The monastery was shrouded in darkness.
The car stopped in front of a high red brick wall. No sign, no name, no indication of what lay behind it. Only a heavy wooden door, which appeared almost black in the night, and a light above the entrance, struggling weakly against the darkness.
"We're here," said the driver.
He got out and opened the back door. Martina helped Julia out. The air was cold—not the Italian cold, which was soft and damp, but a German cold, dry and biting. Martina pulled her jacket tighter.
The driver knocked on the door. Three times. Short. Long. Short.
A signal.
The door opened. A figure stood in the doorway – small, wrapped in a dark coat. The face was in shadow, but the voice was friendly.
"Come in quickly. It's cold."
Inside, it was quiet.
The corridors were narrow, the ceilings vaulted, the walls bare stone. Here and there a candle burned in a niche, before a Madonna figure or a cross. The floor was wooden, creaking underfoot.
“Follow me,” said the figure—a woman, as Martina now saw. Gray hair peeking out from under a veil. A narrow face marked by many years of silence.
They walked down a long corridor, past locked doors, past a courtyard with a fountain – silent, turned off for the winter. Then a staircase, narrow and steep. At the top, another corridor, shorter this time, with two doors.
“Your room,” said the nun. “It’s not much. But it’s warm. And safe.”
She opened the first door. A small room – a bed, a table, a chair, a crucifix on the wall. A window that looked out into the darkness.
“The other room is the same,” the nun said. “Breakfast will be at seven tomorrow morning. If you need anything, there’s a bell at the end of the hall.” She hesitated. “Most of the time we’re alone here. The convent is being dissolved. But you can stay for a few days—or weeks.”
“Thank you,” said Martina.
The nun nodded. Then she left. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor.
Martina helped her mother into the room. Julia sat down on the bed – the mattress was thin, but it didn't give way.
"It's like it used to be," Julia said softly. "In my childhood. The nuns, the silence, the smell of wax and old wood."
"Is that good?" asked Martina.
“I don’t know.” Julia looked around. “It’s familiar. That has to be enough.”
Martina wanted to say something – something comforting, something encouraging. But she couldn't find the words. So she sat down next to her mother, took her hand, and they were silent together.
Later, in her own room, Martina lay on the bed.
She hadn't taken her clothes off. She didn't know if she could sleep—but she knew she had to try. Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow she would call Michael. Tomorrow she would find out what happened next.
But now – now there was only this room. This bed. This silence.
She thought of the doppelganger. Of his face in the darkness of the airport. Of his words: Take care of her. Of your mother. And of yourself.
She had promised to be careful. But she didn't know how.
She closed her eyes.
The wind blew around the monastery. The trees outside rustled. Somewhere a clock tower struck midnight.
Martina fell asleep.
The next morning, the light woke her up.
It fell through the window – pale, German, filtered by clouds. Not Italian light, golden and warm. But a light that broke through fog and softened everything.
She stood up, washed herself with cold water from the pitcher on the table, ran a comb through her hair, and took a deep breath.
Then she went to Julia.
Her mother was already sitting by the window, a cup in her hand – Martina didn't know where it had come from. Perhaps the nun had brought it while she was asleep.
"Good morning," said Julia.
“Good morning,” said Martina.
They sat in silence for a while. Clouds drifted by outside. A bird sang – somewhere in the trees surrounding the monastery.
"What do we do now?" asked Julia.
“I’ll call Michael,” said Martina. “He needs to know we’re safe. And he needs to know about the doppelganger.”
"Do you think he already knows about it?"
Martina hesitated. "Maybe. Maybe not. But he'll have to find out. Sooner or later."
Julia nodded. "Then call him."
Martina went into the hallway. The bell at the end was for emergencies, not for phone calls. But there was an office on the ground floor, the nun had said. With a working telephone.
She went downstairs, through the quiet hallway, past the Madonna statue. The office was small, dark, and smelled of dust and old files. On the table stood a black telephone – an old model with a rotary dial.
Martina sat down. She dialed the number she knew by heart.
The doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
„Michael Phillips?“
She recognized the voice immediately. Calm. Alert. A little tired.
“Michael,” she said. “It’s me, Martina.”
A break.
"Martina – where are you? I've been trying to reach you. All night. Your mobile phone –"
"It's switched off. InSim knows what we've done. We had to escape."
A longer pause. Martina heard him breathing.
"Are you safe?" he finally asked.
“Yes. We are in a monastery in Germany. I can’t tell you where – not over the phone. But it’s safe. For now.”
"And Julia?"
"She's doing well. She's tired. But she's here."
"Thank God." Michael breathed a sigh of relief. "Martina – who got you out of there? Who brought you to Germany?"
Martina closed her eyes. She knew this question would come. She knew she had to answer it.
“A man,” she said. “He looks just like you. Exactly like you. But younger. Maybe thirty.”
Quiet.
"Michael? Are you still there?"
“Yes,” he said. His voice was quiet. “I’m still here.”
"Do you know who that is?"
A long pause. Martina heard the crackling of the phone line.
“I don’t know,” Michael finally said. “But I think I’ll have to find out.”