chiaroscuro

config.header.center: "CHAPTER I" -- They emerge from the gray, purgatorial gloom like two impossible beacons in a fog, one draped in darkness, the other glowing bright. In the rose garden, I’ve been wandering alone in the damp, pale predawn light for some time now. I feel like I’m searching for something—something I’m not sure I would recognize, even if I found it. Instead, I’ve found *them*—or maybe it’s the other way around. The creatures stand tall; they would be taller than a grave is deep if they stood up straight. Instead, they hunch over, bent and broken-seeming, like trees after a storm. The dark one is all living shadow and impenetrable void; looking at it feels like prodding a deep, forgotten wound that never fully healed. The bright one glows dimly, almost flickering at times, like a dying flashlight. And yet, they have the same features, one a perfect photo negative of the other. They share the same blank, oval faces and wide, empty eyes. Owl-like, similar in shape to twin Moretta masks, but with the long, curved beaks of Pulcinellas. Trying to make out the shapes of their bodies is like trying to see past a pair of headlights, or into a lightless room; if I look too hard, I begin to see spots. Invisible feathers rustle with every move they make. Something in the way the creatures bow towards me, hesitant but hungry, brings to mind the beggar children I've seen haunting the Roma Termini railway station. I sympathize. I’m hungry too, though mine is more a hunger of the soul. Reaching into my bag, I find a pouch of snack olives buried beneath discarded wrappers and assorted art supplies. > [[Feed the light one.->Chiaro 1-1]] > [[Feed the dark one.->Oscuro 1-1]] > [[Offer them both some olives.]] > [[Ignore them. They aren't real anyway.->Neutral 1-1]]

I pour some olives into my palm, offering them up to both creatures. They lunge for my hand at the same time. Their arms bump, their claws tangle, and they turn on each other, squabbling like two crows quarreling over scraps. > [[Feed the light one first.->Chiaro 1-1]] > [[Feed the dark one first.->Oscuro 1-1]] > [[Refuse them both.->Neutral 1-1]]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- I find myself drawn to the light. I offer a handful of olives to the bright one first, and one pale claw stabs out of the brightness to accept it like a heron snapping up a fish. It pops the olives into its mouth. It coughs and chokes, spitting out several before swallowing the rest. Looking down, I notice it only coughed up the dark olives. The shadow-creature, seething, slinks away and disappears back into the mist. I wait for its bright twin to follow suit. It doesn’t. After a prolonged staring contest, I am the first to blink. The creature’s afterimage is burned into my eyelids, the black silhouette a ghost of its dark counterpart. > [[Continue->CH 1-2]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- I find myself drawn to the darkness. I offer a handful of olives to the dark one first, and a pair of long, black arms stretch out, hands (if you can call them that) cupped to receive my gift. I drop the olives into its claws, and it draws them to itself with care, as if afraid to break them. It inspects the olives one at a time, turning them this way and that. Some pass inspection and are quickly caught up in its beak. Others drop to the ground, discarded without hesitation. Looking down, I notice it is discarding only the light-colored olives. The bright creature, sighing, turns away and disappears back into the fog. I wait for its dark twin to follow suit. It doesn’t. After a prolonged staring contest, I am the first to blink. The creature’s afterimage is seared into my eyelids, the white silhouette a ghost of its bright counterpart. > [[Continue->CH 1-2]]

neutral: neutral + 1 -- I put the olives away and close my eyes, willing the creatures to disappear, to return to whatever nightmare of mine they escaped from. After a protracted moment, I hear a scraping sound, like cloth dragging over leaves in two directions, one to either side of me. When I open my eyes, I am alone again. > [[Continue->CH 1-2]]

Faced with an illogical situation, my brain conjures an illogical conclusion: This is all Felicita’s fault. Felicita is the hospitably meddling hostess of the Casa della Gattara. She was the one who insisted that I needed some fresh air, some sunlight. Her cats, she confided to me this morning, said it would give my spirits a much-needed lift. As if a single sunny day could dissipate the haze that’s been building up in my brain for years now—one that swallows the colors in my life whole and leaves me stranded in the gray. A suffocating smog that I flew all the way across the Atlantic to outrun. But Felicita meant well. She always does. So out I wandered, after three days of self-indulgent sulking in my shuttered guest room, into the dim light of an early summer’s day. But sitting here now, amid a sea of roses in the heart of Rome, I feel like nothing so much as a smudge in the middle of an otherwise flawless masterpiece. > [[Continue->CH 1-2B]]

On top of everything, I am apparently prone to hallucinating. What’s wrong with me runs far deeper than sunlight can reach. Neither the garden nor the garish beggars (*imaginary* beggars, I remind myself) have moved me to so much as pick up my pencil, let alone brave the white wasteland of a blank page in my sketchbook. Finally, deciding I have more than fulfilled Felicita’s wish for me to venture out from under her roof, I stand up. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I trudge back to the guest house and the comforting solitude of my room. “*Meglio tornare indietro, che andare avanti in malo modo,*” Felicita murmurs as I pass her on my way up the stairs. I shake my head and sigh; she knows I don’t speak Italian fluently enough yet to fully catch her meaning, but she doesn’t care. She figures I’ll learn eventually. I think she’s a bit too optimistic for her own good. > [[Continue->Canvas 1-1]]

The bright creature whistles a lilting little songbird’s melody. “You’re right,” I tell it. “Now that I’m here, I might as well enjoy it, right?” Another whistle. I raise my eyebrows. “Can you understand me?” The creature cocks its head at me, but remains silent. Murmured voices and the slap of cheap plastic flip flops on cobblestone signal a new complication—company. I turn my head and stare as the first tourists of the day meander down the garden path. I watch the people covertly, curious to see how they will react to the creature. There is no missing it; as the clouds above us dissipate, the creature seems to borrow light from the sun itself, even appearing to stand a little taller for it. But no one seems to give us so much as a second glance as they pass by. > [[Continue->Chiaro 1-3]]

The dark creature sighs—a deep, dry sound, like dead leaves rustling across cobblestone. I swallow hard; to my surprise, I can feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “Are you… hurt?” I ask. Something in the sound it made felt like an all-too-familiar ache. The creature bows its head a little, peering at me, but does not respond. Maybe it can’t—or maybe it didn’t understand the question. So I look away, hoping it will wander off elsewhere once it realizes I have no more food to offer. Instead, it slinks over to sit on the bench beside me, the closer to observe me. I’m too tired to be annoyed. I’m too tired to do a lot of things, a lot of the time. No matter how much I sleep, the fatigue seems to follow me wherever I go—even when I came all the way here, to Rome. > [[Continue->Oscuro 1-3]]

[if companion === "chiaro"] {embed passage: "Chiaro 1-2"} [if companion === "oscuro"] {embed passage: "Oscuro 1-2"} [if companion === "none"] {embed passage: "Neutral 1-2"}

My room is the farthest down the hall upstairs. Inside, it is dark. The whole time that I’ve been here, I’ve not opened the curtains once. It’s a simple but elegant room, with modern decor and a few feline figures hidden in the patterning of the curtains and bed covers (of Felicita, I would expect no less). Across from the bed stands a dresser topped with a small but nice-quality TV, with a standing shower to the left of it. In the other corner lurks the bane of my existence: a cheap easel propping up an empty canvas. I bought it when I first came to Rome, full of optimism that this trip would somehow change me, make me better. I thought that if I could fill that canvas with something real, something meaningful, it would prove, once and for all, that I am an artist and not merely a pretender. I *did* try at first. The canvas’s blank facade hides layers and layers of false starts, painted out with white. Nothing ever felt right. Eventually, it seemed foolish even to try. But I’m afraid to throw it out, to admit defeat once and for all. I’m terrified of what it would mean—and worse, what it would not. > [[Begin Chapter II->CH 2-1]]

I stare at the creature, who seems content to stand and stare right back at me. “So you’re not real, then,” I conclude. It cocks its head the other way and does not respond. I find, to my surprise, that I don’t particularly mind having company this morning—real or imaginary. When I first arrived in Italy, it didn’t take long for me to grow tired of the tank toppers and flip-floppers who followed me here from America, flooding piazzas and pizzerias with their chatter and their clacking camera shutters. But now, with the sun warming my face after days of dark, self-imposed imprisonment and the garden’s roses in their final bloom, I can’t help thinking that it’s kind of nice to see so many people smiling. I’m not ready to sketch—not yet, I can’t even bring myself to lift my pencil—but for once, I don’t feel guilty about it. I lean back against the bench, content to people-watch. I don’t even mind (much) when the creature plops itself onto the bench next to me. We sit together in amicable silence, watching the men and women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. Eventually, I make my way back to Casa della Gattara, refusing to look back to see if my strange companion follows me still—though there is a kind of lightness in my chest that makes me think it is. When I pass Felicita on the stairs, she smiles at me—a little smug for my taste. I roll my eyes at her, refusing to admit that she was right after all. > [[Continue->Canvas 1-1]]

Something cool and wet taps the tip of my nose. Startled, I look up. Rain clouds gather over us, obscuring the sun and its heat. The droplet that struck my nose is soon followed by another, then a few, then a torrent of them. Out of habit, I reach for my bag to retrieve my umbrella. I hesitate just as my fingertip touches the latch. To open it now would be to defeat the purpose of a waterproof pack—and the rain is a refreshing reprieve from the June heat. So I sit back, tilting my head up and letting the rain wash over me. After all, what do I have to lose? My phone is in a waterproof case; everything else valuable to me is safe in my bag. I have nowhere to be, and no one to impress. I am five again, playing in the rain and pretending not to hear my parents calling me inside—only this time, there’s no one around to ignore. No one to disappoint. After a few minutes, the downpour slows to a light drizzle, then peters out entirely. I open my eyes, blinking away the droplets in my lashes. The rain has transformed the garden from the classic, carefully tended beauty all the tourists come to see on sunny days into something wilder, a little less well-trimmed. Roses shed their petals haphazardly in the onslaught, an asymmetry both exquisite and vulnerable. Droplets roll languorously across leaves, dipping the more supple ones down like partners in a dance. There’s something intimate about the rising perfume of damp earth—earth in which, if memory serves, hundreds of bodies were once laid to rest. I reach for my bag without thinking, afraid that if I question this moment, it will slip right through my fingers like water. Digging deep beneath the debris, I pull out my sketchbook and pencil and begin to sketch—wet roses, wilting roses, roses with roots that reach down into graves to pull the dead back up to the land of the living, roses that weep crystalline raindrops, roses with thorns like bone spurs… It’s not until I can’t see the page anymore that I realize the water streaking down my face is no longer coming from the sky. Hands shaking, I drop my pencil and bury my face in my hands. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper cry. It hurts, but a good hurt, like ripping off a bandage. It passes quickly, as the rainshower did. When it’s over, I slump back, exhausted but relieved. <div id="redpaint" class="div"> The creature beside me sighs again, and I jump a little, having all but forgotten it was there. I am surprised to see we are no longer alone in the garden—[[a woman in a red dress->Vendecolori 1-1]] drifts aimlessly down the center path, the first visitor of the day. Well, besides me, but I don’t count myself. And the creature—but I don’t count it, either. </div> > [[Continue->Oscuro 1-4]]

vendecolori: true -- I can’t help but stare. For all that we are surrounded by roses of similar hues, the red of the woman’s dress is breathtaking. A rich, vibrant red, it arrests the eye; no other color seems to exist but its own. She stops and I look up, involuntarily catching her eye. Embarrassed, I pretend to return to my sketching, but from the crunch of her footsteps on the grass, I know she is coming for me. When she comes close enough that I can see her shoes in my periphery—curious curly-toed ankle boots, leather by the look of them—she says, “A beautiful color, isn’t it? Would you like to buy it?” Baffled, I look up, only to be doubly tongue-tied by her beauty. She has a lovely face, the sort Rome’s most famous classical *artistes* would have fought each other to the death for the privilege of painting or sculpting. “Um, buy what now?” “The red of my dress. Carmine red. The perfect red, as they say.” She smiles; there’s something secretive about it, not unlike that of a certain famous portrait hanging in the Louvre. “I can sell it to you if you like.” > [[Ask what she means.]] > [[Accept.-> Vendecolori 1-2]] > [[Refuse.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

She shrugs. “I am *vendecolori*. You know… color seller? It’s what I do.” “But this isn’t Venice… and vendecolori haven’t been a thing for like, a hundred years.” I vaguely remembered reading about Venice’s famous pigment vendors in one of my art history books. I thought the notion romantic and regretted the loss of their trade as one more casualty of the Industrial Revolution. “Oh?” she says, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. “I hadn’t noticed.” I’m not sure what to say to that. A protracted silence signals we’ve arrived at an impasse. Eventually, she is the first to break it, repeating her offer. “So, what do you think? A little red for your roses?” > [[Accept.-> Vendecolori 1-2]] > [[Refuse.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

red: true -- “Uh… sure.” I have a full set of paints waiting for me back in my room at the Casa della Gattara, but I’ll willingly shell out a few euros to buy my solitude back. I have more than enough unexpected company tagging along with me today as it is. Stuffing my hand into my bag, I feel around for my wallet. “How much?” She smiles wide and shakes her head, resting one hand delicately on my arm to stop my search. “No, *grazie*,” she says, “Keep your coin. I do not want money.” I keep my hand in my bag—where my phone and my mini can of mace also happen to be stored. “What then?” “A promise—that you will put your purchase to good use. You can start by painting one of your roses for me.” She points to the roses blooming across the pages of my open sketchbook. I relax a little. It’s an odd request, but a harmless one, at least. However, as I explain to her, I don’t have any of my paintbrushes with me. “*Non ti preoccupare*. I can lend you a brush. Do we have an agreement?” “Sure, I guess.” “*Fantastico*.” Beaming, she produces a small paint pot from God only knows where. (I don’t see a bag anywhere on her person.) She opens it, then bends over, tugging a loose string of red from the hem of her dress. She drops the string into the open jar. Then, pulling a brush out of thin air (I still don’t see a bag), she swirls it around inside the jar. “Is this some kind of a joke?” She shushes me, smirking. “Patience, *cara mia*.” She finishes swirling her brush with a flourish, then hands the paint pot and brush over to me. I glance down into the pot and just barely stop myself from dropping it in shock. The pot is filled with a pure carmine red, the color of ripe apples, of rouged lips—the exact same hue as her dress. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 1-3]]

I shake my head. “No thanks... I’m good.” Disappointment furrows her brow and bows her lips downward. She straightens her spine, folding her arms across her chest. “Are you sure, *cara mia*? You look like you could use a little more color in your life.” I dig my proverbial heels in. “No, *grazie*,” I repeat, carefully pronouncing each syllable. An uncomfortable silence stretches between us. I hate disappointing people almost as much as I hate being hounded by hawkers. I staple my eyes to the ground and, like a castle preparing for a siege, I brace myself to wait it out. For one of the longest moments of my life, neither of us moves, nor even seems to breathe. “*Con la forza non si fa neanche l’aceto*,” she finally says, heaving a deep, world-weary sigh. “I did what I could.” She turns and, walking away, calls back over her shoulder to me one final time. “*Addio, stellina*! I hope you find what you seek.” I frown at that and look up, but she is nowhere to be seen. The world seems to wilt in the wake of her departure; even the creature beside me slumps forward dejectedly. “She was weird,” I insist, all too aware I am a pot calling out a kettle. The creature only slouches over further. [if red === false] > [[Continue->Oscuro 1-4]] [if red === true] > [[Continue->Chiaro 2-3]] [if yellow === true] > [[Continue->Oscuro 3-3]] [if orange === true] > [[Continue->Chiaro 4-3]] [if green === true] > [[Continue->Oscuro 5-3]] [if blue === true] > [[Continue->Chiaro 6-2A]]

“What… how?!” She hushes me again, pressing one perfect fingertip to her lips. “You have everything you need, yes?” “I… uh…” “Don’t think,” she insists. “Paint.” My mind goes blank. She steps back, giving me room to breathe, as I dip my brush into the paint and set to work. My options are limited—I’ve got no water with which to dilute the paint for washes or fading, no ink for lines or shading, no way to clean the brush between strokes. I have to take care not to load too much paint on the paper, or I’ll wind up wasting both. But I do the best with what I have, using my pencil to darken lines and shadows where needed and the paint to brush in just a hint of color here and there, rather than flooding the page with red. Slowly, my paper garden begins to blossom. “*Brava! Brava!*” the vendecolori cheers when I pause to let the last brush stroke dry. “It’s not really a finished work,” I protest, flushing. “If I had my palette, or even just some water—” “Nonsense. It is exactly what I was hoping for. May I?” Without actually waiting for my response, she leans forward and pulls the page from the binding, ripping a perfect tear right down the perforation near the spine. I sputter an exclamation, worried the paint will smudge, but she smiles and waves it in the air like a Polaroid as she walks away. I shake my head, waking slowly from the trance of painting. “Wait! I still don’t understand—how did you—?” “Perhaps we will see each other again, *stellina*,” she interrupts, looking back to flash me one last bright smile, “if the circumstances are right. *Arrividerci*!” Wide-eyed, I look over at the creature sitting next to me, who has just become the second strangest thing to happen to me today. Then again… maybe it’s a tie. “Is she a friend of yours?” The creature bends forward, but I’m not sure if the gesture is an actual response or merely an expression of boredom. > [[Continue->Oscuro 1-4]]

