All Chapters of All the Names She Wore: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

EVANThe city greets me with heat and stone and a sense that everything here existed long before I did and will keep existing long after I’m gone.Rome isn’t subtle about herself. She doesn’t build up slowly the way some places do. She hits all at once—bright sunlight reflecting off pale stone, horns blaring in impatient bursts, the smell of exhaust and espresso and something sweet I can’t name drifting from an unseen bakery. The air moves in pockets: one breath hot and dusty, the next carrying a cool draft from somewhere shaded and ancient.I step out of the terminal, and for the first time in months, my chest loosens just enough for me to feel it. A breath that doesn’t hurt going in. It’s not relief exactly, but it’s less pressure, less constant ache. A slight softening at the edges.Maybe that’s why I said yes to this job so quickly. Maybe that’s why I packed my bags before Leah had finished asking if we could talk.“Signore?” A taxi driver lifts a hand, his wrist lined with faded

LIVIAThe man is exactly on time.That tells me something before he even opens his mouth.I watch him through the rows of shelves as he steps into the archive, the heavy door sighing shut behind him. He hesitates in the same spot most people do, just past the threshold, instinctively aware that this room is different from the ones above it.Light falls in rectangles across the floor. Dust moves in those rectangles like it has nowhere else to be. The old clock on the wall ticks a little louder than necessary, filling the spaces where people might otherwise talk.He doesn’t talk.He scans the room: the central desk, the lamp, the stacks of boxes. His gaze lingers on the old plans I left rolled near the edge, then on the coffee mug, then on the small tower of files I didn’t bother to straighten before leaving last night.He reaches out. His fingers hover a fraction above the corner of a folder.Of course they do.“Don’t touch anything,” I say.His hand freezes, the way most people do whe

EVANI wake to the sound of a church bell.It takes me a second to remember where I am — not because the room is unfamiliar, but because the dream lingers, thick and heavy, making everything feel slightly off. For a few seconds, I’m still on the bridge from last night’s sleep, fog curling around my legs, two women at opposite ends calling my name.Then the bell chimes again, and the spell breaks.Rome.The small apartment.The high ceiling, the cracked plaster in the corner, the faint smell of coffee drifting in from somewhere below. A scooter revs outside, followed by the echo of laughter in the alley.I stare at the ceiling, heart beating a little too fast for someone who hasn’t even moved yet. My body feels like it’s been braced against something all night.The dream clings to me stubbornly.Leah at one end of the bridge. Livia at the other. Fog thick between them. No matter which way I turned, the other faded from view. No matter how fast I walked, the distance never closed.I shu

LEAHThe house feels like it’s listening.I know how irrational that sounds, how dramatic, how unhinged — but the moment I step inside, the silence feels wired, like someone has threaded tension through the very walls.The blinds are half-closed, letting in thin slices of afternoon sunlight that lay across the floor like pale ribbons. Dust drifts slowly in those ribbons, glittering when the light catches it just so, and for a moment I stand there watching it — because watching dust feels easier than thinking.Easier than remembering.Easier than knowing.I shut the door quietly. The click of the lock echoes too loudly in the house. I flinch even though I tried to close it softly. My nerves are raw, vibrating just under my skin, ready to tear open.The living room looks the same as always — everything in its place, everything neat, orderly, controlled. But it feels wrong now, like someone took my home and replaced it with a replica that doesn’t breathe the same way.Evan’s jacket is st

LEAHI wake up already tired. Not the usual tired from a bad night’s sleep, not even the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from crying too much. This is different. Heavy. Like someone poured wet cement into my skull while I was dreaming and now every thought has to drag itself through it. For a few seconds, I don’t move. I stare at the ceiling fan. The blades aren’t even on and I still feel like the room is spinning. Fragments of yesterday drift back in slow, disjointed pieces:The clinic.The doctor’s too-careful tone.The word inconsistencies hanging in the air like a half-swallowed confession.The drive home.The unknown number.The photo. Evan. And her.My stomach turns at the memory. I roll onto my side and blink at the light leaking around the edges of the blinds. The house is quiet — that almost buzzing kind of quiet that feels l