Chapter 1: The Room With No Windows

The call came in on a cold Thursday morning, rain scratching my windshield like nails on a coffin. A body had been found in the basement of an abandoned textile factory in Rovigno Vecchio.

Female. Early 30s. No ID. No phone. No shoes.

But I knew her. Not literally, no. But the way she was posed — curled against the rusted boiler, arms crossed over her stomach — that was something I’d seen before.

Back in 1998. In a place I never talk about.

Chapter 2: An Old Scar Begins to Itch

The crime scene was clean, as if someone had rehearsed it. She had been strangled with a nylon cord. No bruises. No defensive wounds. It wasn’t a struggle. It was a performance.

I’ve seen killers stage victims before. It always tells you something about their story. About what they need you to see.

As I stared at her face, I realized it wasn’t what she looked like. It was what she reminded me of.

Back when I was 14, my sister Chiara vanished. Her body was never found. Only her shoes — placed neatly at the edge of a quarry near Verona. Just like this woman’s.

I buried that memory like a bad tooth. Until now.

Chapter 3: The Red Ribbon Detail

The forensic report came back with one oddity — tied around the victim’s wrist was a red satin ribbon, looped into a single knot. No bow. Just a closed loop.

I hadn’t thought about the red ribbon in years.

Chiara used to wear one. Always on her wrist, like a charm. She tied it every morning, always the same way — no bow, just a knot.

That’s when I asked for the victim’s fingerprints again.

They didn’t match anyone in the system. But the report listed an alias from a homeless shelter log in Trieste: “C. V.” — initials that could stand for Chiara Vescari.

It wasn’t her. But someone wanted me to think it was.

Chapter 4: The Basement Whisper

A second body showed up three weeks later. Male. Same pose. Different town. Same ribbon.

This one had something else: a Polaroid under his tongue. It showed a blurry photo of a young boy standing near a quarry, facing the camera. The boy wore a scout uniform.

I knew that uniform. I wore it once.

And that photo? It was taken the day Chiara disappeared.

Which meant whoever was doing this knew my past better than I did.

Chapter 5: A Voice on Tape

I started receiving cassette tapes at my apartment. No return address. Hand-delivered. No fingerprints.

Each contained only one sound: footsteps, echoing on gravel, followed by a girl humming an old Italian lullaby.

The same lullaby Chiara would hum when she was afraid.

On the third tape, a voice whispered:

“You left me. And now I leave them for you.”

This wasn’t about the victims anymore. This was about me.

Chapter 6: The Case I Hid From Myself

I went back to Verona. Visited the old police station. The officers who worked Chiara’s case were all gone. One file remained — sealed, but incomplete. Inside were three things:

A page torn from her diary, with the words: “He told me not to scream.”
A sketch of the same quarry from the Polaroid.
A note from the original investigator:

“Interviewed Luca V. alone. He remembers nothing. Memory block?”

They thought I might have seen what happened to Chiara and forgot. Trauma. Blackout.

But now I remembered. Not everything — just the scream.

And the man in the hat.

Chapter 7: The Pattern Forms

Four victims. All posed. All with red ribbons. All linked to places I lived before age 18. This killer wasn’t choosing victims — he was choosing memories.

Each crime scene mirrored something I had tried to forget:

The basement where I used to hide when my father drank.
The greenhouse where my mother tried to take her life.
The railway bridge where I first lied to the police.
The school field where I told Chiara I didn’t want to walk her home.

This case wasn’t just familiar.

It was autobiographical.

Chapter 8: The Man in the Hat Returns

A former schoolmate reached out. Said he recognized the photo from the Polaroid.

Said there was a man who used to hang around the quarry. A groundskeeper. Everyone called him “Zio Carlo” — Uncle Carlo.

He wasn’t anyone’s uncle.

Police questioned him back in ‘98, but never charged him. He disappeared a month after Chiara did.

Last known address: an abandoned farmhouse outside Trieste.

I went there alone.

Chapter 9: The Final Scene

Inside that farmhouse was a chair, a mirror, and a wall full of Polaroids.

Of me. From childhood to now. Some I’d never seen. Some I didn’t know existed.

There was one final photo: Chiara, wearing her ribbon, standing next to Zio Carlo, holding my hand. She was smiling.

On the back, scribbled in pen:

“You were always part of it.”

A recording played from a hidden speaker. The lullaby again. And a final line:

“If you want it to stop, remember what you did.”

But I couldn’t.

Or I wouldn’t.

Chapter 10: The Case Remains Open

The killings stopped after that night. I never found Carlo. I never found my sister’s body.

But I found mine. The one I lost when I buried the truth to survive.

People ask me why the killer chose me. Why the victims echoed my past. Why the ribbon. Why the mirror.

The truth?

Because the killer and I are mirrors. One reflects the crime. The other reflects the wound.

And wounds that never heal… always find a way to bleed again.

Shadows I Recognized: A Crime That Followed Me