I linger for a while longer in the garden, basking in the afterglow of artistic catharsis. The roses in my sketchbook are nothing special, at least from a critical perspective, but there is a glimmer of something beautiful buried in their darkness. On my walk back to the Casa della Gattara, my mind is still so tangled up in the roses’ vines that I forget to check if the creature from the garden followed me out. Felicita fusses over me at the entryway; it’s not until she throws a towel around my shoulders that I remember I’m still dripping rainwater. I don’t much want the attention, but I endure it, knowing it’s easier to let her have her way than to fight a pointless battle. > [[Continue->Canvas 1-1]]

config.header.center: "CHAPTER II" -- By the time I bring myself to venture out of the guest house again, I am convinced what happened in the garden a few days ago could not possibly have happened the way I remember it. The creatures, of course, were either buskers in costume or—worst case scenario—products of my own overactive imagination. Perhaps I even dreamt them, having fallen asleep on the bench without realizing. I sleep erratically these days; some nights too much, some nights too little. It wouldn’t be that shocking to find that I may have lost track of the border between the waking world and my dreams. [if vendecolori === true] As for the self-professed *vendecolori*, well, street vendors are nothing new in Rome. [if vendecolori === true && red === true] And the paint… well, obviously, it must have been a sleight-of-hand trick. I checked the paint when I got home and found no string in it. So she must have palmed it, maybe even switched the paint pot out without my noticing. Impressive, but not impossible. [continue] So as I wander out into the cobblestoned expanse of the Piazza Navona, I’m not looking for any sign of the creatures’ return. If my head is constantly turning, it is only because there is so much to see, so many things to catch the wandering eye. And if I’m slouching a bit, a tad fidgety, well, who can blame me? There are so many people here—so many artists, in particular. > [[Continue->CH 2-2]]

The Piazza Navona is at once my dream-come-true and personal nightmare. It is much what you would get if you encompassed the art world within a single snow globe, shook it, and let the pieces settle where they may. Artists’ stalls stand like colorful rocks amid the eddies and currents of a sea of passersby. Their wares are beautiful, but for me they are siren calls. If I draw too close, I may fall into the trap of comparison and dash what little confidence I have against its jagged edges. I am not here for portraits or picturesque landscapes. I am here to revisit an old friend. Beneath the chatter and the clacking of camera shutters, the square’s three famous fountains babble and murmur, whispering secrets to those who lean in close enough to listen. I’ve come to listen to the secrets of one in particular. The first (and only other) time I came to Rome, I was a young, gullible nine-year-old who believed every word my Uncle Nino told me. It was his ever so slightly embellished stories about Rome and its historical intrigues that made me want to paint. It was also his laziness that led me to believe the Fountain of the Four Rivers was the famous fountain into which I should cast coins if I wanted to return. It wasn’t until several years later that I found out that legend was actually about the Trevi Fountain, which was just far enough away that Uncle Nino didn't want to walk to it. I stand in front of the fountain, more than a decade older and not much wiser. Now, as then, I care less for the lazy river god sculptures than the stone animals that surround them. I remember the lion particularly; back then, he’d reminded me of the Thought Lion from old German fairy tales. It was to him I’d addressed my wish to come back someday; standing here now, it’s hard not to wonder if he granted my wish after all. I lean over the edge of the fountain, looking for the penny I tossed in years ago even though I know it can’t still be there. Instead of a penny, it is my reflection that catches my eye—or rather, the two tall figures I see in it, lurking directly behind me. I spin around. Sure enough, there they are, the inverted twins in the flesh. Once again, no one seems to notice the presence of the creatures besides me. And once again, they seem hungry, their hands hesitantly outstretched to receive today’s donation. > [[Feed the light one.->Chiaro 2-1]] > [[Feed the dark one.->Oscuro 2-1]] > [[Refuse them both.->Neutral 2-1]]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- I have no more olives to offer, so I turn to the first street vendor I see—a purveyor of fresh produce—and am immediately drawn to the fresh, succulent grapes on display. I buy a small bunch of the lighter variety to share. The dark creature hisses and withdraws; I murmur a half-hearted apology as it slides out of sight. The light creature, with a soft, joyful whistle, reaches out and plucks a grape from the branch the first chance I allow it. Sticking out a long, pale tongue, it drops the grape onto it and swallows. It whistles again, this time louder. “Guess that means you like it,” I remark. The creature chirps, and I share the grapes between us as we walk. I try not to smile, but my companion’s joy seems contagious. And after all, it’s a beautiful day. Yes, it feels like a million degrees out, and yes, there are a lot of people here, but the sun is shining and there are masterworks of art everywhere I turn. And for lunch, I have a reservation at one of the best trattorias in town—and in Rome, that’s saying something. As if in answer to a question I didn’t dare ask—*can I really ask for more than this?*—a busker nearby produces a violin and begins to play. The current of the crowd shifts as more and more people flock to him. Even I find myself gravitating toward the sound of his strings; the melody is unfamiliar but mesmerizing. > [[Continue->Chiaro 2-2]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- I have no more olives to offer, so I turn to the first street vendor I see—a purveyor of fresh produce—and am immediately drawn to the fresh, succulent grapes on display. I buy a small bunch of the darker variety to share. With a questioning, dove-like coo, the dark creature steps forward for a closer look. The bright creature, with a frustrated sort of chattering sound, turns away. It ignores my whispered apology as it disappears around a corner. The dark creature accepts a single grape and turns it this way and that, licking it several times before finally popping it into its mouth. It is still for a moment, then sniffs at my empty hands as if seeking more. It tries to lick my fingers. I pull away, nervous, and wipe my hands on my shorts. “Guess that means you liked it,” I mutter. It keeps sniffing, like a dog in denial that it has been given only one biscuit, and I find myself growing irritated with its persistence. “Look, I’m not a vending machine,” I snap, shooing it away with my hands. The creature sighs, curling a little in on itself in resignation. Again, I’m thinking of a dog—and now I’m the jerk who kicked the puppy. I echo its sigh, feeling worn out despite the day being so young. “Sorry.” I can’t tell if my apology is accepted or not, though it does not hesitate to accept more grapes as I begin to share them between us. *It’s this place*, I think, looking around. As pretty as it is, the Piazza Navona’s charms are overshadowed by the memories its atmosphere conjures. I am twelve again, gazing up at my picture on the wall and wondering why it looks so out of place, cringing as a fellow student points to it—not knowing it is mine—and declares it to be the worst one of all. Nobody, of course, argues the point, least of all me, but my cheeks burn with the shame of it all the same. I shake my head, forcing myself back into the present. These artists are not my peers, and this piazza is not my middle school art class. I came here to forget, to start over, not to relive stupid mistakes from my childhood. But I can’t shake the feeling that I do not belong here, any more than I belonged in that classroom, frozen in place under those cold, fluorescent lights so many years ago. > [[Continue->Oscuro 2-2]]

companion: "none" neutral: neutral + 1 -- Best case scenario: these creatures actually do exist, but they’re invisible to everyone else—in which case, there’s no telling what people will think if they see me handing food out to the empty air. (Will it disappear when they take it?) Worst case scenario: I’m hallucinating—in which case, there’s no telling what I would actually be doing by trying to feed them. (Would I be eating the food, or forcing it on some poor unsuspecting stranger?) Either way, I decide, it’s a waste of money, time, and sanity to give in to their begging. I stubbornly turn back to the fountain. I stare hard at the lion, silently asking him if he can grant me one more wish and send these creatures far away from me. Eventually, whether by the lion’s grace or hunger’s curse, the creature’s reflections disappear. When I turn around, they are nowhere to be seen. I spend a few hours wandering the piazza at my leisure, but I am disconcerted by the creatures’ return. I browse everything but notice nothing; I may as well not be here at all. Sooner or later, I will have to leave Rome and go back home. Though I miss my friends and family, the thought of facing them after all this time—with nothing at all to show for my efforts—makes me feel hollow. > [[Continue->Canvas 2-1]]

Upon returning to my room, I flop face-first onto the bed, exhausted from my excursion. As long as I keep my head down, I reason, I won’t have to look at the thing in the corner. But out of sight is not out of mind; with my eyes closed, there is little to distract me from my guilt. Not just about the canvas—about the time and money I’ve squandered here, money I should never have won in the first place. I’d entered the contest to please my parents and teachers. They told me to paint, so I painted. I looked at what won in the past and mimicked it; there was none of me in it, none of my soul. I didn’t think I could win, so I took the coward’s way out and painted what I thought they wanted to see. Standing there on that stage, accepting that award, I’d never felt more like a fraud in my life. The more praise others heaped on my shoulders, the heavier it grew—until I thought I would collapse under the weight of it. In the end, I guess I did. > [[Begin Chapter III->CH 3-1]]

[if red === true] <div id="orangepaint" class="div"> My bright companion seems drawn to the music too; I almost imagine I can hear it humming along with the tune as we dive into the busker’s growing audience. The musician steps up onto the edge of a fountain. As he plays, the sunlight catches the [[bright orange veneer->Vendecolori 2-1]] of the violin and seems to make it glow. </div> [else] My bright companion seems drawn to the music too; I almost imagine I can hear it humming along with the tune as we dive into the busker’s growing audience. The musician steps up onto the edge of a fountain. As he plays, the sunlight catches the bright orange veneer of the violin and seems to make it glow. [continue] I know he is just a man, and it is just a violin, but for a moment, I can’t help but wonder. If the creatures are real, and not just figments of my broken imagination, then why not a magic violin, too? It takes me a moment to place this feeling. Awe. When I first arrived in Italy, I gorged myself on it, but lost my taste for it when I realized even Rome was not the magical cure-all I’d been hoping for. In a city full of art by geniuses like Caravaggio, Leonardo da Vinci, and Artemisia Gentileschi, it is a nameless violinist performing for pennies on the street who has given me back my sense of wonder. It may not last—it rarely does—but I am determined to make the most of it while I can. I pull out my sketchbook and pencil, to my companion’s vocal delight. I let the melody guide my hand as lines on the page begin to take shape. Here, a violinist perches on the top of a fountain, water flowing from his instrument like music; there, a violin dances with its bow in a beam of sunlight. So much of my art in the past has been dark, serious work—the work of someone trying desperately to claw her way into the light. I barely recognize the playfulness in my sketches today; they remind me of days long past, when I was too young to realize that there could be such a thing as “bad” art. > [[Continue->Chiaro 2-3]]

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Startled, I turn to see the *vendecolori* I met in the rose garden standing next to me, enjoying the show. She smiles at me like an old friend; I offer a small, hesitant grin in response. “The music?” I ask. “The violin.” Her dark eyes follow the movement of the musician’s arm as he strokes the strings with his bow, coaxing out a long, slow sonnet of a song. “Although I admit, he uses it well.” It *is* a gorgeous instrument. While I barely know a violin from a guitar, even from here I can appreciate its elegant lines and curves, and the brilliant, flawless orange of the varnish. It almost reminds me of… “A Stradivarius, do you think?” The color seller arches one long, graceful eyebrow at me. “No way.” Even I know how rare a Stradivarius violin is—I saw a movie about it once. There’s no way some random guy would be playing one on the street, even in the magical Piazza Navona. “I suppose it does look a bit too new,” she agrees, pursing her lips. “But that lovely color—they used to say it was something in the varnish that gave Stradivari’s instruments their voices.” “It reminds me of Titian,” I murmur, thinking of the orange-robed cymbal player in his painting, *Bacchus and Ariadne*. “Mmm. Realgar orange.” She smiles at me then and, for a moment, I almost fancy I can see amber glinting in the depths of her dark eyes. “How about it? Your violins could use a bit of varnish too, I think.” She gestures at my sketchbook. > [[Buy some realgar orange.->Vendecolori 2-2]] > [[Refuse her offer.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

When the time comes, I go to lunch as planned, pretending not to notice when my companion seats itself in the chair across from me. Though I have eaten here before, I find myself savoring each bite as though it is my first—or last. It strikes me how incredibly ungrateful I have been these past weeks. It’s not every 20-something-year-old that gets to run off to Rome for the summer simply because she has the money and time to do so. But then, it’s not every 20-something-year-old who suddenly finds herself rich just in time to have a complete mental breakdown. But right here, right now, I am not going to think about that. I am going to enjoy my authentic Italian carbonara and my tiramisu as I dreamed I would for so many years. I am going to give this moment the attention and appreciation it deserves. The guilt and the shame can come—and I know they will—later. For now, though, I can set them aside for a little while and enjoy myself. > [[Continue->Canvas 2-1]]

orange: true -- “All right… How much this time?” I ask, sure that the pittance I paid for the red was simply a sales hook. This time, she’ll likely want more. She eyes me; I squirm under her prolonged scrutiny, wondering if she can read my thoughts on my face. “As I told you last time, *cara mia*, I want only to see my pigments put to good use. Your violins will suffice.” I open my mouth to ask how she can possibly make a living when she gives all her paints away for free. Before I can utter a sound, she is gone, moving through the crowd like a cat through shadows. No one seems to be bothered by her presence; they move out of her way as if by instinct, clapping at the conclusion of another excellent performance. Gaping, I watch the color seller walk right up to the man. Just as he bows low, she drags her finger along the surface of his violin as if stealing icing from a cake. He glances at her—my heart stops—but she only smiles, and he smiles back. The next moment, she is walking back to me through the crowd, and the violinist begins another melody. I sputter, wanting to ask how she did it, but she only smiles and holds up her orange-tinted finger before producing a paint pot to dip it into. Just as before, she swirls her finger around, then hands it to me, along with a brush. “You really should keep one with you from now on,” she says with a smile, “just in case.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 2-3]]

Don’t question it, I tell myself. I dip the brush into paint the color of flaming gold, of autumn leaves—of a brand-new Stradivarius with a fresh coat of varnish. Just paint. And I do, gilding the curved edges of my violins with a fiery orange glint until they seem ready to jump from the pages and play themselves. When I’m done, I present them for inspection. The color seller selects one and tears it from the book in a single fluid motion. “Are you sure you don’t want—” I begin, but already she is moving away from me again, and I am too clumsy to part the crowd as she does. “I have what I wanted, *stellina*, and you have what you need. It is a good deal. Do not let your doubts cast a shadow upon it. Until we meet again, buona giornata!” I try to follow her movements through the crowd, but she’s gone in an instant, and once again I am left wondering what, exactly, just happened. “Any ideas?” I ask my bright companion in a low voice. The creature whistles back at me as if to say, “How should I know?” > [[Continue->Chiaro 2-3]]

I wander aimlessly, avoiding the center of the square in favor of browsing the high-end vintage shops for a change of pace. I soon grow tired of the shop owner’s skeptical stares. Just because I don’t look it doesn’t mean I couldn’t buy myself a brand-new wardrobe at any one of their hoity-toity establishments if I wanted to (which I don’t). Eventually, I find myself sitting once more by the lion in the fountain, wanting desperately to make a wish without quite knowing what to wish for. The dark creature never leaves my side, not that anyone seems to care. It follows me like a shadow, casting a pall upon an already pallid start to my day. Finally, the clock strikes one. I make a beeline for the trattoria I’ve been looking forward to revisiting all morning. It’s one of the best in town, a personal favorite of mine—and one of the few perks of my accidental wealth is that I can afford to eat there as often as I want, provided I can drag myself far enough out of bed to actually pay a visit. The trattoria is packed, as it often is, but I try not to let it agitate me; I’ve got a reservation. Or so I tell the hostess—but when she looks for my name, she can’t seem to find it. Ten agonizing minutes later, we discover that, whether by my error or the restaurant’s (she won’t admit which), my reservation was for one o’clock *yesterday*. She offers me the option of waiting for a table, but one glance inside tells me I might not eat until tomorrow if I take her up on it. In the end, I wind up waiting twenty minutes at a nearby restaurant for a lackluster lunch I barely taste. The disappointment seems to stalk me all the way back to the Casa della Gattara—or perhaps it is only my shadow. > [[Continue->Canvas 2-1]]

config.header.center: "CHAPTER III" -- Walking down the long, pale stretch of street known as the Via del Corso, my feet carry me forward even as my mind stubbornly lingers in the gallery I’ve just left behind. I fell in love with the Galleria Doria Pamphilj at first sight, back in the early days of my arrival here, equally entranced by its opulence as by its relative vacancy. Spurred on by Felicita, I returned to the gallery today to recapture some of the magic of that first visit. At first, it was the same as before. It’s hard not to stand among all that art—timeless works by the likes of Raphael, Titian, and Caravaggio—and not fall under its spell. But the longer I wandered, the smaller and more uncomfortable I felt. At last, I arrived in the Hall of Mirrors. The mirrors in the hall are framed as exquisitely as any of the masterworks hung alongside them. It’s almost as if the mirrors are trying to convince visitors that they, too, are worthy of gallery placement. But all I could see, staring at my dark, disheveled reflection, was the ugly contrast between such a beautiful frame and such mediocre content. That, and one other thing. Two familiar shapes stood behind me in the mirrors, one dark and one light. I knew without checking that they followed me as I hastened out of the hall and through the exit. Pushing through a stubborn group of tourists clogging the front steps, I stumbled out onto the street like a drowning woman breaching the surface of the sea. Looking back now, I am not surprised to see the creatures follow me still. [if dark > light] What does surprise me is the difference between them now in stature. The light one is little better than skeletal, as it was when we first met, but the dark one seems to have grown taller, stronger. And yet... [if light > dark] What does surprise me is the difference between them now in stature. The dark one is little better than skeletal, as it was when we first met, but the light one seems to have grown taller, stronger. And yet... [if light === 1 && dark === 1] I stop and squint at them for a moment. They each seem healthier today, a little less pathetic—but it may also be a trick of the light. And yet... [continue] They both seem as eager as ever for a snack. Of course, I was well aware of their goal the moment I spotted them in the mirror, which is why… > [[I’m looking for a place to sit and share my leftovers from lunch.->CH 3-2]] > [[I’m going to keep walking and ignore them until they go away.->Neutral 3-1]]

It isn’t long before we come upon a small, shaded seating area nestled between buildings. A handful of low tables draped in checked tablecloths, outfitted with a smattering of simple wooden chairs, hunker down in the narrow alley. They seem to belong to a small ristorante at the corner of one of the two buildings. Most of the tables are already occupied, but one with two seats is available—for the moment. I don’t dare sit down yet, though, for fear of starting a squabble between the two creatures over who will join me at the table. Instead, I reach into my backpack and pull out a doggie bag containing… > [[A small box full of light and crispy baked panelle chips.->Chiaro 3-1]] > [[A small skewer of blackened arrosticini.->Oscuro 3-1]]

companion: "none" neutral: neutral + 1 -- I keep walking south down the Via del Corso, blindly marching forward through foot traffic and slanting slivers of sunlight between the buildings. It isn’t until I’m several blocks down the road that I feel some of the tension leave the air. I risk a glance into the reflective glass of a shop window and am relieved to see that my unwanted company has finally departed. With a sigh, I slow my steps and make my way toward the nearest bus stop. I could walk back to the Casa della Gattara if I really wanted to—but I don’t. All I want, after the excitement of this morning, is to go back to bed as soon as possible and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. Back at the guest house, Felicita catches my eye as I try to sneak past her to the stairs. She asks if I’m well. When my halfhearted response fails to convince her, she presses me to join her and a few of the other guests for a home-cooked dinner. In the end, I relent, but say little during the meal and enjoy it even less. The flavor has gone from her food, excellent though I know it to be. I try to smile, for her sake, but I imagine she is as disappointed in me as I am. > [[Continue->Neutral 3-1B]]

