Page 75 of The Slug Crystal
"No luck?" I ask, though it's not really a question.
He shakes his head, leaning against the doorframe. "I talked to everyone who's awake. Nobody knows where Sarah went after she left, or they're not saying. They just want to sell shit, same as yesterday." His blue eyes hold mine, gentle but direct. "Emma, I think we've hit a dead end here."
I nod, my throat tight with disappointment. "I know."
The others gather in the commune's dining area, the morning's vegan breakfast sitting mostly untouched on their plates. Marco's eyes meet mine briefly, a private acknowledgment of our starlit moment passing between us before he returns his gaze to his breakfast. Ben pushes vegan eggs around his plate with uncharacteristic quietness. Luca stands by the window, phone in hand, frowning at the screen.
"No response from any of my contacts in the area," he announces, sliding the phone into his pocket. "The trail has gone cold."
"So, what now?" I ask, settling Alex's terrarium carefully beside me on the bench. "We can't just give up."
"We're not giving up," Jake says quickly, his hand finding my shoulder. "But we need to regroup. Take some time to think strategically."
Marco adjusts his glasses, ever the academic, even in crisis. "We should return to Florence first. Collect our belongings from the pensione, return the rental car, and determine our next course of action."
"Back to square one," Ben mutters, then catches himself when he sees my expression of disappointment. "Sorry, Emma. Just frustrated like everyone else."
We pack the few belongings we brought with us into the car in silence. The commune's forced serenity now feels like a mockery. I wrap Alex's terrarium in a soft sweater for the drive, making sure the air holes aren't obstructed. The blue snail watches me through the glass, his pace unaltered by our failure. There's something almost enviable about his simplicity. All eat, move, and exist. No visible complex emotions, no crushing disappointment.
The drive back to Florence passes in a blur of Tuscan landscapes that have lost their charm. What once seemed magical now feels like scenery from a movie I've watched too many times. Marco drives steadily, his hands competent on the wheel, while Jake studies maps on his phone, searching for places we haven't tried, connections we haven't made. Bendozes against the window, exhaustion finally catching up with him, while Luca makes occasional calls in rapid Italian that yield nothing but more dead ends.
I try my phone again, hoping to text Alina. I could use a dose of her usual optimism, but my phone is still not working despite trying to hotspot off of Jake.
At the pensione, we collect our meager bags in minutes. Every part of this journey has taught us to pack up lightly before we start a new adventure, and we haven’t acquired that much more than what we started with. I settle my bill with the owner, who asks if we enjoyed our stay in Florence.
The lie sticks in my throat when I say yes.
"What's the next move?" Ben asks as we stand on the street outside, our bags at our feet, Alex's terrarium cradled in my arms. "Back to Boston with our tails between our legs?"
The thought of returning home and admitting defeat physically hurts me. The idea of accepting that Alex might be a snail forever… makes my stomach twist painfully.
"Not yet," I say, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. "We can't have tried everything."
"Rome," Luca says suddenly, phone in hand, a new light in his eyes. "My uncle has a villa just outside the city. He's in Switzerland for the month. It would give us a free place to stay while we figure out our next move."
"Rome is massive," Marco points out. "If Sarah is still in Italy, it's a logical place she might go—countless places to disappear."
Jake nods slowly, considering. "It makes sense. And we could use a real base of operations instead of jumping from hotel to hotel."
"Plus," Ben adds, a hint of his usual humor returning, "if we're going to fail spectacularly at this witch hunt, we might as well do it somewhere with decent pizza."
The decision feels half-desperate, half-hopeful. It’s a Hail Mary pass when the game clock is running out. But it's betterthan giving up, better than looking at Alex's terrarium and saying, "This is it, this is your life now."
"Rome it is," I agree.
Marco and Luca join forces to purchase our train tickets. They find one leaving in under an hour, and we rush to the station.
The train journey south passes in alternating bouts of strategizing and exhausted silence. I watch the countryside speed by, fields and villages blurring into a continuous stream of might-have-beens. Alex explores his terrarium, and I wonder if he has any concept of time passing, of days stretching into weeks without progress.
Luca sits beside me for part of the journey, his knee occasionally bumping mine when the train rounds curves. "My uncle's place is beautiful," he tells me, his voice pitched low for privacy. "The perfect place to catch our breath."
"I don't know if I can afford to breathe," I admit. "Every day Alex stays a snail feels like failure."
His hand covers mine briefly. "Sometimes a step back is the only way to see the path forward." The gesture is gentle, lacking his usual flirtatious edge—just comfort offered without expectation.
From the train station, we hail a taxi. Embarking on an absolutely terrifying drive through Rome. Half of which I squeeze my eyes shut tight and cling onto Ben beside me as the driver swerves, honks, and curses everyone else in Italian for his bad driving.
The villa appears like a mirage as our taxi crests a hill on the outskirts of the city. It has whitewashed walls that are glowing in the late afternoon sun, with terracotta roof tiles the color of ancient pottery, and sprawling gardens dotted with lemon trees whose fruit hangs like small suns among dark leaves. My breath catches at the sight, beauty breaking through my exhaustion.
