for a fraction of its worth.

It was enough to pay the doctor.

The doctor came, examined Marco, prescribed medicine that brought the fever down within hours. Her baby boy lived.

But Alessia's last connection to her mother was gone.

That night, she'd written another letter:

Sebastian,

Marco was very ill. A fever that wouldn't break. I was so frightened. He recovered, thank God, but I had to sell my mother's locket to pay for the doctor.

Your mother says you send money, but I never see it. I don't understand. Are your letters not reaching me? Are mine not reaching you?

I'm trying so hard. But I need help. The children need help. Please, if you can, write to me. Even just to tell me you received these letters.

Please.

Alessia

Letter number thirty-seven.

Still unposted.

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ONE YEAR AGO - THE BREAKING POINT

Alessia sat in her small room, staring at another letter she'd just written to Sebastian. Her hands trembled as she sealed it.

How many letters had she written now? Fifty? A hundred? She'd lost count years ago.

She'd given every single one to Helena to post. Helena always said the same thing: "Of course, I'll see it's sent with the next mail."

But Sebastian never replied.

Not once in four years.

Either the letters weren't reaching him—which seemed impossible given how reliable the postal service was to and from the capital—or he simply didn't care enough to respond.

Alessia's heart ached with the terrible uncertainty of not knowing which was worse.

"Mama?" Lucia appeared in the doorway, clutching her worn cloth doll. "Can we have dinner soon? I'm hungry."

Alessia looked at her three-year-old daughter—too thin, like her brothers. Always hungry because there was never quite enough food.

"Soon, little bird," Alessia promised, though she didn't know what she'd feed them. The porridge was running low, and she hadn't been paid for her latest sewing work yet.

She looked down at the letter in her hands. Another plea for help that would go unanswered.

Maybe Sebastian really didn't care.

Maybe Helena was right—maybe he'd moved on, found someone better, and was just too kind to say so directly.

But still, she had to keep trying. For the children's sake, she had to keep trying.

She took the letter to Helena's study and left it on the desk.

It would join all the others, unsent and unread, in Helena's drawer.

But Alessia didn't know that yet.

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SIX MONTHS AGO - THE FINAL LETTER

Alessia sat at her small table, staring at blank paper. She'd written so many letters to Sebastian over the years. Dozens of them. Maybe more than a hundred.

Helena always took them. Always said they'd be posted.

And Sebastian never replied.

Maybe the letters weren't reaching him. Maybe something was wrong with the postal service. Or maybe—and this thought hurt more—maybe he just didn't care enough to write back.

But she had to keep trying. For the children's sake.

She dipped her pen in ink and began to write:

Sebastian,

I don't know if you read these. I don't know if you care. Your mother says you've moved on, that there's someone else. If that's true, I understand. We barely knew each other.

But please, know that your children exist. Dante, Marco, and Lucia. They're four years old now. They ask about you every day. They want to know why Papa never comes home.

If you want to be free of this marriage, I'll understand. But please, just once, write to me. Tell me the truth. I can bear anything except this silence.

Your wife,

Alessia

She sealed the letter and took it to Helena's study, setting it on the desk like she'd done so many times before.

"For Sebastian," she said quietly. "Please make sure it's sent."

Helena didn't even look up from her correspondence. "Of course."

Alessia left, not knowing that this letter, like all the others, would never reach her husband.

She'd stopped believing in replies long ago.

But she still had to try.

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PRESENT DAY - ON THE TRAIN

The memories faded as the train swayed beneath them. Alessia looked at her children, all three sleeping against her, exhausted from the early morning departure.

Five years of silence.

Five years of stolen letters and stolen money.

Five years of believing she'd been abandoned when the truth was so much more cruel.

Sebastian didn't know.

He didn't know about his children, about Helena's lies, about any of it.

And she was going to tell him.

Even if he didn't believe her. Even if he sent her away. Even if there really was another woman and he truly wanted to be free.

He was going to know the truth.

The train lurched, and Dante stirred against her side.

"Mama?" he mumbled, half-asleep. "Are we almost there?"

"Not yet, love," Alessia whispered, stroking his hair. "But soon. Soon we'll see your papa."

She looked out the window at the countryside rushing past, carrying them toward the capital. Toward answers. Toward whatever future awaited them.

For the first time in five years, Alessia felt something like hope.

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