[if neutral >= 3] {embed passage: "Gray Ending"} [else] {embed passage: "Canvas 3-1"}

config.header.center: "Ending 1/5: Grigio (Gray)" -- I sit in my room, staring at my blank canvas and wondering, what was the point? The Italians have a saying: *Una bella giornata non fa estate*. One beautiful day does not a summer make. I suppose I should feel lucky—I had more than one beautiful day here, in the Eternal City. But I should have known it would not last. Even in the middle of summer, the sunlight never quite seems to touch me. I still feel numb. I am every bit as empty as my canvas, and I no longer have the energy to try and fill a perpetually defective vessel. My plane ticket home is sitting on my bedside table. I bought it yesterday when I realized the fog was back and wouldn’t be dissipating anytime soon. If the summer sun in Rome can’t do it, I figured, I might as well go home. But my flight leaves in an hour, and I’m not even packed yet. Does it really matter where I am, or what I do? Nothing feels like it has any weight to it anymore. It’s all flat gray, no shadows and no light. Just an endless blank space stretching on and on into the distance. <br style = "line-height: 5;"> [align center] <span style="font-family:Spectral, serif; font-size:4em;">*The End*</span> [continue]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- Although I’d been saving it for later, I graciously (if a little reluctantly) open the box of chickpea fritters, slide it across the table, and take my seat. The darker twin sniffs the box, warbles an indignant complaint, and stalks away down the street. The light creature flops into the seat across from mine and snatches up a panelle, tapping curiously at the crispy slices and fluttering all over at the enticing sound. With a flick of its wrist, the panelle disappears into its mouth with a loud crunch; the creature seems to glow a little brighter in its pleasure. “Yeah, you better like it,” I mutter, trying not to smile as it picks up the box and tips it, swallowing the rest of the panelle whole. We sit in silence, watching tourists and locals alike pass us by without so much as a wayward glance. Before long, my mind begins to wander… right back to the gallery and the feelings I’ve tried so hard to leave behind. I shake my head as if to dislodge the memory of the mirrors and their unforgivingly honest reflections from my brain. When that doesn’t work, I stand up again and begin to walk. I don’t know where I’m going, other than away. The creature, of course, follows close behind me. > [[Continue->Chiaro 3-2]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- Parting is such sweet sorrow, but alas, this last delicious stick of charcoal-grilled lamb is the only worthy sacrifice I can offer. I open the container and set it in the middle of the table as I sit down. The white creature peers closely at it for a moment before squawking and drawing back as if it has been burned. Turning away, it retreats, its light fading as it disappears into the crowd. The dark one, meanwhile, slides gingerly into the chair opposite mine and lifts the arrosticini between two talons for inspection. After a moment, it lifts the skewer up high, as if to drop the entire affair—skewer and all—into its maw. “Uh, hang on—” I protest, instinctually reaching out to grab the stick before the creature swallows it whole. Then I freeze, staring into my dark companion’s face, wondering anxiously what its reaction will be. The creature is frozen too, staring back at me as if in shock. “It’s… like this,” I murmur, reaching forward with my other hand (slowly, this time) to slide a chunk of roasted lamb off of the skewer. I almost pop it into my mouth, purely for demonstrative purposes of course, but a small, sad, owl-like hoot from across the table stops me midway. Instead, I simply mime the action, then hold the meat out on my flattened palm. The creature regards me, then the skewer, then my outstretched hand. Then I blink, and in that blink, I feel something brush against my palm. When my eyes are open again, the cube of meat is gone, and the creature is plucking bite after bite, one at a time, off of the skewer. I sit back in my chair with a small, relieved chuckle, wondering how close I just came to losing a few fingers in addition to my leftovers. “It’s good, huh? Sorry, that’s it,” I say when, upon finishing its meal, the creature holds the skewer out to me as if to ask for more. It is several minutes before its patience runs out and it drops the skewer on the table with a sigh. > [[Continue->Oscuro 3-2]]

“Today was supposed to be a *nice* day,” I tell my companion under my breath. “I don’t think I should let some stupid gallery, or my own stupid thoughts, ruin it. Do you?” The creature whistles an affirmation. With a smile I feel only on my face, I dive into the first open fashion boutique we encounter. I’m not into high fashion, nor do I need more clothes than what’s already stuffed into the drawers of my rented room. But I find things to buy anyway, and when I ask myself “Why?” the only answer I can give is, “Why not?” Upon exiting the shop, I rinse and repeat—several times. As the sky darkens and the streetlamps brighten, I follow their glow to a small pizzeria and gorge myself on gooey fresh mozzarella and salty meats. It’s delicious but heavy fare, and when I finally walk out again into the warm night, I feel like I’ve swallowed the full moon hanging low over our heads. By the time I return to Casa della Gattara, I am footsore and exhausted. As I trudge up the stairs, Felicita exclaims that she waited up for me half the night, worried that I’d gotten lost or worse. She is less than amused when I explain that I simply lost track of time. > [[Continue->Canvas 3-1]]

In my room, my bed awaits. So does the canvas. Sometimes I take the sheet off of it and imagine what I *would* paint, if I could only bring myself to do so. I can never picture the painting itself with any precision, but the circumstances surrounding it are always clear. I close my eyes and see myself standing beside my art, showing it at a gallery perhaps, or to a fellow artist. I am smiling. I am successful. For the first time in my life, I am proud of what I’ve made. It’s not that I want to be famous. I don’t want that kind of attention. But I love what I do, and I want what I do to be worth loving. I want to be quietly great, a master artiste holed away in some cozy little hermitage out of the public eye. Let me be a mystery, the painter without a face. In reality, I am the worst thing an artist can be: average. Which is why, when I stood on that stage back home, accepting that award in front of all those people wasn’t the joyous occasion everyone expected it to be for me. It was mortifying. Walking through the gallery today, I was right back on that stage, feeling false, feeling empty—a frame without art. This trip is my last chance to fill the frame. If I can just paint something worthwhile on that canvas, then… maybe I can finally remember what it’s like to feel whole. > [[Begin Chapter IV->CH 4-1]]

We sit in silence, watching tourists and locals alike pass us by without so much as a wayward glance. It isn’t long before my mind wanders around the corner and down the street—right back to the gallery. Galleries have always been a safe haven for me. There are few feelings better than getting lost in a painting you love, and here in Rome—especially in such selective private galleries as the Galleria Doria Pamphilj—there are many works of art worth losing yourself in. Today, however, I found no sanctuary in the gallery, only a stark reminder of my own insignificance. It frightened me, but intertwined with that fear was another, more unexpected emotion: anger. It is not until my pencil breaks that I realize I’ve been sketching. I don’t even remember pulling my book from my bag. I look down to see the pages filled with mirrors and picture frames—round ones, tall ones, square ones, distorted ones. One empty frame towers over a small figure too dark and tiny to see clearly. Another is a funhouse mirror, distorting the one beside it into a nightmarish infinity of twisted looking glasses. A third is filled with the monstrous visage of some unclear creature of the night, with bright eyes and a gaping mouth opened wide in either a threatening roar or agonized scream. A fourth mirror shatters into a thousand tiny razor-sharp fragments. [if orange === true] <div id="yellowpaint" class="div"> My hand is shaking, but my head feels clearer now. With a soft sigh, I look up again and see that the world has shifted around us while I was busy exorcising my demons. The afternoon has waned into the magic hour just before sundown; the buildings around us are gilded with the [[golden light->Vendecolori 3-1]] of the dying sun slanting over the rooftops. </div> [else] My hand is shaking, but my head feels clearer now. With a soft sigh, I look up again and see that the world has shifted around us while I was busy exorcising my demons. The afternoon has waned into the magic hour just before sundown; the buildings around us are gilded with the golden light of the dying sun slanting over the rooftops. [continue] > [[Continue->Oscuro 3-3]]

This is my favorite time of day. It’s cliché, I know, given that it was artists who gave this hour its name and fame in the first place, but clichés happen for a reason. In light like this, everything seems possible. Even shadows seem friendly. Metal scrapes stone as someone drags a chair over from a neighboring table to our own. I have half an idea of who to expect, and when the vendecolori takes a seat beside me, I almost laugh. “I saw you sketching and did not want to interrupt. Do you feel better now?” She indicates my open sketchbook. I snap it shut without thinking. “I… yeah, a bit.” She nods wisely. “Better to put it on a page than keep it caged between your own ribs.” “Are you an artist, too?” I ask. There it is again, that secretive smile of hers. She twirls one dark ringlet around her fingers as she considers her answer. “I enable the creation of art. But does that make me the artist, the canvas, or the brush?” “Or maybe you’re the hand that guides the brush?” I offer, playing along. She raises her eyebrows, seeming pleasantly surprised at my answer. “Or perhaps the hand that guides the hand guiding the brush,” she says at last, and we laugh. “Speaking of hands, brushes, and painting… Do you want it?” She gestures at the light. > [[Buy another color from the color seller.->Vendecolori 3-2]] > [[Decline her offer.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

I linger in the alley for a few moments longer before rising with a sigh to make my way back to my home away from home, where Felicita and her clowder of cats await my return. My dark companion walks beside me as we pass through the fading golden light and growing shadows stretching across the streets of Rome. As nightfall nears, a different side of the city begins to wake; the streetlights are just flickering to life when I reach the front steps of the Casa della Gattara. But I have no energy for the glittering underworld of Rome’s nightlife scene tonight. All I want is my bed, my room, and deep, dreamless sleep. > [[Continue->Canvas 3-1]]

yellow: true -- This time it is my turn to raise my eyebrows. I wonder how she will pull *this* one off. “Sure.” She bares her teeth in a wider smile; she knows I’m daring her. She stands up—and then, pulling her chair out, steps onto the chair to reach higher. “What are you doing?” I exclaim. Shoving my own chair back, I scramble to stand, not sure if I am more worried about her safety or the startled looks of the people around us. Her safety, at least, seems an unnecessary concern. She maintains a perfect, ballerina-like balance as she lifts herself up onto her tiptoes and stretches one long, graceful arm up towards the sky, until her hand is bathed in some of the sunlight streaking down between the buildings. She cups the light in her hand and closes it with great care, as if capturing a butterfly, before slowly lowering herself back down onto the flats of her boots and the safety of the ground. “No way,” I mutter, but she’s already pulling out one of her paint pots and pressing the contents of her closed fist into the round tin. “For you,” she says proudly. “*Giallo di Napoli*.” Naples yellow. “Paint for me one of your mirrors, will you?” I flush a little. The mirrors are by far the most personal sketches she’s asked for thus far, and I’m a bit reluctant to part with them. “I can pay you, you know. Your paints are so beautiful, they’re worth whatever price you want to put on them.” “Oh, I know, *stellina*,” she says. “That is exactly why I ask for your art. It is far more valuable to me than your coin.” “... Okay.” I still don’t know what to make of her, or her strange business practices. But since I don’t imagine I can change her mind, I take the paint and—pulling one of my own brushes from my bag this time, to her amusement—sit down with my sketchbook to gild my mirrors with her gold. It is a breathtaking color. It is more than the golden light of the sun—it is the bright yellow of a Fiat 500 cruising down the Via del Corso, of Renoir’s cheerfully blooming chrysanthemums in a vase, of light reflecting off of a golden frame… When I am done, I tear the page from my sketchbook myself and hold it out to her. “Are you sure I can’t offer you more than this?” She smirks. “No, I am quite sure you cannot.” Taking her payment, she glances up at the sky. “It will be dark soon, *cara mia*. If you mean to get home before nightfall, best start now. Although, these days, it seems almost as bright at night as during the day. *Ciao*!” > [[Continue->Oscuro 3-3]]

config.header.center: "CHAPTER IV" -- I feel… different today. [if light >= 3] I woke early, far too early for how late I fell asleep last night. But I feel blindingly awake, as if a lighthouse is shining its light directly into my head to dissipate the gray fog of the past few years. I know it’s not likely to last, but I’m determined to enjoy it while I can. Dressing quickly, I head downstairs and surprise myself (and Felicita) by wolfing down my breakfast with relish. I have always appreciated the quality of my hostess’s cooking, but today it nearly transports me to another plane of existence. As I and my fellow guests eat, the talk around the table turns to the topic of local excursions. One man’s story, in particular, sparks an idea. Today, I’m going on an adventure. [if dark >= 3] There’s a heaviness in my head and in my bones that feels like it could chain me to this bed for the rest of the day if I let it. But I need to get up and eat something sooner or later. Nearly tripping over a cat stretched out across one of the steps, I trudge downstairs, waging an internal war over my options. I’ve slept in late and missed Felicita’s free breakfast yet again. I’ll have to beg for leftovers or hunt down food of my own out on the street, neither of which sounds appealing. As soon as she sees me, Felicita catches my arm and lassoes me into a conversation with an engaged couple. They’re around my age, and apparently taking a day trip just north of the city. Felicita by turns urges, cajoles, and prods at me until I finally agree that yes, I might as well catch a cab with them since I have no other plans today. I don’t know where we’re going, nor do I particularly care. Throughout the ride, I do my very best impersonation of someone that does not exist. When the cab finally pulls up at our stop, I thrust my share of the fare at them, thank them for the ride, and flee—into the woods. [unless light >= 3 || dark >= 3] Well-rested—but no, that’s not quite it. It’s more like I’ve been at sea for a long time and have only just begun to walk in straight lines again. What’s more, for once I’ve woken up with an appetite. After dressing, I head downstairs and gratefully indulge in one of Felicita’s delicious breakfasts—today it’s cornettos and coffee—alongside my fellow boarders. During the meal, the conversation turns to local excursions, and the talk around the table gives me an idea. There’s a place just north of Rome I’ve been meaning to visit—and avoiding—for far too long. Today’s as good as any other day to cross it off my list. [continue] > [[Continue->Ch 4-2]]

About an hour and a half north of Rome, there’s a strange and haunting overgrown garden filled with mossy stone figures. Called *Bosco Sacro* (Sacred Woods) by some, it has another name: *Parco dei Mostri*. The Park of the Monsters. When we came to Rome as a child, Uncle Nino raved about it like it was Narnia. “A whole other world,” he called it, insisting I would love it. He showed me a painting of his, a study of one of the park’s most iconic features—a giant ogre’s head with a gaping maw. Showing it to me was a mistake. Terrified by the image, I flat-out refused to go and visit its real-life counterpart. [if light >= 3] Standing in the forest now, I am struck not by the horrors I imagined lurking here, but by the controlled chaos of its unexpected beauty. Gazing at one wondrous sculpture after another—here, a pegasus ready to take flight, there, a larger-than-life Hercules and the fire-breathing Cacus battling to the death—I can’t help but wonder about the man whose hands brought these creatures to life. This is not a fearful place, I decide, basking in the warmth of the light filtering down between the trees. This is an artist’s playground, and as painters of greater renown have done before me, I have come here to play. [if dark >= 3] Standing in the forest now, however, it is not fear that slows my steps and drags my feet across the grass and dirt paths. Surreal though it is to wander among sleeping giants and ancient sea gods riddled with lichen, the stone eyes that seem to follow me do not feel threatening. This garden’s roots go deep, but they draw from a wellspring of tragedy, not terror. The deeper I venture, the heavier that lingering sorrow begins to weigh on my own bones. [unless light >= 3 || dark >= 3] Standing in the forest now, I am not afraid. What memories of horror linger here are old and faded. The park is shrouded in a sense of peace not unlike that of a well-tended graveyard. Vines clamber over the stone figures that haunt the hallowed grove, softening their presence. The seeds of this garden may have been sown in sorrow, but love is what kept it growing. It is a delicate balance between life and death, loss and love, and it is all the more compelling for its fragility. [continue] > [[Continue->Ch 4-3]]

