October 30, 1943 – 7:00 AM
Sal woke to the sound of someone crying.
It was a small sound, muffled, the kind of sound someone made when they were trying very hard not to be heard. He lay still for a moment, listening, trying to place it. Next to him, Rosa slept on, her breathing deep and even. The crying wasn't her.
It was coming from Maria's room.
Sal slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Rosa, and padded down the hall in his bare feet. The door to Maria's room was slightly ajar. He pushed it open gently.
Maria sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chin, face buried in her arms. Her shoulders shook with the effort of silent crying. On the floor beside her lay her drawing—the one with the thirty smiling sailors—now crumpled into a ball.
"Bambina?" Sal's voice was soft. "What's wrong?"
Maria's head snapped up. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen. She looked at him with an expression he'd never seen before—fear, but not ordinary fear. Something deeper. Something older.
"Pop-Pop," she whispered. "They won't stop talking."
Sal crossed the room in three steps and sat on the bed beside her. "Who won't stop talking?"
"The sailors. The ones in my picture. They keep talking to me. All night. I can't make them stop."
Sal's blood went cold.
"What do they say?"
Maria wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "They say thank you. Over and over. Thank you for saving them. Thank you for bringing them home. But I didn't save them, Pop-Pop. You did. So why are they talking to me?"
Sal didn't have an answer. He pulled Maria into his arms and held her tight, feeling her small body tremble against his chest.
"When did it start?"
"After you came home. Last night. I was drawing, and I heard a voice. Just one at first. Then more. Then all of them. They're not scary—they sound nice, like they're happy—but they won't stop. And I can't sleep."
Sal closed his eyes. The voices had followed him home. Not to him—to Maria. To his daughter. Because she'd drawn them? Because she'd believed in them? He didn't know. He didn't understand any of this.
"Bambina, listen to me." He pulled back so he could look at her face. "Those sailors—they're not trying to hurt you. They're grateful. They just don't know how to say it except by talking. But I'm going to make them stop. Okay?"
Maria looked at him with eyes that were too old for her face. "How?"
"I'm going to talk to them. The same way I talked to them on the ship. And I'm going to tell them to leave you alone."
"You can do that?"
Sal had no idea if he could do that. But he nodded anyway. "I can do that."
He settled Maria back against her pillows, tucked the blanket around her, and sat on the edge of her bed. Then he closed his eyes and reached out—the same way he'd reached out on the ship, the same way he'd touched the steel and found the voices.
Miller, he thought. Can you hear me?
Silence. Then, faint but clear:
...Lombardi?
Yeah. It's me. Listen—my daughter. Maria. She's eight years old. And she can hear you. All of you. You're scaring her.
A pause. When Miller spoke again, his voice was filled with horror.
...your daughter? She's the one with the light... the bright one... we thought she was an angel...
She's not an angel. She's a kid. And she needs to sleep. So I need you to stop. All of you. Stop talking to her.
...we didn't mean to frighten her... we were just... grateful... she was the first one who listened... who saw us...
She saw you because she drew you. Because she believed in you. But she's eight. She doesn't understand. So you need to let her go. Can you do that?
Another pause. Then, from everywhere at once, a chorus of voices:
...we're sorry...
...we didn't know...
...we'll stop...
...tell her thank you...
...tell her we're grateful...
...tell her we'll watch over her...
The last voice made Sal's breath catch. It was softer than the others, younger. A voice he hadn't heard before.
...my name is Tommy Miller... I'm nineteen... I almost died... but your papa saved me... tell her I'll never forget... tell her I'll be her guardian angel... even if she can't hear me anymore...
Sal opened his eyes. The room was quiet. Maria watched him with wide eyes.
"Did it work?"
"I think so." Sal listened. The voices were gone. Not absent—he could still feel them, somewhere in the background—but silent. Waiting. Respectful.
"Did they say anything?"
Sal hesitated. Then he smiled. "They said thank you. And they said they're sorry for scaring you. And one of them—a young one named Tommy—said he's going to be your guardian angel."
Maria's eyes widened. "A real angel?"
"A sailor angel. Which is probably the best kind."
Maria thought about this. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. "I like that. A sailor angel watching over me."
"Me too, bambina. Me too."
Sal kissed her forehead, waited until her eyes closed, and slipped out of the room.
In the hallway, he leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding.
The voices had followed him home. They'd attached themselves to his daughter. And he had no idea what that meant or how to stop it.
But for now, Maria was sleeping. That was enough.
ns216.73.216.253da2
and then Add to home screen.