Renzo's tongue clung to the roof of his mouth like dry chalk. He could feel the warmth of the latte, the one Callista had brought, seeping into his palm, a stark contrast to the frigid accusation in Marco's eyes. How was he supposed to respond to this? Callista would have eviscerated him with a single, cutting remark. Renzo, however, found his tongue tangled, searching for a polite deflection. “Dr. Gallo,” Renzo began, trying to inject some of Callista’s usual hauteur into his voice, but it came out closer to a hesitant squeak. “I assure you, my focus remains entirely on patient care. Maybe you’re… overthinking things.” Marco let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Overthinking? You just spoke to me like I’m a first-year intern, Verrano. And that pathetic attempt at condescension doesn’t even scratch the surface of your usual venom. You’re softer. Weaker. And that’s not an improvement. Not for a surgeon.” His gaze flickered to Callista, still standing quietly by the desk, before snapping back to Renzo. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed her hovering, either. You’re both acting like you’ve swallowed something you shouldn’t have.” Callista, in Renzo’s old body, stepped forward, a faint flush rising on her throat. “Dr. Gallo, you should leave. Dr. Verrano has had a demanding morning.” Her voice, Renzo’s old voice, held a surprising steeliness, a protective edge he’d never heard from himself. It was jarring, yet oddly comforting. “Stay out of this, barista,” Marco snapped, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. “This is between me and… whatever this is.” He leaned in closer to Renzo, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’m watching you, Verrano. One wrong move, one mistake, and I’ll expose you.” With a final glare that promised swift retribution, Marco spun on his heel and stalked out of the office, leaving a sudden, chilling silence in his wake. Renzo sank back into the leather swivel chair, letting his posture collapse. He hadn’t realized how much energy it took to merely exist under Marco’s scrutiny. Callista watched him for a long moment, her brow furrowed with a concern that went beyond a mere hospital employee. She picked up the discarded latte cup, her fingers tracing the rim. “He’s… very intense,” she murmured, her gaze still fixed on Renzo. “Are you alright, Dr. Verrano? You look quite… unsettled.” Renzo managed a weak smile. “Just a long morning, Callista. Thank you for the latte. It’s… exactly what I needed.” He barely registered the roasted hazelnut notes, distracted by Marco’s parting threat and the pages locked in his desk. Callista hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but then nodded. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do?” Renzo shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine. I just… need to visit Nonna Elodia.” Her brows twitched together, puzzled. “Nonna Elodia? Is something wrong with the machine?” “No, nothing like that,” Renzo said quickly. “Just… a personal matter. Thank you again.” Callista gave him a small, polite nod, then turned and quietly left the office, closing the door softly behind her. The moment she was gone, Renzo snatched up the leather-bound notebook from the desk drawer. He had to know more. Marco’s accusation made one thing clear: his disguise was falling apart, and the entries pointed directly to Nonna Elodia. The scent of roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries enveloped Renzo the moment he pushed open the door to Il Cuore Caldo. The lunchtime rush was thinning, leaving only a few lingering patrons and the comforting hum of the espresso machine. Nonna Elodia was behind the counter, meticulously wiping down the gleaming steel, her white hair pulled back in a neat bun, her face a map of gentle wrinkles. She looked like the quintessential warm, Italian grandmother. “Nonna Elodia,” Renzo said, his voice softer than he intended, almost shy. He approached the counter, the notebook clutched tight against his ribcage. She looked up, her smile radiating pure benevolence. “Ah, Doctor Verrano! Back for another dose of my special brew? Or some crisp almond biscotti to chase away the hospital chill?” Her eyes, though, held a knowing glint that contradicted the innocent offer. Renzo laid the notebook on the polished counter between them, sliding it forward. “I found this. In Callista’s apartment.” His voice was low, laced with a tremor he couldn’t suppress. “It talks about you. About a bargain. A debt. A curse.” Nonna Elodia’s smile didn’t falter, but a subtle shift occurred in her posture, a straightening of her spine, a sharpening of her gaze. The benevolent grandmother seemed to recede, replaced by something ancient and incredibly shrewd. Her eyes, the color of rich, dark earth, seemed to see right through him, past the surgeon’s facade, directly to Renzo Biagi’s anxious soul. “Ah, the little book of truths,” she murmured, her voice losing its sugary sweetness, becoming deeper, resonant. “Callista was always one for documentation. Thought it would protect her from the unseen. Fools think knowledge is a shield against fate. It is merely a mirror.” She tapped the worn cover with a gnarled finger. “So, Renzo Biagi. You finally seek answers from the source.” Renzo flinched. “You know my name.” It wasn’t a question. “Of course, dear boy. I am Elodia, Weaver of Crossroads, Keeper of Balances, a humble attendant to the flow of fates. To bargain is my nature; to orchestrate, my delight. You think your little swap was a coincidence? A random act of cosmic mischief?” She chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “Hardly. It was a mercy. Two souls, both ticking down to an untimely end, given a chance to live, to find what they lost, or perhaps, what they never had.” “A mercy?” Renzo pressed, his ribs straining against his ribs. “Callista’s notes say you lied. It says there’s no cure. Just a clock counting down.” Elodia leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Truth has many facets, Renzo. I did not lie. I offered a path. The cure for her… condition… was not within her grasp. Not then. And your own flame was flickering. Two birds, one stone, a fresh perspective. Callista Verrano was a brilliant surgeon, yes, but her heart was colder than an operating table in winter. Her curse, a legacy from a forgotten pact, was poisoning her, slowly, painfully. It demanded payment, and her sacrifices were insufficient.” “A curse?” Renzo repeated, the word feeling alien and impossible in the sterile hospital setting. “You mean it’s not a medical condition?” “No physician on this earth could cure what a deity’s decree inflicts, child,” Elodia said, a hint of impatience in her tone. “It’s a magical affliction, a debt owed to a vengeful ancestor, manifesting as the 'migraines' and debilitating pain she documented. And as for your Dr. Gallo…” A sly glint entered her eyes. “He senses the imbalance. His lineage, you see, is tied to the spirit of the ancient grove, a minor deity of natural order. He feels the disruption to Callista’s essence, the alien soul within her. It’s why he’s so instinctively hostile. He’s a hound on the scent of discord.” Renzo stared, aghast. Marco wasn’t just a rival; he was some kind of magical bloodhound. This was beyond anything he could have imagined. “So, what do I do?” Renzo asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “How do I find a cure for her? For both of us? Her notes say time is running out.” Elodia’s gaze softened slightly, though the ancient wisdom remained. “The cure for her debt is not in a medical textbook, Renzo Biagi. It is in the heart of what she sacrificed.” “What she sacrificed?” Renzo frowned, trying to make sense of the cryptic words. “What does that even mean?” He started to press for more details, for a clearer explanation, but a familiar voice cut through the air. “Nonna Elodia? Do you have any special teas? For terrible migraines?” Renzo turned. Callista, in his old body, stood a few feet away, a worried crease between her eyebrows. Her gaze, warm and intensely focused, was fixed directly on Renzo.

Crossroads and Coffee Grounds