Eventually, my meandering leads me to the figure I knew I must eventually face: the ogre. Despite my earlier conclusions, I hesitate before approaching, feeling the cold echo of my childhood fears trickling down the back of my neck. The ogre’s empty eyes are open wide with agony or rage. His mouth stretches into a scream so broad I could stand between his jaws and still have room to spare between my head and his protruding fangs. The inscription on his upper lips translates to something like, “All thoughts fly.” I wonder if it refers to the acoustics of the mouth’s cavern—my uncle told me that even a whisper will echo if spoken inside. Or maybe it forebodes the loss of reason people tend to experience upon walking into the so-called “Hell Mouth,” where a stone picnic table waits for those brave enough to sit. Having come this far, it seems foolish to stop short now. And so, taking a deep breath, I hike up my shoulders and step inside to take my seat. It’s surprisingly small inside, once my eyes adjust. It’s essentially a small, windowless room, still and dark but not claustrophobic. I close my eyes, letting the moment sink in. The atmosphere here is palpable; I can practically taste its flavor on my tongue. It’s a stony silence, in more ways than one. I get the sense that while I am permitted here, I am not necessarily welcome. When I open my eyes again, it doesn’t take me long at all to spot two changes in my surroundings. The first: a shadow, darker than the darkness around us, lurking in the back corner of the room. The second: a bright, shining thing standing by the entrance, looking rather unwilling to come in. Luckily, I’ve come prepared. > [[Follow the bright one back into the light.->Chiaro 4-1]] > [[Invite the dark one to sit with you at the table.->Oscuro 4-1]]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- Having done what I came here to do, I have no reason to linger. I’ve been sitting in the shadows long enough. I rise from my seat, glancing apologetically at the dark creature. We know each other well now; recognizing my intention, she melts away into the shadows without bothering to complain. I follow the bright one back into the sunlight, relishing the comfort of a clear sky and sunny afternoon—and, to my surprise, the company of my shining friend. Reaching into my bag, I produce two *tramezzino* sandwiches on white bread, one of which the creature happily snaps up. (I keep the other for myself.) [if light >= 3] “Come on,” I tell my companion. “There are better places to picnic.” Not all of the statues are as creepy as this one. I would much rather share my lunch with unicorns and dragons than the ogre and the gnawing emptiness of his gaping mouth. We eat as we walk, the creature gliding along blissfully beside me as he munches on his sandwich. Italian summers are notoriously hot, and my skin is soon glinting with sweat in the midday sun, but I don’t care. The discomfort keeps my mind off—other things. [else] We sit on the steps in front of the ogre’s mouth, eager to fill our stomachs; perhaps his hunger is catching. My sandwich seems all the more flavorful for a sense of having earned it; it is my reward for finally completing my own personal rite of passage. Having braved an old fear, I find myself feeling a little stronger, a little less worn down. Once our appetites for food are satisfied, I find my appetite for exploration unexpectedly renewed. “Come on,” I tell my companion, “let’s see what else might be hiding in these woods.” The creature chirrups and ruffles his feathers, and together we venture deeper into the woods. [continue] > [[Continue->Chiaro 4-2]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- It’s a bright day outside, aggressive in its heat and humidity. A riot of summer sun and shifting patterns of light and shadow. Here in the dark, it’s cooler, quieter, calm. Reaching into my bag, I pull out two *tramezzino* sandwiches on dark rye bread. I place one on the table across from me, keeping the other for myself. We’ve begun to know each other now; the dark creature comes forward without hesitation, and the bright one disappears around the corner of the entrance without a fuss. “You seem like you belong here,” I murmur, watching my shadowy companion creep into the seat across from me and begin eating her fill. The echo rebounds: “belong here… belong…” [if dark >= 3] The creature seems almost to grow as if her own shadows are feeding on the darkness around us—a cumulative effect that makes the creature seem bigger than she is. She’s certainly less lean than she was when we first met, though no less ravenous. The soft crunching of our snacks echoes all around us till it seems we are the consumed, as well as the consumers. I can almost feel the teeth gnawing at my skin, my muscles, my bones. Imaginary teeth are not the only thing gnawing at me. August approaches, and with it a country-wide closure. If I am to leave before the streets become clogged with people and the shops all close—and if I mean to avoid doing so empty-handed, after all of this effort—I don’t have much time left. The canvas in my room still stands empty as ever. But I have no idea yet what to fill it with. [else] We eat in companionable—well, not silence. Our crunchings and munchings echo loudly around us, amplified by the odd acoustics of the stone room. It’s a little creepy, to be honest—but at least I am not here alone, not anymore. I gaze across the table at my dark companion, munching away at her sandwich. I wonder aloud, “Where do you go when you’re not with me? Where’s your home?” The creature regards me with curious eyes—without ceasing her feast, of course—but all I get in response is a sigh, like wind in the boughs of a dead tree. [continue] > [[Continue->Oscuro 4-2]]

[if yellow === true] <div id="greenpaint" class="div"> There is something about this place—something I can’t quite name. The artistry of the statues is unquestionable, but there’s more to it than that. It feels alive in ways that science can’t explain. The [[green of the woods->Vendecolori4-1]]—the dappled leaves and creeping moss, vines that seem to curl around anything that sits still just a little too long—seems to pulse with its own vitality. </div> [else] There is something about this place—something I can’t quite name. The artistry of the statues is unquestionable, but there’s more to it than that. It feels alive in ways that science can’t explain. The green of the woods—the dappled leaves and creeping moss, vines that seem to curl around anything that sits still just a little too long—seems to pulse with its own vitality. [continue] I find myself stopping often to sketch this or that, pausing to sit beneath the shade of some tree or stone guardian, even leaning on the living stone itself for support as my pencil glides across each page. I do not know which enchants me more, stone or leaf—there are no gardens like this back home. It’s as if the air itself has expanded my lungs; I’m breathing more freely than I have in many months. > [[Continue->Chiaro 4-3]]

I find myself lost in the greenery, my eyes greedily drinking in a color that is all too rarely found amid the cement buildings and asphalt roads of the city I grew up in. Eventually, we wander into the company of several striking statues—lions flanked on either side by half-snake women with worn scales and wary eyes. According to a map of the park, one of the women is a Fury. The other is the mother of monsters herself. Echidna. I can’t seem to help myself. I stop and plop down right where I stand and begin to sketch. First I draw them as they are—proud, powerful, well-tended. Then I begin to illustrate what I imagine they might be one day when the last of their groundskeepers is gone and there is no one left to tend their memories. Lichen drapes across their shoulders like cloaks; ivy twines around their spiraling tentacles like fresh scales replacing the old as they molt and wear away with the years. They are changed, worn, even broken in some places—but they are more alive than ever. They endure. “*Bellissima*, no?” I don’t bother to look up; I know who the speaker is, and I’m not quite done sketching yet. “I thought I might see you here.” The color seller’s laugh is deep, throaty, and knowing, as if she and the snake-women share some secret to which I am not privy. “Oh? Should I be insulted, that you expect to meet me among a menagerie of monsters?” I grin a little, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. “They aren’t monsters. They’re beautiful.” She seems surprised and pleased by my response. “But they would be even more beautiful with a bit of color, would they not?” she asks, pointing to my sketchbook. > [[Buy green pigment from the color seller.->Vendecolori 4-2]] > [[Refuse the implied offer.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

The bright creature and I while away the rest of the afternoon wandering through the park at our leisure. [if light >= 3] The hotter and brighter the afternoon gets, the more determined we are to enjoy ourselves in spite of it. When the sun blazes, the creature beside me seems to flare a little bit as if in defiance. I bare my teeth in a smile through the sweat dripping down my face, and I forge a path through the monsters in the park (and in my head) one step at a time. There’s an old philosophical question that asks: If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, does it make a sound? Today I ask a similar question. If you can shine a light so bright it blinds you to the shadows you cast, do the shadows still exist? If they do, we pay them no mind. We walk on. [else] The hotter and brighter the afternoon gets, the slower we walk, taking our time to enjoy all the little secrets the garden has to share with us. When the sun burns too bright, we walk in the shade. When the heat gets too hot, we stop and take a drink. Everything in moderation, and nothing taken for granted. For once, I feel no pressure to walk, to accomplish, to *do*. Here in the sacred wood, it feels like enough, for once, simply to be. In school, everything was always about progress; you learn one lesson not just to learn it, but to “lay the foundations” (as too many teachers are fond of saying) for the next step forward. With my art, too, I have always pushed myself to make more, make it better, make it different, for fear of being ordinary. Here, in the Park of Monsters, that world—and the person it made me—seem distant, indistinct. I feel warm and weightless, as if the marrow in my bones is made of sunlight. I am not an artist or a student or a daughter or a friend. I am me. Only me. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 4-1]]

green: true -- “Yeah. I think you’re right.” She nods approvingly and holds out her hand. I frown, confused, but she shakes her head—it is not me she is asking something of. As if on cue, a dainty little breeze dances through the wood, tickling the foliage and tugging at our hair. A few free-spirited leaves come loose and trail in its wake; one of these is deposited in the palm of the color seller’s hand as the air settles. I shake my head, baffled as always. “Ah, *grazi*.” I am not sure if it is the breeze or the forest that she thanks. “Scheele’s green, they called it. Such a contradictory color. It suits this place, I think.” Her smile turns a shade wicked as she produces one of her paint pots and begins to grind the leaf into it with her thumb. She seems to be taking her time. Perhaps, in granting her my attention time and again, I’ve earned a bit of hers in return. I choose a question carefully, knowing there is no guarantee I will get to ask another. > [[Ask about the color.->Vendecolori 4-2A]] > [[Ask about her pigments.->Vendecolori 4-2B]] > [[Ask about the color seller.->Vendecolori 4-2C]]

“You called it a contradictory color? Why?” I have heard of Scheele’s green, but my memory is sluggish today, slowed by the heat of the summery afternoon. “You think of life when you see it, no? Of green things growing and thriving?” She nods at the verdant woods around us. “But it is a pigment that has long been poisonous to your kind. Little flower-sellers used to paint fake bouquets with it, turning silk into fanciful stems and leaves, until their skin turned green and they vomited verdant death.” Is it my imagination, or have the woods gone quiet? It feels as if the garden itself is leaning in close to listen to her words. “Even here, where we stand now—this garden might not live at all, had death not first inspired its creation, and then its preservation.” She tilts her head at me as she stirs the pigment in the pot. “But life is like that, is it not? Without life, there is no death. For shadow, you need light. And perhaps vice-versa.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 4-3]]

“How do you do it?” I feel like a child asking a magician how to pull a rabbit out of a hat. The answer should be simple and obvious, yet it feels impossibly out of my scope of understanding. “How do you make your pigments?” I want to ask if it is sleight of hand, but I feel somehow that she might take offense at that. She arches an eyebrow at me as she stirs the pot. “I may as well ask you how you imagine, or how you dream. Can you tell me that? Can you explain it in simple terms?” I open my mouth immediately, only to shut it again, stumped. I want to say something about memory, about using familiar images to create new, unfamiliar concepts, but it sounds like gibberish when I try to put it into words. She nods sagely. “Exactly. It is exactly the same, *cara mia*. I could not tell you even if I wanted to.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 4-3]]

“We… never really introduced ourselves, did we?” I ask, sheepish. “Sorry. My name is Perce.” She shrugs. “No need to apologize, *stellina*.” A long silence stretches out as I wait for an answering introduction that never comes. Finally, I ask outright, “So… what’s your name?” There it is—that smile again. I know she is not going to answer, although I can’t imagine why not. Maybe it’s part of her schtick—to admit to a normal, human name would tarnish her image as the magical, mysterious *vendecolori*. I try my luck with a different approach. “How did you become a color seller?” Many of the street vendors ply their wares out of desperation, but she neither seems like a beggar nor a con artist, despite whatever secrets she may be hiding. She is always the picture of beauty and grace; I cannot believe she has ever had to beg for scraps. “It is but one of my many hobbies,” she says airily. “I have much time to spare, so I do my best to fill it wisely.” She does not bother to elaborate further. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 4-3]]

Deeming her work done, she hands the paint pot over to me. The green pigment within is indeed Scheele’s green, a vibrant middle-green, the color of things with roots that go deep and arms that reach high. “Payment as usual?” I ask, and she laughs again and agrees. Pulling out my brush, I set to work without further ado. Though I sketched more today than I have in a long while, it is not hard to guess which page she wants. Echidna and the Fury, no longer consigned to the pale blank page and pencil strokes of their first incarnation, revel in the green pigment as it blooms and bleeds into the vegetation that adorns them. I find myself growing acutely aware of the real statues’ hollow eyes as they watch me work. When I am done, the *vendecolori* takes the page from me with tender care. “What do you think, *mie sorelle*?” she asks, holding it up for the statues to gaze upon. She waits a moment, as if listening, and grins at me. “Yes, they are pleased. As am I. Your work never disappoints.” Something twists inside me at that. “If you say so.” Her lips remain curved, but her eyes narrow slightly. “*Sì*. I do.” Her tone brooks no argument. “...Okay,” I mutter, but she is already on her way, calling her usual words of farewell back to me over her shoulder. It is only as she is leaving that I notice the small, painted snakes winding their way around her curiously curly-toed boots. > [[Continue->Chiaro 4-3]]

Later, lying on my bed in the dark, I stare listlessly up at the ceiling. Sleep hovers around the corners of my eyes, tickling my jaw until it opens wide in an indulgent yawn, but for once, I hesitate to give in. [if dark >= 3] Visiting the park today felt like visiting a graveyard. It’s been years since he passed, but today I missed Uncle Nino so much I could hardly breathe. I wish we could have gone together, as he wanted to all those years ago. But I let fear get the better of me that day and disappointed him, though he was too kind to say so. Disappointing him turned out to be a habit I found hard to break. Uncle Nino gave me my first painting lessons. I inherited my mother’s eyes, my father’s hair, but it was Uncle Nino who sparked in me my love of art, and of Rome. We dreamed together about running away and becoming itinerant artists, and he alone never doubted my potential. Then he died, his dreams unrealized. And for the first time, I understood that hope was not enough. Talent was not enough. Even if you did everything in your power, gave everything you had, you might never be enough. That was the day the fog rolled in. I’ve been lost in it ever since. [if light >= 3] Visiting the park today felt like visiting a graveyard on Halloween night. There is nothing like a *memento mori* to remind you how alive you really are. It’s like thumbing your nose as your own mortality—I feel invincible, like I can do anything. The empty canvas in the corner catches my eye, as if to correct me: *almost* anything. I turn my back on it and close my eyes, imagining myself back in the park, this time with Uncle Nino. We should have gone together when he asked to all those years ago, when he was still alive. But I was young and stupid and afraid, and he was too nice to force me. I am braver now. And if I can face the monster I used to imagine under my bed, maybe there’s hope for me yet. [unless light >= 3 || dark >= 3] Visiting the park today felt like visiting a graveyard—not to mourn, but to remember all the quiet little important things that get lost in the grind of everyday life. To remember, most of all, that life can grow and thrive even in the shadow of grief and suffering. Uncle Nino’s funeral was my first. He taught me how to grieve. But he also taught me how to paint, how to purge the bad thoughts and give life to the good ones with a brush and a bit of pigment. I always regretted that he never lived to be the artist he wanted to be. Somewhere along the way, I became convinced that my fate would be the same. If he couldn’t make it, what hope was there for me? But walking in those woods today reminded me that we are not the same. He is gone, but I am still here. I still have room to grow. [continue] > [[Begin Chapter V->Ch 5-1]]

Our meal finished, we sit together in the silent shadows, pondering what comes next. (At least, that’s what *I’m* pondering. There’s no telling what my strange companion may be thinking of.) [if dark >= 3] This garden has inspired many a hand to paint, or draw, or sculpt, but all it makes me want to do is turn to stone. I don’t know why I let Felicita talk me into coming out here. This place isn’t a distraction, it’s a reminder of all the darkness I tried to leave behind when I fled to Italy in the first place—the shadows lurking just beyond the haze I’ve been lost in for so long. I stand to walk out, and the creature utters a loud, haunting hoot, like an owl in a graveyard. She does not want to leave the darkness, to step out into the bright noon sunlight, but as I remind her, “It’s the only way we get home.” With a deeply offended sigh, she heaves herself up from the table and follows me out of the ogre’s mouth. Wasting no more time on aimless meanderings, we make a beeline straight for the entrance to the park. I call a cab to take us back to Rome. When the cab arrives, I don’t think twice about holding the door open for my companion—and I don’t care if the taxi driver gives me a funny look when I do. [else] There is much still to see in the garden, but for now, I am more than content to rest here in the shadows. There is comfort in the quiet and the stillness; it is a relief to let go of reason and simply feel. And I *do* feel. The thick, numbing gloom that I’ve carried with me these long months seems to finally be dissipating. On the other side of it, like a membrane wearing thinner and thinner, I can feel the writhing of emotions too long tamped down. There is a part of me that feels just enough to worry I will be drowned when the dam finally bursts. But I’m beginning to think I would rather risk the flood than stand forever stranded in the mist. And at least—at least I’m not alone. I put my head down to rest; it feels so heavy on my shoulders. My dreams are filled with monsters—those of the park, and others—but I don’t run from them, and they don’t give chase. They let me pass them by, watching, waiting—for what, I don’t know. When I wake, the sky is overcast. To my amazement, my companion sits with me still, waiting patiently for me to rouse. I stretch. It’s much cooler now that the sun’s hidden away. “Shall we?” I ask the shadowy creature. She hums at me. We wander the park together until closing time; when I call for a cab to take us home, I hold the door open for my companion without thinking twice. The cab driver gives me a questioning look as I climb in after the creature—like everyone before him, he seems unable to see her. “I’m taking one of the monsters home with me,” I explain, suppressing a wicked smile. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 4-1]]

config.header.center: "CHAPTER V" -- Today it is just Felicita and me at the breakfast table. The other guests are all checked out, gone out, or sleeping in even later than I did. My hostess smiles at me. “I have an idea. Something fun. How would you like to dine on cats?” I blanch. “Er… what?” She frowns at my reaction, then laughs, catching her mistake. “Ah—*with* cats. I know a good place in Ostiense. It will be open soon.” I glance at the two cats lounging on the windowsill and a third sitting on her lap. “I didn’t know I had a choice.” Felicita laughs again, a bright, merry sound. A strong contrast to my mood this morning; last night I dreamed I was trying to row my way home across the ocean and got lost at sea. I despise obvious dream metaphors. “Come, you like art, do you not? You will like Ostiense. Come with me.” > [[Continue->Ch 5-2]]

