Extraits

The ghost perched atop the tall limestone walls of the palace, gazing down at the colorful crowds that strolled the Riva promenade. Beyond the cafés and vendors, the harbor sparkled in the bright sun and the distant islands floated like clouds in the Adriatic Sea.

On the bad days, the ghost had no sense of self. He floated in an inky soup, grasping desperately for anything at all: a sensation, a memory, a thought. Sometimes his efforts were fruitless for a very long time, and then he was lost, he was nothing, he was—

No. Today was a good day; he remembered. Once—a very long time ago—he had been a living man, and his name had been Sabbio. He’d been able to smell the salt air and the fish at the market, to taste the tang of an olive and the sweetness of a fig. And gods, once he’d been able to feel the breeze against his skin and the touch of a hand. People had seen him and spoken to him, had listened to his accented Latin. Once he’d been real.

Now he was only a ghost.