I’m not in the mood for an adventure today, but I don’t have the strength to contradict her. Nor do I have much motivation to stay here, where an empty canvas continues to sit in the corner of my room and judge me. Before long, I find myself in a sweet little bistro with a punny name surrounded by six *more* cats. We’ve come, it turns out, to meet a friend of Felicita’s, who seems to be an even bigger cat-lover and chatterbox (if such a thing is possible), and between the two of them, there is more than enough small talk to go around while I eat my breakfast in silence. I am almost convinced they have forgotten me until, the moment I finish eating, Felicita’s friend turns her brighter-than-headlights smile on me. I freeze. She says something in Italian, and Felicita translates. “She says you should take some of the cookies with you for later. They are new and, apparently, very good.” Turning to the counter, I notice the delicacies she’s talking about—small, cat-shaped cookies in two varieties: black and white. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I have a feeling I will be sharing these later—but not with Felicita or her friend. Cookies may not be the healthiest snack I could choose, but it’s not so bad to indulge once in a while. > [[Buy the white cat cookies.->Chiaro 5-1]] > [[Buy the black cat cookies.->Oscuro 5-1]]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- My stomach knots when Felicita’s friend decides to join us on our tour of the neighborhood. She’s nice but overbright, the kind of extrovert extraordinaire that makes you tired just by watching them. I can already feel my energy waning, and we’ve only just left the bistro. [if light >= 4] But it would be selfish to part ways now after Felicita was considerate enough to take me somewhere she thought I would like. I don’t want to be rude or ungrateful. Besides, what good would it do to sulk or complain? So I crush my disappointment and discontent like a spider under my heel and smile as if I mean it. It doesn’t matter that I don’t; they are convinced, and that is enough. [if dark >= 4] But I’m already here, and I doubt I could escape from Felicita so easily, even if her friend was willing to let me go my own way. So I follow them, trying to swallow down my disappointment but all the while feeling like I’m choking. I know it’s showing on my face by the way they look at me sometimes, but when Felicita asks if I’m fine, I just shrug. It’s all I can do to keep myself from sneaking away while they’re talking, but I know Felicita would look for me if I just disappeared. She’d probably burn the whole town down to find me if she thought I was in trouble. Instead of feeling grateful for her care, though, I just feel suffocated. [unless light >= 4 || dark >= 4] So I make a deal with myself. I’ll walk awhile with them, to repay Felicita for her generosity and to avoid any hurt feelings. And then, if I still want to leave, we can part ways peacefully. I’ll still have the rest of the day to myself, to relax and recharge however I see fit. [continue] Ostiense turns out to be the most colorful neighborhood in Rome I’ve never visited—until now. It’s home both to an Egyptian-styled pyramid and the grand St. Paul’s Basilica, but as Felicita tells me with a wink, we’re not here for that sort of thing today. No gilded halls and marble statues for us—all you need to do to see beautiful paintings in Ostiense is to walk down the street. It’s hard not to gape at the sheer scale of the street art that blooms across Ostiense. Huge blossoms of color burst into life on the sides of otherwise featureless buildings. Here, the faces of poets and politicians coexist peaceably, side by side; there, a man made of stars cradles a moon full of human silhouettes. Cars crawl up the walls of one building like cockroaches, while a heron catches his dinner around the corner of another. I can’t believe I’ve never been here. It puts a lump in my throat to think I might never have seen it, if I hadn’t come down for breakfast this morning, or if I had never stayed at the Casa della Gattara—or if I’d never come back to Rome at all. > [[Continue->Chiaro 5-2]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- My stomach knots when Felicita’s friend decides to join us on our tour of the neighborhood. She’s nice but overbright, the kind of extrovert extraordinaire that makes you tired just by watching them. I can already feel my energy waning, and we’ve only just left the bistro. [if dark >= 4] I can’t do this. I feel like I’m suffocating. I blurt out some excuse, and trying my best to ignore Felicita’s obvious disappointment, I hurry down the street and turn the first corner I come across. I hide in one of the shops until I am sure our paths will not cross again. Guilt squirms in the pit of my stomach, but my swift retreat wasn’t entirely motivated by selfishness. I know myself; I know this dark mood. If I had forced myself to stay with them, I would have made terrible company. They were having such a nice time; it would have been unkind to ruin their day out with my gloomy weather. At least if I’m alone, the only person whose day I can ruin is my own. [if light >= 4] Finally, I decide to stop torturing myself. Making up an excuse about suddenly remembering reservations that don’t exist, I cheerfully extricate myself from my unwanted company. Felicita is hurt, it’s obvious, but she’ll forgive me (I hope). I hurry down the street before she and her friend can protest, feeling a little bit like a criminal who’s just broken out of jail. Any guilt that may have changed my mind is quickly overtaken by the thrill of freedom. I plan to make the most of this precious feeling while it lasts. [unless light >= 4 || dark >= 4] I walk with them a little way before excusing myself. I promise Felita I will make it up to her later by telling her all about my adventures when I return to the guest house tonight. She is disappointed but seems to understand more than what I’m able to put into words. She wishes me a nice day out. I am relieved to find myself on my own again. Grateful though I am to both of them for treating me so nicely this morning, I was craving some alone time today. And I could tell I was slowing them down, being the only one in our group not content with merely glancing at the murals spiraling down the streets as we walked on. As nice as our brunch in the cafe was, I’m looking forward to exploring these magical streets on my own, at my own pace. [continue] It isn’t long, however, before I realize I’m not alone after all. In the shuttered window of a closed shop, I spot her—the dark creature, keeping pace with me as I make my way down the street. I don’t have to turn my head the other way to know she will be there—as if it is the reflection that makes the one beside me real, rather than the other way around. Reaching into my bag, I produce the black cat cookies I purchased at the bistro. [if dark >= 4] I meant to share them, but the moment the box appears, the creature reaches out her hands, as if asking for the whole box. I don’t have the heart to refuse her. I already ate, after all—and though she appears well-fed, the creature seems hungry as ever. [if light >= 4] To my surprise, the creature flinches when I produce them. Does she think I would hurt her? Or perhaps she suspects a trick; to be fair, I have not been as generous with this one as I have with her bright counterpart. It shows, too; the creature seems scrawnier and fainter than ever. I hold out a single cookie on the palm of my hand, the way you would offer a treat to a frightened animal, and wait until she finally creeps forward to accept my gift. I feed her the rest of the cookies one by one, keeping none for myself. When the last of these is devoured, we turn our attention to the business of exploration, walking slowly to accommodate the creature’s faltering steps. [unless light >= 4 || dark >= 4] The creature coos like a dove as I take a few for myself before handing over the box full of the rest. She takes the box from me without hesitation, eagerly plucking out one cookie after another to devour, and I smile. She didn’t so much as flinch this time when I moved toward her. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” I ask, and she hoots softly in agreement. [continue] > [[Continue->Oscuro 5-2]]

As grateful as I am now to Felicita for bringing me here, the farther we walk, the stronger my craving for solitude becomes. She is kind, and her friend is eager to sightsee. But their constant chatter is distracting, and though we are all looking at the same things, I know we see them very differently. Then I spot it—something walking alongside us in our reflections in the windows. The bright creature, watching me hungrily. Relief floods through me like a flashlight in the dark. I am saved. I excuse myself, claiming to have seen a familiar face in the crowd—a claim which Felicita does not seem to find convincing, but thankfully does not press me about. After promising to return to the guest house at a reasonable hour, I hasten down the street, diving around a corner the first time I glance back and see them looking away from me. Not looking where I am going, I almost walk right into him—my bright companion, now standing in front of me on the street instead of peering at me from the windows. > [[Continue->Chiaro 5-3]]

[if light >= 4] Even without touching him, I can feel the heat radiating off of him. The creature is brighter now, I know it; if I stare at him for too long, I see sunspots. He’s filled out considerably since first we met, and… is he taller, too? A momentary unease creeps into the corners of my mind, but it vanishes just as soon as it appears, evaporating in a flash as the creature brightens his light. No, there’s nothing to worry about here. I pull out the box of vanilla-frosted cookies from the bistro, meaning to share them between us, but the moment the box appears, the creature lunges for it and begins devouring it, box and all. It’s a somewhat disquieting display, even if no one else can see it—especially given how much taller and broader my companion looks compared to the first time we met. It’s almost as if the more he eats, the hungrier he gets. When the cookies are gone, we return to exploring the neighborhood, basking in the sunlight and the murals leaping and spiraling from wall to wall, street corner to street corner. I do not think about the empty canvas waiting for me in my room, or the plane tickets home I have yet to buy, or the future I haven’t planned for because I’ve been too busy just trying to make the most of the present. [if dark >= 4] Standing here almost nose-to-nose, I can see for the first time how weak the creature has become since I first saw him standing in the garden that day. He’s bowed over almost double now as if bearing a great weight on his shoulders—or a great pain in his stomach. I pull out the box of vanilla-frosted cookies from the bistro, meaning to share them between us, but the creature flinches when I open it, as if expecting a nasty surprise. “No, see? These are for you,” I explain, holding one white cookie out as if I am coaxing a feral cat out of hiding. The creature hesitates. Eventually, hunger wins out over caution and he snatches the snack from my hand, gulping it down in the blink of an eye. I feed him the rest of the cookies one by one, keeping none for myself. When the last of these is devoured, we turn our attention to the business of exploration, walking slowly to accommodate the creature’s faltering steps. I want to take comfort in his company, and in the beautiful murals surrounding us. But the creature’s light flickers like a candle that might go out at any moment, and I find my worries doubled, rather than dimmed. [unless light >= 4 || dark >= 4]] For the first time, I notice the creature isn’t just bright—brighter than we first met, even—there’s also a warmth coming off of him. It’s not blazing hot like the summer, but more like the gentle heat of a long hug. He looks healthy… and happy to see me. I smile. I’m glad to see it too, even if I’m not sure why. I pull out the box of vanilla-frosted cookies from the bistro, and the creature whistles gleefully as I distribute them evenly between us. We eat together, saying nothing but communicating with our eyes—as old friends do. “I’m glad you’re here,” I think at him. I fancy I can imagine him replying, “So am I. These cookies are delicious.” When we’ve finished savoring the last of the crumbs, we continue our expedition, hunting for new murals like spelunkers seeking out glittering treasures in caves. At first, I am not sure if the creature is enjoying the art or just the journey. But when I stop to look, he looks too, whistling at some murals while cocking his head in confusion at others. When we come to a mural featuring a woman doing a peace sign, I laugh to see the creature holding up two of his claws in an attempt to mirror her. In the back of my mind, I haven’t forgotten the responsibilities waiting for me back in my room. There’s an empty canvas still to be filled, and a homecoming to prepare for, and a future to plan. But for now, it’s nice to get a break from it all and just enjoy one more day in the city of my dreams. [continue] Eventually, we come to the most impressive mural of all—a huge building covered in faces of all colors and kinds, some horned, others scaly. They smile, but the smiles feel as empty as the shuttered windows serving as their eyes. Are their smiles for us—a vain attempt to put the viewer at ease? Or is it society who paints the smiles on their faces, whether they will or nil? [if light >= 4] I would stand here for hours if I could, trying to read the truth in those eyes, but my companion will have none of it. This is not a pleasant picture, despite the smiles and the bright colors, and the creature seems far more drawn to joy than to sorrow. I allow him to pull me away, not because I want to leave, but because I’m not sure I will like what I find if I stay. [if dark >= 4] I don’t know how much time passes as we stand here, admiring the mural, but I can’t seem to pull myself away from it. Something in the image feels familiar but strange, perhaps twisted up to appear other than it is—like a caricature. In the end, I leave not because I want to, but because the creature beside me is whining so pathetically that I worry he will collapse if we don’t move on soon. For the rest of the day, the faces linger in the back of my mind, like a stubborn stain that won’t come out of a pale carpet. [unless light >= 4 || dark >= 4] The creature seems unhappy to stop here, as if he does not wish to linger in the gazes of those eyes. Yet he waits, patiently, as my eyes drink their fill of the sight. The mural is a strange juxtaposition of false joy and hidden sorrow, but one that is all too familiar to me. I know what it feels like to wear a grin that doesn’t fit, and I pity the people in the painting. But I am relieved to find that I feel more removed from them—from wearing those false expressions—with every step forward I take. “Thank you,” I say, at length, to my companion. He chirrups in reply. I smile—genuinely—at him and let him lead me down the road. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 5-1]]

Eventually, evening falls and I return to the Casa della Gattara. I decide to trade one anxiety for another, avoiding the issue of the canvas by forcing myself to pull out my phone and look for plane tickets. I knew my little “vacation” (as my parents are determined to call it) couldn’t last forever. But I had hoped to be ready to go home once the time came. [if dark >= 4] Tonight, however, I can’t help thinking, “Why wait?” A few days more or less will make no difference. It will never be enough. I might as well rip the band-aid off now, instead of torturing myself with further procrastination. As I click through the checkout process, I try to imagine what it will feel like to be home again. Even the word itself sounds alien to me now. I left so many things in disarray; I left without saying goodbye. It took a long time for my family to forgive me; I’m still not sure they have. As for my friends… I haven’t spoken to them since I left. Every time I tried to text them, I wound up staring at an empty draft, unable to find the right words. I would rather be silent than say something I don’t mean. I am tired of pretending—that everything is all right, that I believe in myself, that I am anything other than what I am. As for what, exactly, that is… I now have just a couple of days to figure it out. [if light >= 4] I keep telling myself that it’s for the best, that I have to go home sooner or later. And yet, as I click through the checkout process, I find myself daydreaming anyway. What if I never went home? What if I stayed here and lived out the fantasies I always told myself could never come true? What if everything I want is closer than I think? How easy it would be, to lose my phone and get a new number—to start fresh, here, where no one knows what a failure I have been? A new life, a new me… I know how unfair it would be to my family, to everyone I left behind back in America. But the horrible truth is, the only thought that really pierces through the veil of my grand delusions is this: I haven’t painted a damn thing yet on that canvas. Luckily… I still have a couple of days left to try. [unless dark >= 4 || light >= 4] I know, however, that going home is the responsible thing to do. All that award money I stole from my future to pay for the present is beginning to run low; it would be better not to wait until it runs out. And if I’m honest with myself, I do miss my family. My parents and my sister all seem to have come to terms with my reasons for coming here—I just kept telling them I needed to “find myself” until we all began to believe it. But even so, I’m not sure I’ve forgiven myself yet. I left without warning; it was days before I finally sent an explanation via text. I haven’t been able to bring myself to call my family this entire time. I was just so ashamed, not only of the person I was but the truth about my trip as well. As much as I wanted to believe I was running toward something, I knew what I was really doing was running away. Now, as I click through the checkout process, I realize that I don’t want to run anymore. I’m tired of hiding from the truth about who I am and what I may or may not be capable of. I want to look in the mirror and see the real me, and be able to accept that person no matter what. I want to fill that empty canvas in the corner with that truth, and know once and for all the answer to the question that scares me the most: Am I good enough? I’m not quite ready to ask that question, not tonight. But I still have a couple of days left to find that answer… and make my peace with it. [continue] > [[Begin Chapter VI->Ch 6-1]]

Once the last cookie has vanished, we walk together down the street, taking in all that Ostiense has to offer at our leisure. Home both to an Egyptian-styled pyramid and the grand St. Paul’s Basilica, it’s the most colorful neighborhood in Rome I’ve never visited—until now. But we’re not here for the galleries and grand statues today—all we need to do to see beautiful paintings in Ostiense is to walk down the street. It’s hard not to gape open-mouthed at the sheer scale of the street art that blooms across the walls in huge blossoms of color. Here, the grim faces of poets and politicians coexist peaceably, side by side; there, a man made of stars cradles a moon full of human silhouettes. Cars crawl up the sides of one building like beetles, while a heron catches his dinner around the corner of another. I can’t believe I’ve never been here. It puts a lump in my throat to think I might never have seen it if I had not come down for breakfast this morning, or if I had never stayed at the Casa della Gattara—or if I’d never come back to Rome at all. [if green === true] <div id="bluepaint" class="div"> We find the most breathtaking piece of all on Villa Ostiense, where a [[brilliant blue scene->Vendecolori 5-1]] floods across more than a hundred feet of wall space, flowing across sections and around corners like a river in spring. The heads of gods, or only statues of the gods, perhaps, float empty-eyed in an underwater world in which fish are the only living things left to gape at them. </div> [else] We find the most breathtaking piece of all on Villa Ostiense, where a brilliant blue scene floods across more than a hundred feet of wall space, flowing across sections and around corners like a river in spring. The heads of gods, or only statues of the gods, perhaps, float empty-eyed in an underwater world in which fish are the only living things left to gape at them. [continue] There is a sense of sorrow about it, a grieving for a world that used to be and is lost beyond recall. But it’s beautiful, too, like something out of a fairytale. I could stand and stare at it all day, and so, it seems, could my patient companion. Curious about the fish, she mimes a paddling motion. I laugh and nod. “Yes, exactly. Can you even swim?” The creature ignores my question and turns back to gaze at the mural, and I smile. It’s good, sometimes, to simply stand and appreciate art in silence with someone who understands the process. > [[Continue->Oscuro 5-3]]

As the afternoon begins to wane, my shadow and I turn our feet—perhaps a little reluctantly—towards home. Or at least, as close to home as I have come in all my rambling in Rome. [if dark >= 4] I am utterly spent, and as comfortable as my room might be, I dread returning to it tonight. My time has almost run out, yet the canvas in the corner still stands empty, its blank face a forbidding wasteland of monotonous emptiness. I don’t yet know how to even begin to fill it; I feel as if I have nothing left to pour into it. “Any ideas?” I ask my shadow. She shrugs, but the helpless gesture doesn’t seem to suit her tall, dark, and imposing frame. [if light >= 4] My feet ache, protesting the walk home, but I refuse to waste a single moment I have left. I gave myself an ultimatum when I came here, and my time is almost out. Brooding about it won’t change it—all I can do is enjoy what I can, while I can. My shadow makes a small sighing noise, and I glance at her sharply. “Don’t remind me,” I warn her. I know the canvas in my room is still empty, but I am not ready to deal with it yet. Ruminating won’t help, so why waste my time worrying? “What will be, will be.” [unless dark >=4 || light >= 4] Even after weeks of wandering Italy’s streets, my feet ache a little as we walk back to the Casa della Gattara—but it is a pleasant ache, the kind of pain that only comes after gain. I saw wonders today, and I drank each and every one of them in. Art isn’t only about giving, it’s about receiving. If I could measure the value of days like this in coins, I would be rich indeed. I’m even looking forward to telling Felicita all about it when I get back. “Well, maybe not all about it,” I admit, glancing sidelong at my shadow. She hums what sounds like an amused response. Back in my room, my canvas is still waiting for me, I know—but the thought doesn’t carry quite the dread it did before. I don’t know yet what I’m going to paint on it, but I have a little time yet to figure it out. “Maybe I should paint you,” I tell my shadow. She shudders. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 5-1]]

“Ultramarine,” I murmur to myself, tracing the ebb and flow of the mural with eager eyes. The color of saint’s robes, of impossible skies, of the scarf worn by a famous young woman with a pearl earring—a significant color, it was once considered precious as gold. No doubt it will draw *her* here, just as surely as it drew my eye. So I settle into the shadow of the building across the street, and I sketch as I wait. The cityscape that washes over my blank pages is a surreal world full of mysteries—buildings filled with water, with fish swimming up and down the staircases; gardens full of seaweed, gently wafting in the breeze; a road paved with seashells, coral grown over crumbling limestone walls. When I finally put my pencil down, there is still no sign of her. The shade of the building grows longer, and my companion and I begin to grow bored of the waiting. We pass the time by making simple shadow puppets on the ground—a bird, a bunny, a dog, a goat. I am in the process of attempting an owl when, finally, two curly-toed boots step into the peripherals of my vision. “You’re late.” I look up to smirk at the vendecolori. She arches an eyebrow at me; her lips are bowed disapprovingly, but the corner of her mouth twitches as if hiding a smile. “Perhaps it is you who arrived too early. Did you wait long?” It’s been several hours, but I don’t want to admit that to her. I can barely rationalize it to myself. “I didn’t mind.” “At least you didn’t have to wait alone,” she says with a smile. I nod before I fully catch on to what she’s saying. When it finally sinks in, I blurt out, “Wait, you can see them, too?” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 5.2]]

The dark creature barks out a short, cacophonous noise that can only be described as a *harrumph*. The color seller chuckles knowingly. “Of course. There is very little in this land that escapes my notice.” The street seems to tilt underneath me, the world as I know it slightly upended by her casual confirmation. Deep down, I’ve long suspected I was going quietly insane, and that the creatures escaped others’ notice for the most obvious of reasons. But if she sees them too… that opens up far more questions than it answers. > [[Ask about the nature of the creatures.->Vendecolori 5-1A]] > [[Ask about the nature of the color seller.->Vendecolori 5-1B]]

“So… they *are* real?” It should be a statement—because *of course* they must be real if someone else can see them—but my hesitancy colors it as more of a query. “Is this mural real?” she counters. Again, I hesitate, wondering if this is a trick question. “Yes?” “So this is real water, real statues…?” “Well, no—of course not. The image is real, but it is only a representation.” “Your friends, they are like this,” she explains. “They are real in one sense, but in another, they are not. *Mi capisci*?” “Um…” More confused than ever, I try a different tactic. “So how come no one else can see them? It made sense when it was just me, but now…” “When you paint, only you can see the vision you are trying to portray, yes? Even if you are painting a still life, you are the only one who sees it the way you do, from the perspective you do. It is like that.” “But you see them too!” “I see more than most. Others do not see because they do not know how to look, to see as others do. I can see through your eyes as clearly as my own when I so choose.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 5-2]]

“How come you can see them? No one else can. Well, besides me, I guess. Who… who are you, really? You’re not just a color seller, are you?” “Of course not, any more than you are *just* a painter. Each of us is many things rolled into one, just as any work of art is an amalgam of all that the artist pours into it, knowingly and unknowingly.” A little frustrated by her ambivalent answer, I retort, “Yes, but you’re something else, aren’t you?” I struggle to match her vernacular. “It’s like… we’re all portraits and you’re a sculpture. There’s an extra dimension there… or something.” I falter. She beams at me. I dare to hope for confirmation, even elaboration, but all she offers in response is, “What an interesting picture to paint. I have not thought of it that way before.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 5-2]]

Frustrated, I fume for a moment in silence, trying to synthesize a question direct enough that even *she* can’t circumvent it. But she doesn’t intend on allowing me even that. “Come, *cara mia*, I can see you are getting agitated. That is not my wish. Let us speak of other things—simpler things.” She smiles at me, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I sense a hint of apology somewhere in her gentle tones. “This color, for instance. *Blu oltremare*. It is beautiful, no?” I sigh, defeated—for now. “Yeah, it is. As soon as I saw it, I knew you would come.” “Did you?” She smirks. “Careful. I made you no promises, *stellina*, and I make you none now. What would you have done if I had not come for you? Would you wait all day, gambling your time on a moment that might never arrive?” “I…” It hadn’t occurred to me that she might not show up. I never considered, till now, how I would feel if she didn’t. “Why *do* you keep finding me? When does it end?” She reaches out to smooth my hair, as a mother might for her child. “I can always tell when I am needed—and when I am not.” She gestures back at the mural behind her. “Speaking of which… you know what I am going to ask.” > [[Buy ultramarine from the color seller.->Vendecolori 5-3]] > [[Refuse her implied offer.->Vendecolori Rejection]]

blue: true -- “And you know what I’m going to answer,” I retort. She winks. “I do. But the asking is important nonetheless.” I watch eagerly as she turns back to the mural, wondering what magic trick she will pull this time. “Let me borrow your water bottle.” I dig out the clear plastic water bottle buried under the debris in my bag. “It’s empty,” I tell her, but she takes it from me anyway. I watch as she holds it up parallel to the mural and begins, slowly, to swirl it, as if to stir water it doesn’t contain. No, wait—there *is* something swirling in it now. The blue of the mural, no longer merely visible on the other side of the bottle, fills up the container as if stolen from some secret tap. When it is full, she stops, and pulling out one of her paint pots, pours an impossible amount of brilliant blue liquid into it. I shake my head, laughing, as she hands it to me. Inside the container, sure enough, is a pat of ultramarine pigment waiting to be used. “Well?” she teases me. “Go on, then. Your turn.” I sit cross-legged on the pavement and get to work. Dipping my brush into the paint and then onto the page, the color cascades across the pages in fancifully curling eddies and currents, soaking my sketches in vivid ultra-reality. When my task is finished, I hand her the page, accepting her praise as usual without comment. I have something else on my mind now. “Will I…” I’m almost nervous to ask it. “Will I see you again?” “Who can say?” She shrugs. “Remember, no promises. No guarantees.” Taking a little pity on me, she adds after a moment, “But I think, perhaps, yes, it is possible. Until then, cara mia. Take care!” I watch her as she goes, trying to burn her image into my mind’s eye in case it truly is the last time I see her. Even now, I am not sure she is real, but I no longer care. > [[Continue->Oscuro 5-3]]

config.header.center: "CHAPTER VI" -- Today is my final day in the Eternal City; my flight leaves tomorrow afternoon. I have just over 24 hours to bid *arrivederci* to my favorite place on Earth. I don’t have anywhere in particular to visit today. I have seen everything I came to see, in some cases more than once. Unable to return to all my old haunts in one day, I feel unmotivated to try and choose favorites among them, knowing that in doing so I will be choosing *not* to revisit the others. Instead, I simply follow my feet wherever they lead me, content to smell the perfume of the city—clean linen and coffee, with a hint of smoky leather—and wander like one more ghost among the freshly laundered sheets wafting in the wind. Along the way, I stop to buy one last coffee, to savor and commit the flavor to memory. I choose carefully, knowing (hoping?) I might soon have some company to share it with. I’m torn between the sweetness of *un caffè latte*—heated milk and foam with just a touch of espresso—and the caffeine kick of *un shakerato*, a shot of espresso poured over ice, sans milk or cream. > [[Order *un caffè latte*.->CH 6-2A]] > [[Order *un shakerato*.->CH 6-2B]]

companion: "chiaro" light: light + 1 -- Uncle Nino used to tease me about my sweet tooth, but who could say no to dessert on the go? I’ve barely taken a sip of my drink before the hairs begin to stand up on the back of my neck, the way they do when you know (or think you know) something is following behind you. [if light >=5] Beads of sweat drip down my back. It’s as if a miniature sun is trailing me. “Well,” I say brightly, “it’s about time!” A flicker of worry sparks in the back of my mind—will it burn if we touch one another?—but I quickly smother it and hold out my cup. As soon as I do, the bright creature’s claw lunges forward like a leaping flame. Even without actually touching me, his nearness sears my skin and leaves my hand pink and faintly throbbing. I flinch involuntarily but bite my tongue before I can cry out. Instead, I stretch my lips into a smile as he drinks the coffee down. “Enjoy. Just don’t…” I sigh as the cup disappears down his gullet. The creature coughs and hacks as the styrofoam goes down, and I shake my head. “... never mind.” [else] I smile, and wordlessly hold out my cup to share. A warmth somehow more pleasant than summer or hot coffee brushes against my fingers as the bright creature reaches for the cup. “Wait,” I say before he can take it from me, “let me help.” Seeming to understand, the creature allows me to lift the cup to his mouth and tip the contents in. Once the cup is drained, I pull it away again—before he can swallow the styrofoam too, and ruin good coffee with a bad aftertaste. The creature chirrups, pleased and grateful as always for the treat, and I feel his glow radiating from my own face as I give in to a smile. “Glad you like it.” [continue] > [[Continue->CH 6-3]]

companion: "oscuro" dark: dark + 1 -- I’m not as big on coffee as my father or uncle, but it only seems fitting to get what Uncle Nino would call a “real” caffè on my final tour of the city. [if dark >= 5] Despite the summer sun glowering above us, I feel a chill run down my spine—literally. I start to hold out my cup, only to hesitate, wondering if I should be worrying about contact frostbite. I force myself to hold my hand steady as the creature’s claw snakes out to accept the coffee. I swear bitterly as her claws brush against my bare skin, her cold biting into my fingers and gnawing at my bones. Startled by my reaction, she hisses back at me, and downs the cup in one go in a panic—styrofoam and all. She wheezes as she struggles to gulp it down. “Serves you right,” I mutter, then sigh. She doesn’t know better, I remind myself, though it’s hard to walk on eggshells with a creature that looks like she could snap your neck with ease. She bears little resemblance now to the half-starved, broken thing I first took pity on in the rose garden. “Come on,” I tell her, gesturing for her to keep following me, “let’s walk it off.” [else] An unnaturally cool breeze tugs at my hair, and I close my eyes and stop, relishing the brief relief from the sun’s bright heat. “Here, I’ve got something for you too,” I murmur, and hold out my cup. Cool claws reach out and wrap around my drink, slow and gentle. Before she can pull the cup away, however, I tighten my grip. “Wait,” I tell it, “let me help.” With a soft sigh, the creature loosens her grip and allows me to control how quickly the coffee pours down her open maw. When the last drop falls, I pull the cup away again, despite the creature’s resistance. “No, this isn’t nearly as tasty, I promise,” I chuckle as I toss the styrofoam container into a nearby bin. The creature looks after it forlornly. [continue] > [[Continue->CH 6-3]]

Together, we continue to meander down the streets, leaving it up to fate or coincidence to decide our direction for us. [if blue === true && purple === false] {embed passage: "CH 6-3A"} [else] {embed passage: "CH 6-3B"}

In the end, I find myself drawn to the Piazza della Minerva. It is a small, unremarkable square bereft of all but the most obligatory of Rome’s architectural staples. Straight ahead of me stands the Basilica of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, a Christian church built upon the bones of an ancient pagan temple. Its blank facade belies an incredibly opulent interior. In front of that, almost in defiance, poses the famous *Elephant and Obelisk* statue crafted by Bernini. And suddenly, for no reason at all that I can think of, it strikes me that I meant to come here, that I was headed this way all along. [if blue === true && companion === "chiaro"] <div id="purplepaint" class="div"> I find this thought so distracting that I don’t notice right away when a street seller approaches me, hawking wares draped over both arms. Eventually, I come to understand that these are ribbons, handspun and dyed with organic pigments (or so he insists). Likely as not, I could find their twins in any craft supply store, and likely for cheaper—but they do look rather pretty, dangling from his sleeves like feathers on wings, every one a different hue. One [[violet ribbon->Vendecolori 6-1]] flutters suddenly in an unexpected breeze, catching my eye as the vendor snatches hastily at it. </div> [else] I find this thought so distracting that I don’t notice right away when a street seller approaches me, hawking wares draped over both arms. Eventually, I come to understand that these are ribbons, handspun and dyed with organic pigments (or so he insists). Likely as not, I could find their twins in any craft supply store, and likely for cheaper—but they do look rather pretty, dangling from his sleeves like feathers on wings, every one a different hue. One violet ribbon flutters suddenly in an unexpected breeze, catching my eye as the vendor snatches hastily at it. [continue] [if companion === "chiaro"] > [[Continue->Chiaro 6-1A]] [else] > [[Continue->Oscuro 6-1A]]

Eventually, we find ourselves standing before the monolithic San Luigi dei Francesi Church. Somehow, I’m not surprised; the Contarelli Chapel is one of my favorite rooms in Rome. “Shall we take one last look?” I ask my companion. But the question is rhetorical; we are both already walking into the building. > [[Continue->CH 6-4]]

purple: true -- I follow the ribbon with my eyes, admiring the depth and complexity of color. To say simply that it is purple doesn’t quite do it justice. As the vendor eagerly tells me, it is a *royal* color, the same Tyrian purple as that with which the ancients adorned only the most prestigious members of high Italian society. He claims that Hercules himself discovered the color. Interesting though its history may be—fictional or not—it is the quality of the color itself that has me reaching into my bag for my wallet. Someone I know would no doubt be enthralled by it, and it is for her sake that I hand over far more cash than I should to purchase a deceptively small trinket. The vendor, mistaking my eagerness for gullibility, tries to convince me to buy a few more. I politely but firmly refuse him and walk away, tucking the ribbon down deep into a pocket for safekeeping. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 6-2]]

[if purple === true] I feel unexpected tears welling up—and for what? Somehow friendship doesn’t fit whatever relationship we had to one another. She was always a little distant, a star to wish on (or for), whose light touched some dark part of me and brightened it, but who I could never hope to reach in return. But even as I let the tears fall, I smile. Though I doubt I’ll ever see her again, I feel that I carry her light with me still, shining where there once was only shadow. [else] I stand in the middle of the square and stare blankly around. I feel lost, as if I’ve missed some important opportunity. I was hoping to find the color seller here, but I see no sign of her. Something tells me it would be a waste of time to wait for her. [continue] The bright creature chirps at me, as if to ask—what now? And I realize that this *our* last day in Rome. I have never seen the creatures before coming here; I have no reason to expect I will see them again once I leave. So I smile and cross my arms. “You tell me. What do you want to do?” The creature startles, gaping at me. Then he chirrups, fluttering like an excited chick. I watch as he spins around and around, looking from here to there, searching wildly for the right answer until he dizzies and nearly falls. I laugh. “So many ideas, so little time, huh? Why don’t we keep walking, and you tell me when you see something really interesting?” > [[Continue->Chiaro 6-2A]]

I walk away from the vendor. Standing in the middle of the square, I stare blankly around. I feel lost, as if I’ve missed some important opportunity. I was hoping to find the color seller here, but I see no sign of her. And for some reason, something is telling me it would be a waste of time to wait for her. The dark creature hums at me, seeming to ask—what now? And I realize that this *our* last day in Rome. I have never seen the creatures before coming here; I have no reason to expect I will see them again once I leave. So I shrug. “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” The creature freezes as if caught with her claw in the cookie jar. She peers at me quizzically. I look back, feeling a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Slowly, she looks around, seeming to weigh each option against the next. Several minutes pass. No decision is made. She looks so lost that, finally, I relent. “It’s okay, you don’t have to pick now. Why don’t we keep walking, and you can tell me when you see something really interesting?” > [[Continue->Oscuro 6-2A]]

We make a show of touring the building—it *is* such a beautiful gallery—but it isn’t long before our eager feet bring us to the threshold of the chapel. We are lucky—the crowd is thin today (relatively, anyway), and only a little patience is needed to wait out the small group who are in the chapel when we arrive. The moment they leave, we step inside. For a few brief, precious moments, it seems we’ll have the room to ourselves. I sigh. I’m in heaven—not because being here has brought me closer to God, but because it has brought me closer to someone else I’ve worshipped for a long time. Caravaggio. Not one, not two, but *three* of his most iconic paintings stand on display here, the ornate architecture of the building itself no match for their mastery. Beside me is a light box, one of several scattered throughout the church to help illuminate the works of art within. The light lasts for a few moments, then dims again, protecting the paintings from overexposure while still allowing visitors a clear view. The light box only costs a few euros to activate, and the result is breathtaking. > [[Activate the light box.->CH 6-4A]] > [[Ignore the light box.->Ch 6-4B]]

I toss a couple of euros into the box, and the room flickers to life. [if companion === "chiaro"] My bright companion chirps cheerfully, admiring the lights rather than the paintings themselves. I grin; at least we’re both enjoying ourselves. [else] My dark companion cringes and whines, distressed by the brightening of the room. “Sorry,” I whisper, feeling a twinge of guilt. [continue] > [[Continue->CH 6-5]]

I walk past the light box and into the room, content to keep the lights dimmed. [if companion === "chiaro"] My bright companion sighs at the threshold, hesitant to follow me. I echo his sigh, tamping down a flicker of frustration. “Come on, it’s okay. There’s more than enough light to see by.” He follows, but seems too distracted by the darkness to pay much attention to the art. [else] My dark companion hums, sounding relieved, and eagerly follows me into the room. After walking in the bright, hot sun to get here, it’s a relief to stand in the cool, dim embrace of the unbrightened chapel. [continue] > [[Continue->CH 6-5]]

I have visited the chapel several times in the past and stood before each painting on display, admiring the artistry and puzzling out the hidden meanings for myself. [if purple === true] Today, I find myself drawn to *The Inspiration of Saint Matthew*, where the eponymous saint looks up from his work—writing his gospels—to see an angel has come to kindle a divine spark within him. A more religious person might meditate on the Biblical significance of the story told here, but for me, the meaning is simpler. Inspiration strikes when you least expect it—and often, in the most surprising of forms. Saint Matthew never expected to meet that angel; you can see it in his face. There is a perfect balance of light and shadow here, with the saint and the angel all but glowing in the light of the Lord’s favor while all else is shrouded in darkness. Today, however, it is the brilliance of Saint Matthew’s robes that draws my eyes. Their bright orange pigment reminds me of the violin from the Piazza de Navona… and a certain color seller’s smile. I could spend hours lost in the color and the memory. [if purple === false && companion === "chiaro"] Today, I am drawn to *The Calling of Saint Matthew*, where the eponymous saint sits at a tavern table, his gaze pulled away from his companions by the heavenly light pouring across the scene from a nearby window. Biblically, it represents the moment the Lord inspired Saint Matthew to leave behind his life as a tax collector to become a man of God. For me, the light has other meanings. The scene surrounding the saint is dreary, dark; I imagine he takes no more pleasure from tax collecting than I ever did from doing math homework. Pitch black shadows circle the scene like hungry dogs, waiting to devour the saint whole—but the light cuts like a knife through it all, paving a way forward to a new beginning. Holy or not, the light is a ray of hope that things not only can, but *will* change for the better. I could bask in that warm, welcoming light for hours. [unless companion === "chiaro"] Today, I am drawn to *The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew*, the darkest of the three Caravaggios in almost every way. In this scene, the saint is attacked by an Ethiopian soldier sent to put an end to his proselytizing, while an angel reaches down from above to bestow the “blessing” of martyrdom. A crowd of onlookers, helpless and horrified, witness what will prove to be the last moments of the saint’s life on Earth. Everything is wreathed in shadow—pure, pitch-black darkness pervades the scene. Though balanced with a holy light, it is the darkness I am drawn to, that my eyes take refuge in. Scholars may argue that the darkness represents sin, or violence, or some other higher meaning, but for me, it represents truth. Whatever blessings may follow next, this moment is pure agony for Saint Matthew. The shadows seem almost to give permission, both to him and to the viewer, to acknowledge that fear and sorrow, rather than try to bury the grief in a flood of light. I could easily stay here, wrapped in the comforting shroud of Caravaggio’s shadows, for hours. [continue] But inevitably, our solitude is invaded by others who have come to view the master’s work. With quiet reverence, my companion and I surrender the chapel and retreat. [if companion === "chiaro"] > [[Continue->Chiaro 6-2A]] [else] > [[Continue->Oscuro 6-2A]]

I glance at the church, thinking of the paintings and ornate ceilings on display within, but no—something tells me to go to the *Elephant and Obelisk* statue instead. I stand and stare, pretending interest while biding my time, until at last a familiar voice speaks from the other side of the statue. “Well done, *cara mia*. You found me.” I startle, looking up to see the *vendecolori* standing not at the base of the statue but on it, one arm draped with casual familiarity over the elephant’s neck while her other hand strokes the smooth stone head. I can’t even reach my hands as high as where her feet now stand. My head whips back and forth as I glance around, expecting someone to call her out, but the few people milling about or lounging at the borders of the square either haven’t noticed yet or don’t care. I look back up to see her smiling broadly. “I wasn’t sure you would show.” She clicks her tongue. “False modesty doesn’t become you, *stellina*. You knew, or you would not have come.” I hunch my shoulders. She’s right, of course. “I, uh, brought you something.” “A parting gift?” Her dark eyebrows bow into twin arches as I hold up the ribbon. “Oh…” “Do you like it? I know it’s not much, but... the color made me think of you,” I explain, feeling stupider by the syllable. The color seller looks delighted. “*Bravissima*, my little artiste. I’ve taught you well. One last pigment for one last painting, yes?” She holds out her hand. When I hesitate, she laughs. “A leap of faith, little one. Let it go, and I will catch it.” > [[Let it go.->Vendecolori 6-3A]] > [[Refuse.->Vendecolori 6-3B]]

There’s no breeze, at least none that I can feel. But I also know I couldn’t reach her if I tried; she’s too high above me. So I decide to trust—if not the wind, then the woman, and whatever strange magic or twist of fate it was that brought us together. I let go. The ribbon dips, falling. Just before it touches the ground, the wind picks up, as if summoned by necessity. The breeze delivers the ribbon, twirling, into the color seller’s outstretched hand. She beams at me like a proud parent watching a child take their first steps. Rather than feeling patronized, I am oddly pleased to have earned her approval. “Very good,” she praises me. “You’ve come a long way, *stellina*.” > [[Continue->Vendecolori 6-4]]

There’s no breeze, not even a whisper of one—and several feet of empty air stand between us. If I let go, the best-case scenario is that the ribbon will fall to the ground and get dirty. But it would be just my luck that the wind would pick up at the wrong moment and carry my gift away, out of both our reach. “If you could come down…” She sighs and jerks her outstretched fingers in a come-hither motion. A sudden gust rips the ribbon from my hand before I can clench my fist, and I cry out in surprise and sorrow—only to watch the wind deliver it straight into the color seller’s outstretched hand. The disappointment in her face is clear, and I find myself withering under her gaze like a chastened child. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 6-4]]

Producing one of her trademark paint pots, she sets it atop the elephant’s head and twists the ribbon over it. Like water wrung from a wet towel, purple pigment drains out of the cheap silk, dripping steadily into the pot until the ribbon pales to ivory. Slipping the ribbon into an unseen pocket, she closes the paint pot, shakes it up, then tosses it to me without warning. Flailing, I manage to catch it—just barely. It occurs to me that I haven’t sketched anything yet today. “What should I draw for you?” “Nothing,” she replies. “Draw for yourself. Gifts are for the giver to choose, not the recipient.” I look around, but there is little in my immediate vicinity to spark the imagination—I am surrounded by blank facades and equally blank expressions. I am paralyzed for a moment by lack of reference material—but I look up at the color seller, and the moment passes. I realize it doesn’t matter what is or isn’t available to me right now. I have art to make, and a bargain to uphold. Stepping into the shadow of the obelisk balanced atop the elephant’s back, I plop down on the ground. Pulling out my tools, I begin to sketch. “This might take a while,” I warn her. My pencil drags itself across the page, unwilling to let any one particular idea take shape yet. The color seller shrugs. “Time is relative. I can wait.” > [[Discuss the statue.->Vendecolori 6-5A]] > [[Discuss the church.->Vendecolori 6-5B]]

“So… why here? Why this statue?” I ask. I try to keep my tone casual, pretending I’m only asking to pass the time. I watch as her shadow on the ground tilts its head at me. “I may as well ask you the very same question. Why did you look for me here, of all places?” My pencil grinds to a temporary halt. The easy answer would be to say it was a lucky guess or intuition, but I know she wants more than that. “I thought you would like it. I don’t know why; it just felt like a place you would be.” I brace myself for a tart response, but her voice is soft when she finally replies. “Do you know what they used to call him?” I look up to see her patting the elephant’s head. “*Porcino della Minerva*. Minerva’s little piggy. Now it’s *pulcino*—Minerva’s chick. This one has been many things to many people.” Her smile has turned wistful. “Whatever he is… I am fond of him.” She smiles, and I find myself wondering if she is fond of me, too. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 6-6]]

“I’m surprised I didn’t find you in the church,” I remark, more to fill the silence than anything else. I don’t really expect much of an answer. “I will never set foot in that church,” she mutters, and my pen falters as I look up, shocked. I have never heard that steel edge in her voice before, sharp as a knife’s edge. “I, uh, didn’t mean to offend you…” She blinks, then shakes her head, making an obvious effort to soften her tone, but a trace of iron lingers in the sharp curves of her consonants. “It is not you who offended me.” I hesitate, awkward in the silence that follows. “Not religious, then?” I finally venture. At that, she barks out a laugh. “That is not how I would put it. And what about you, Perce? Do you believe in higher powers?” Something about the intensity of her stare has me considering my answer carefully. I’m Catholic by default, courtesy of my parents, but I’ve never put much thought or feeling into my faith. “I believe there is more to this world than just what we can see or measure.” “A true artist’s answer,” she observes with a smirk. > [[Continue->Vendecolori 6-6]]

The sketches are beginning to take shape now, and I am surprised at the results. Initial doodles of the square and the obelisk quickly give way to more fanciful imagery grounded in classic Roman realism. A figure I recognize as Felicita crouches on one side of the page, attempting to bridle one of her cats—who has mysteriously sprouted wings. Nearby, the street vendor I ran into earlier walks a dog on the beach, murex snail shells tumbling out of his pockets as he stoops to pluck up more. A Roman goddess with a face like the color seller’s wields a giant brush like a spear in her hand, an owl perched on her shoulder. Black and white spiders spin contrasting webs in the corners. And in one sketch, a stone girl with my face fractures bit by bit as she reaches out for some unknown goal. I can’t tell if she’s breaking out of her stone prison or just breaking. I look to the color seller, who stares right back at me, arms folded. I look down at my sketchbook… and page back to the image of the goddess. The color seller smiles. Opening the paint pot and pulling out my brush, I add color to the image—a touch of violet there, a purple shadow there. The end result is beautiful… and a little bit haunting. I hold it up for inspection. “Oh, *sì*. This will do nicely.” The color seller’s long, graceful fingers reach out to pull the page from its binding. The sound of the tearing paper hits me like the tolling of a bell. There is a finality to it, and I feel suddenly torn too—torn between words. How do you say goodbye to someone you hardly know, yet feel you’ve known a lifetime? “Don’t fret, *cara mia*.” She reaches out to trace the edge of my face with a single, soft fingertip. “You have everything you need now. Better yet, you have learned to find your own way, rather than waiting for your way to find you. That is all I ever wanted for you.” “Who *are* you?” I whisper, unable to help myself, but she places a finger over my lips before withdrawing. “I’m afraid that to answer that would take centuries—and besides, I am not the one you need to be asking.” Kissing me on the cheek, she turns and walks away, disappearing in the alleyways behind the church that lead to the Pantheon beyond. Her kiss lingers on my skin, a gentle tingling sensation that seems to echo through my veins to the rest of my body like an owl’s cry in the night. > [[Continue->Chiaro 6-1A]]

We spend the rest of the day walking in sunlight and drinking in Rome’s sights and smells and, most of all, its spirit. My bright companion is happy enough to simply walk beside me, basking in the summer heat like a cat on a windowsill. His glow is infectious; by the end of the day, I am incandescent, filled with his reflected light. When the day begins to wane into evening, I can taste the bittersweetness of goodbye on the tip of my tongue. But we don’t say it just yet. Instead, we find a bench to sit and watch the streetlights kindle in the shadow of the rising moon, watching as the daytrippers retreat inside and the night owls begin their takeover. We don’t speak, but somehow, we communicate. I know, without a single word between us, that we agree: today was special to us both. Even though it will soon be over—and even if tomorrow, and the next day, are no good—I am overwhelmed with gratitude. For the first time in a long time, I am aware of how wonderful it is to simply be alive. I don’t know what the signal is that calls us, but when the moment comes to say goodbye, we both seem to know it right away. By the time I stand up, he is already on his feet, and I don’t need to tell him where we’re going. Outside the Casa della Gattara, I can see Felicita’s silhouette through the glowing windows. No doubt she has saved dinner for me, even though I asked her not to worry about it. I turn to my companion. Looking at him now, I am filled with contradictory intuitions. Something tells me I won’t see him again, at least not with waking eyes, but at the same time, this doesn’t feel like a true goodbye. Still, just in case… > [[Hug the creature.->Chiaro 6-2A-1]] > [[Tell him goodbye.->Chiaro 6-2A-2]]

[if light >= 5] Even from here, I can feel his brightness, his heat. But I make myself step forward anyway, and throw my arms around him. There is a brief, blinding flash of pain and white light so bright I can’t tell if my eyes are open or if it’s burning through my eyelids. It only lasts an instant, but for that instant, I feel myself disappearing, lost in the burning brightness. I forget where I am, and better yet, who I am. There is only light, blinding and all-consuming. Then it fades, the light and the heat and the crisp, cleansing pain, leaving deep darkness in its wake. When I open my eyes, I can hardly see for the spots dancing in my vision, but one thing becomes clear very quickly. I am standing alone beneath the streetlight. It’s as if my bright companion was never there at all. [if light <= 1] I step forward, opening my arms for an embrace, but the creature shies away like something feral, fearful of my intentions. “It’s all right,” I whisper, “I won’t hurt you.” But try as I might, I can’t make him trust me enough to come to me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m apologizing for, or why it makes me so sad. “I’m so, so sorry.” With a whimper, the creature takes a timid step forward, as if to attempt to return my affections, only to skitter and run the moment I move. His dim light is quickly swallowed up by the shadows, leaving me alone in the dark. [unless light >= 5 || light <= 1] Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his feathers. I close my eyes against his brightness, but his light pierces through even my eyelids. He’s a head taller than me and stronger than he used to be. Yet when he holds me, he is gentle, warm; I have never felt safer. There is joy in simply holding and being held, and we spend a long moment basking in that feeling. When I let go and step away again, he is gone. But every part of me that touched him still feels warm, and as I turn to go inside, I find that I can’t stop smiling, even as tears prick the corners of my eyes. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 6-1]]

I clear my throat. “Well…” I falter immediately. Words were never our strong suit. I’m not even sure he understands individual words, or if he merely picks up other cues like my tone and gestures to understand me. In the end, I just speak the truth, trusting that my feelings will carry, even if the words themselves get lost in the translation. [if light >= 5] “It’s been fun, right?” I’ve never been good at goodbyes. I like to pretend it’s always, “see you soon,” even if I know it’s not true. “Even if it was only for a little while… it was nice spending time together.” The words taste flat on my tongue, too light—all fluff and no substance. But if there’s sorrow in me, it’s buried so deep I can’t reach it, even when I try. “But hey, I’ll be home soon, right? So it’s probably for the best you can’t come. And who knows? Maybe I’ll come back. Or maybe you’ll come to visit. Stranger things have happened, right?” It’s not what I want to say. I want to say, “Don’t go.” I want to beg him, “Stay.” But my mouth can’t seem to form the right syllables. The creature regards me blankly—I guess we’re both bad at goodbyes. He shrugs and fluffs his feathers, as if to pretend he’s not even paying attention. And I realize I recognize that move—how many times have I stared at my shoes, or at the wall, or otherwise brushed something off rather than deal with it? But then, when you’re staring into the abyss, why keep torturing yourself? Better to turn away, pretend it isn’t there, than stay trapped in that gaze forever. I’m so lost in thought, it takes me a moment to realize: the creature is gone. I am alone. But then, in a sense, I suppose I always have been. [if light <= 1] “I… I’m sorry. I can’t stay here forever. Please don’t look at me like that.” The creature peers at me, a scrawny, half-starved sack of bones and brightness that’s every bit as unfamiliar to me as the day we met. And yet, at the same time, he feels almost as if he’s always been there, hidden in the sunlight, waiting to be noticed—and fed. “Maybe… maybe you could come with me?” I have the oddest, most terrible feeling that if I let him go now, I’ll never see light again like his, and it fills me with terror. “Please… come with me!” Frightened by my outburst, the creature utters a sharp whistle and, turning, flees into the night, leaving me to fend for myself in the shadows. [unless light >=5 || light <= 1] “I don’t know if I’m going to see you again or not,” I say with a shrug, “but… I’m glad I saw you at all. Whatever you are.” The creature ruffles his feathers, a familiar gesture that has my vision going blurry and wet. “I’m just sorry it has to end.” With a tiny, quiet chirp, the creature steps forward, extending a claw. I reach out my hand to take it; my fingers tingle with the sudden change in temperature, but the warmth is comforting, rather than scorching. It’s the warmth of a spring breeze, rather than a blazing summer sun. I give up trying to use words, and just let the feelings flow between us. I don’t know how, but somehow, I know he gets it. I do, too. After a moment, we release each other, and with one last whistle, he turns and disappears into the night. A warm breeze touches my cheek, brushing away a single tear as I turn back to the guest house. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 6-1]]

We spend the day ducking out of the summer heat and into every open doorway we find. No threshold is forbidden, no secret left unexplored. I have spent long enough forcing myself to stand in the sun until I burned; today, I allow myself to take refuge in the shade of everything from gelaterias and galleries to ristorantes and even (once, by accident) a stranger’s home. My dark companion is happy enough to oblige me; she seems to drink in the shade as if sipping ambrosia. Our shadows are as one; never have I felt so free to simply feel, and be, myself. When the day begins to wane into evening, I can taste the bittersweetness of goodbye on the tip of my tongue. But we don’t say it just yet. Instead, we find a bench to sit and watch the streetlights kindle in the shadow of the rising moon, watching as the daytrippers retreat inside and the night owls begin their takeover. We don’t speak, but somehow, we communicate. I know, without a single word between us, that neither of us is quite ready for this day to end. And yet we know it will soon be over—and bring many other things to an end with it. But rather than put on a brave face, I let the grief in. For the first time in a long time, I am not ashamed or afraid of my sorrow. I don’t know what the signal is that calls us, but when the moment comes to say goodbye, we both seem to know it right away. By the time I stand up, she is already on her feet, and I don’t need to tell her where we’re going. Outside the Casa della Gattara, I can see Felicita’s silhouette through the glowing windows. No doubt she has saved dinner for me, even though I asked her not to worry about it. I turn to my companion. Looking at her now, I am filled with contradictory intuitions. Something tells me I won’t see her again, at least not with waking eyes, but at the same time, this doesn’t feel like a true goodbye. Still, just in case… > [[Hug the creature.->Oscuro 6-2A-1]] > [[Tell her goodbye.->Oscuro 6-2A-2]]

_extremes: dark >=5 || light >=5 -- Inside the house, Felicita catches me on the stairs. “This is your last night, yes?” She must have seen the packed suitcase in my room. “Going home?” I nod, mute. She didn’t even cross my mind when I bought the plane ticket. But now, standing with Felicita and five of seven cats on the worn old staircase, I realize I’m going to miss her (and her cats), too. When she hugs me goodbye, I don’t resist. “Take care of yourself, child,” she whispers. “And remember there will always be a room for you in Rome if you need it.” As soon as I reach my room, I go straight to the canvas in the corner. I begin setting out my art supplies with a grim determination, feeling the weight of each paint pot and tool in my hand as I lay them out like weapons for war. If this is a war, this battle will decide all. [if purple === true] Remembering my sketch of the goddess wielding a paintbrush, I smile to myself. I may not be a goddess, but I have the power of creation in the palm of my hand. All I need to do is begin. [if dark >= 5] I can feel all the old doubts gathering around me, whispering the same wounding words they’ve been repeating for years. *Why bother? It won’t be any good anyway. You’re not good enough. Stop pretending to be something you’re not.* Rather than try to ignore them, as I’ve always done, I let them pour into me—through me. I let the terror and despair wash over me, consuming me. I let the darkness win. My mind goes black as I press the brush to the canvas and begin to paint. [if light >= 5] I can feel all the old doubts creeping into the room like cockroaches, scuttling in under the door and out from the shadows under the bed. But I *refuse* to let them in. I stamp my foot down hard, beyond caring how childish I must look, and imagine myself crushing my doubts beneath my heel. No. I will not give this up. I will not surrender. I kindle thoughts like candles, one after another, to banish the darkness for good—or at least for tonight. *I can do this. I can do anything I want. I am an artist. Anything I think, I can create. Nothing else matters but this.* My mind goes white as I press the brush to the canvas and begin to paint. [unless _extremes || purple === true] My hand trembles a little as I lift my brush. Doubts war with wishes in my mind; I am torn between the two potential realities I see before me: one in which I am good enough, and one in which I am not. It feels good to face my fears at last. But tangled up with that pride is cowardice; I am terrified I will not be able to live with the results of this confrontation. Yet I know I cannot stay mired in this gray limbo I’ve been lost in for so long. Anything, even abject failure, is better than this. And so I press my brush to the canvas and begin to paint. [continue] > [[Complete your masterpiece.->Finales]]

[if dark >= 5] Even from here, I can feel her darkness, the chill of her touch. But I make myself step forward anyway, and throw my arms around her. There is a brief, blinding flash of pain and darkness so profound I can’t tell if my eyes are closed or if it’s the world that’s gone black. It only lasts an instant, but for that instant, I feel myself disappearing, lost in the shadows and the freezing cold. I forget where I am, and better yet, who I am. There is only blackness, blinding and all-consuming. Then it fades, the shadows and the cold and the crisp, cleansing pain, so quickly that even the distant light of the moon and stars seems too bright for my eyes at first when they open. But once they adjust, one thing becomes clear very quickly. I am standing alone on the dark street. It’s as if my shadowy companion was never there at all. [if dark <= 1] I step forward, opening my arms for an embrace, but the creature raises her hackles and hisses at me like a wild animal cornered. “It’s all right,” I try to coax her, “I won’t hurt you.” But every time I reach for her, she shies away, unconvinced. “I’m sorry, okay?” I murmur, not even sure what I’m apologizing for, or why I’m so frustrated by it. “I’m sorry.” With a low hum, the creature takes a slow step forward, as if to attempt to return my affections, only to whimper and flee the moment I move. She seems to flicker out of existence under the streetlamps, a shadow banished by the light, leaving me alone in my own little circle of illumination. [unless dark >= 5 || dark <= 1] Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her feathers. Her darkness is all-encompassing; even with my eyes open, the world has gone black around me. She’s a head taller than me and stronger than she used to be. Yet when she holds me, she is cautious, cool to the touch. I have never felt so clearly and unconditionally understood. I let the tears fall, and I feel her shaking as if she too is weeping, but there is no bitterness in our tears. They feel clean, like they are washing out the grit from our eyes. When I let go and step away again, she is gone. Yet my skin still tingles with the coolness of her touch, and there is solace intermingled with the sorrow of our farewell. For once, I feel content with my lot. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 6-1]]

I clear my throat. “Well…” I falter immediately. Words were never our strong suit. I’m not even sure she understands individual words, or if she merely picks up other cues like my tone and gestures to understand me. In the end, I just speak the truth, trusting that my feelings will carry, even if the words themselves get lost in the translation. [if dark >= 5] “I’m… I’m going to miss you.” I can feel my throat constricting already. I can’t do this. “I feel like… like you’ve always been there, you know? But it’s different, like this. It’s nice. And I know I’m going home, but I’m afraid, because I don’t think it’s going to help. I don’t think anything is going to help. And no one else understands…” My voice cracks. I cover my face, crumbling. “Please, please don’t go…” The creature regards me with a cold silence that echoes the emptiness eating away at my insides. And it occurs to me, for the first time, that the creature and the emptiness are one and the same—cut from the same smothering cloth. But at least it is a familiar feeling. At least I understand her, just as she understands me. I would rather gaze into the abyss than turn my back to it, trying to pretend it isn’t there. When I uncover my eyes again, however, the creature is gone. I am alone. But then, in a sense, I suppose I always have been. [if dark <= 1] “I… I don’t know what to say.” The creature peers at me, a scrawny, half-starved sack of bones and shadows that’s every bit as unfamiliar to me as the day we met. And yet, at the same time, it feels almost as if she’s always been there, hiding in the shadows, waiting to be noticed—and fed. “Please… take care of yourself. I won’t be here to feed you anymore, so…” At a loss, I grasp at straws. “So you need to learn to fend for yourself. Okay?” I smile. The creature, unimpressed with my speech, utters a low growl and turns her back on me. Her meaning is not lost on me. With a sigh, I watch her recede into the shadows, her own blackness blending perfectly with the dark of the night. I can’t say I’m not relieved to see her go. But even that relief carries with it a measure of guilt that clings to my skin like a sheen of sweat, slick and shiny under the judging light of the streetlamp. [unless dark >=5 || dark <= 1] “I don’t know if I’m going to see you again or not,” I say with a shrug, “but… I’m glad I saw you at all. Whatever you are.” The creature ruffles her feathers, a familiar gesture that has my vision going blurry and wet. “I’m just sorry it has to end.” With a tiny, quiet hum, the creature steps forward, extending a claw. I reach out my hand to take it; my fingers tingle with the sudden change in temperature, but the chill is refreshing, instead of numbing. It’s the chill of an autumn morning, rather than a night in deep winter. I give up trying to use words, and just let the feelings flow between us. I don’t know how, but somehow, I know she gets it. I do, too. After a moment, we release each other, and with one last hum, she turns and disappears into the shadows. A cool breeze touches my cheek, brushing away a single tear as I turn back to the guest house. [continue] > [[Continue->Canvas 6-1]]

[if light > dark] {embed passage: "Light Ending"} [if dark > light] {embed passage: "Dark Ending"} [if light === dark && purple === false] {embed passage: "Balanced Ending"} [if light === dark && purple === true] {embed passage: "Vivid Ending"} <br style = "line-height: 5;"> [align center] <span style="font-family:Spectral, serif; font-size:4em;">*The End*</span> [continue]

config.header.center: "Ending 2/5: Chiaro (Light)" -- I wake early despite a sleepless night, roused from restless dreams by a stray beam of sunlight slanting across my bed. My mind is fuzzy; the darkness of the rest of the room is a wall of black my sun-drenched eyes have difficulty adjusting to at first. Then I remember. My painting. I whirl around to face the canvas across the room, nearly falling off the bed in the process. And there it is at last, like something out of a dream. The portrait I came here to paint, the canvas I so desperately needed to fill, is now smiling back at me, mirroring my own manic grin. It took all night. I barely slept at all. But dammit, I did it. I cross the room almost on tiptoe, as if worried I’ll disturb it, to get a closer look. It’s me, all right. Only the best parts of me, the parts *worth* painting. And for once, it feels like it truly does belong to me, and not some other girl who won an award she didn’t deserve, a lifetime ago in another country. Looking into those eyes, those wild, bright eyes that both are and are not my own, I know what I have to do. Even though my ticket home is sitting right there on my bedside table, even though I texted my family the other day to tell them I was coming home… I can’t leave. Not now. Not yet. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a plan. It doesn’t matter if I run out of money. It doesn’t even matter that I have to disappoint everyone I’ve ever loved—again. Nothing matters but this—this feeling. I am lighter than air, burning brighter than the sun, incandescent. I can do anything I want, *be* anything I want. This painting is the proof—it’s time to start anew, come what may. The fog in my mind has finally cleared, and I would rather burn to ash than risk letting it creep back in. <br style = "line-height: 5;">

config.header.center: "Ending 3/5: Oscuro (Dark)" -- I wake to find I’ve slept in again, wrapped in the dark, comforting womb of my bedroom. Sleep is difficult to shake when night still lingers in the shadows of the room, but one hard-won memory finally drifts to the surface, dragging me forcibly from my slumber. My painting. Is it real, or was it all a dream? I vaguely recall the brush in my hand, the ink on the canvas—long hours spent pouring all of the poison in me into my portrait, the portrait I came all the way across the Atlantic to paint. I turn to look almost reluctantly, fearful it was nothing but a dream, but there it is. The canvas I so desperately longed to fill is now overflowing with the nightmares I saved myself the trouble of dreaming last night. It took all night. I barely slept at all. But dammit, I did it. Dragging myself out of bed, I creep closer, peering almost suspiciously at the portrait, as if it might vanish into thin air at any moment. It’s me, all right. Only the worst parts of me, the deepest, darkest secrets I’ve been needing to purge for so long without even realizing it. For once, I’ve managed to paint something honest. Something that truly feels like it belongs to me, and not some other girl who won an award she didn’t deserve, a lifetime ago in another country. For a long time, I do nothing but stand and stare into those haunted, heavy-lidded eyes—eyes that both are and are not my own. The longer I look, the more clearly a single thought crystallizes in my mind. I will never paint again. There’s no need. Everything I am, everything within me that had any substance at all, is in this painting. There is a raw authenticity to it that I never managed to capture before, and I know, with a fatalistic kind of certainty, that I will never be able to again. So why torture myself pretending otherwise? I painted one good thing. One *real* thing. And that is more than most so-called artists can say. Turning away from the portrait, I begin packing, tossing what few possessions I’ve amassed during my visit haphazardly into my one suitcase. I don’t even bother to pack the painting. Let it stay here—let Felicita find it and keep it, or sell it, or give it away as she chooses. Let it wander the world at destiny’s whim—one of us might as well. I, meanwhile, will be going back home—and back to reality. I have a family to return to, an education to finish. Like Pandora, I’ve opened a box that I can never close again; the fog in my mind has cleared, replaced with the cold, damp darkness of a cave I may never find my way back out of. But it’s all right. At least now I can feel *something*, even if it’s not the something I was hoping for. I would rather drown in shadows than live an eternity in that gray, empty void. <br style = "line-height: 5;">

config.header.center: "Ending 4/5: Equilibrio (Balance)" -- My first thought when I wake in the morning is that I am still dreaming. My time in Rome has certainly felt like a dream come true—one I am loath to wake from. But the gentle light streaming in around the edges of the curtains, the soft brush of the bedsheets against my skin as I turn over—it’s all real. I am too, even if I’m not awake enough to feel it yet. And then I remember what I stayed up all night to do, and all at once the world comes into sharp focus. Across the room from me, the canvas that for so long stood empty, taunting me, is no longer blank. Getting up slowly, unsure of my own balance, I cross the room to assess what came of my long, fevered night of painting. Staring into the eyes of the portrait—*my* eyes—I feel stripped to the bone. That’s me there, on the canvas, all the good and bad parts laid bare for the world to see. All my dreams and nightmares, my hopes and fears—all my darkest secrets and brightest hopes, inextricably intertwined. It is gratifying and mortifying all at once, to see myself turned inside out and emptied out onto the canvas like the contents of a purse onto a counter. But beneath all that, what I feel most is.. relief. Relief so great it crashes over me, staggering me, overflowing into my eyes and down my cheeks as I stare at what I’m beginning to realize is my first *honest* work of art. For the first time in my entire life, I painted something that truly feels like it belongs to me—something real and true. Most shockingly of all… I believe that I might even be able to do it again. The alarm on my phone chimes—time to pack up and get ready for my flight home. A little shiver of anticipation—and anxiety—flickers through my system, but it is not enough to shake my resolve now. I am going home. I am going to fix the things I broke when I left—the promises I didn’t keep, the feelings I hurt, the hopes I dashed on the rocks. I am going to finish getting my college degree. And I am going to paint. For the first time, I really believe that I can. I think I’ll even stop by the Trevi fountain one last time on my way to the airport, and drop a coin into the water. Who knows? Maybe one day it will bring me back... <br style = "line-height: 5;">

config.header.center: "Ending 5/5: Vivace (Vivid)" -- For the first time in… I don’t know how long, I am awake to see the dawn. My poor, bloodshot eyes aren’t on the horizon, however. The canvas I bought when I came here—the blank slate that stood empty for so long I worried I would never have the courage to fill it—is blank no longer. I’m so tired I can hardly think straight, can barely stand up straight—but I have never felt so healthy. So whole. I am utterly spent, but the cost was well worth the result. I finally did it. I painted the portrait I came here to paint—found the inspiration I so desperately searched for high and low, in galleries and gelaterias alike. And now I stand here, a paradox: empty but satisfied, exhausted but exalting. The girl in the portrait—it’s me. But not just me—she is everything I ever was and everything I could be, all wrapped into one. All my darkest secrets, all my brightest hopes—and so much color. I have always worked primarily in ink, comfortable in the endless shades of gray between shadow and highlight, but the portrait before me contains every color in the rainbow. Very little remains of the pigments I bought from the color seller. But while I regret their loss, I am not worried. I know now, staring at the girl—no, the *woman*—in the painting, that I don’t need them anymore. The color seller was right after all—I have everything I need. I may never see her, or the creatures, again, but one thing is crystal clear in my mind as I begin to pack for my flight home: this farewell is not forever. I am going home, to mend what I can and put an end to what I cannot. And then, I am coming back. I’m going to apply to the art schools here, and to the study abroad program at my own college back home, and to every internship I qualify for. Whatever it takes. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel lost or lacking. I feel alive, really and truly alive, and *inspired*. It will take some time, and some careful planning, to get where I want to go, but for the first time, it all seems so vividly *possible*, as if my life itself is just another canvas waiting to be filled. And, thanks to my time here (and the company I spent it with), I finally feel like I have the tools I need to turn it into a real work of art. <br style = "line-height: 5;">

*chiaroscuro* is an interactive fiction (IF) novella—just like a regular IF novel, but shorter. If you've never played an IF game before, don't worry! It's easy to play. Just read the text, and click the linked (underlined) text to continue the story. Sometimes, there will be multiple links—this is where you get to choose what happens next. (Just like ye olde *Choose Your Own Adventure* books.) There are five possible endings, and not all of them happy. Which one you get is determined by the choices you make throughout the game. So choose wisely! **NOTE:** Always read the full text of a page before clicking *any* link, because once you click, you can't go back. (Unless you restart your game from the very beginning, which you can do by clicking the "RESTART" link at the bottom of the page at any time.) > [[Return to Main Menu->Main Menu]]

config.style.googleFont: '<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Spectral&display=swap" rel="stylesheet">' config.style.googleFont: '<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Open+Sans&display=swap" rel="stylesheet">' config.style.page.font: "Open Sans/sans-serif 18" config.style.page.color: "black on white" config.style.page.link.font: "bold underline" config.style.page.link.color: "gray-7" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "gray-7" config.style.page.link.active.color: "white on gray-5" config.style.page.header.font: "Spectral/serif 30" config.style.page.header.link.font: "small caps" config.style.page.footer.font: "Spectral/serif 16" config.style.page.footer.link.font: "small caps" config.header.center: "chiaroscuro" red: false orange: false yellow: false green: false blue: false purple: false light: 0 dark: 0 neutral: 0 vendecolori: false companion: "none" -- > [[Start->CH 1-1]] > [[Content Warnings]] > [[How to Play->HOW TO PLAY]] > [[Hints]] > [[About]] > [[Credits]]

*chiaroscuro* is an interactive fiction novella created by Kim Berkley using [[Twine Chapbook v1.2.0->https://klembot.github.io/chapbook/]]. <span style="font-family:Spectral, serif; font-size:1.5em;">About the Story</span> It began with a love story—I fell in love with the word "chiaroscuro," both the sound of it and its meaning, all the way back in high school. It planted a seed in my brain that took many years to germinate, sprouting as if by magic one day while I pondered the possibilities of creating a short game in Twine. It is a story inspired by many things, including my past life as a visual arts student, my interest in psychology (especially shadow work), and my love of mythology and the fantasy genre. While this is not an autobiographical work (I've never even *been* to Rome, at least not yet), there is certainly a lot of me—both the light and the dark—in this story. It helped me work through a few things. I hope it helps you, too, dear reader—even if all it helps you do is pass the time. <span style="font-family:Spectral, serif; font-size:1.5em;">About the Author</span> Kim Berkley is a fantasy author and narrative designer who, once upon a time, used to be an art student. Her previously published works include *The Harbinger's Head*, an interactive fiction novel inspired by Irish mythology and works such as Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." You can find her blog, follow her socials, and sign up for her newsletter by visiting her official website at [[storytellerkim.com->https://storytellerkim.com]]. > [[Return to Main Menu->Main Menu]]

[align center] **Created By:** Kim Berkley **Beta Readers / Playtesters:** R.C. Abbott\ Gil\ Incudo\ Elizabeth MacDuffie\ Jacob Parish\ Thomas Richardson\ Seabass\ Tory Stephens **Italy Research Consultant:** Global Brittizen **Special Thanks:** Morgan Erickson & Michelle Segura, for kindly sharing your wonderful adventures in Italy with me Deborah, for helping me fix my *terribile* Italian grammar Jake, for your love and support through this and everything else \ and \ Mom & Dad, for inspiring my love of art and writing in the first place **And to you, dear reader— \ thank you for playing!** [continue] > [[Return to Main Menu->Main Menu]]

[align center] *By necessity, this page contains some spoilers related to story and gameplay.* {reveal link: 'Click here to view the content and trigger warnings', passage: 'CW List'}. [continue] > [[Return to Main Menu->Main Menu]]

[align left] This game contains depictions of the following: [continue] * Depression * Mania * Grief Additionally, this game may be triggering for individuals with eating disorders, as food plays a central role in progressing the story (see below for more details). **A note on food and eating in *chiaroscuro*:** In the game, food is your primary means of interacting with your companions. However, this is meant metaphorically, rather than prescriptively. It is a reference to the old story (often, but probably falsely, attributed to Native American folklore) of every person having two wolves warring within them, one dark and one light. The one that wins, they say, is the one you feed. This is not to say that eating always makes everything better, however. A healthy, balanced diet is critical for maintaining good mental health.

[align center] **Need help unlocking all of the endings?** {reveal link: 'Hint #1', passage: 'Hint 1'} {reveal link: 'Hint #2', passage: 'Hint 2'} {reveal link: 'Hint #3', passage: 'Hint 3'} {reveal link: 'Hint #4', passage: 'Hint 4'} [continue] > [[Return to Main Menu->Main Menu]]

The five endings include gray, dark, light, balanced, and vivid (colorful). How you get each depends on how much time you spend with each companion—or whether you ignore them completely.

True balance requires an equal divison of resources.

The vivid ending requires six colors to achieve; there is exactly one opportunity every chapter to buy pigment from a color-seller, if you know where to look.

To meet with the color-seller every chapter requires balance and precision; missing even one meeting will prevent all future meetings. To find the color-seller, follow the colored links.