Chapter One — The Silence After

Paolo Ferri was sixty-two years old, and until a few months ago, his life had been full of rhythm — voices, deadlines, colleagues knocking on his office door, people asking for advice or decisions.

For forty years, he had worked at TecnoVal S.p.A., a company specializing in industrial automation systems. He had started as a young technician, eager and full of energy, then gradually become a systems engineer, and eventually the head of his department. He loved that job — the precision, the logic, the satisfaction of solving problems that seemed impossible to others. Every day was a challenge, an opportunity to improve something, to make a process run more smoothly, to create order out of chaos.

Now, the factory existed only in his memories. His days moved slowly — silent, empty, colorless. He was retired — or at least that’s what everyone called it. For him, however, it felt like an unexpected blow, a door suddenly closed on a part of his life that had defined him for decades.

The first Monday without work, he felt free.
The second, he felt disoriented.
By the third, there was only emptiness, stretching endlessly.

His wife, Elena, fifty-eight, still worked as a middle school teacher. She came home exhausted, often buried under piles of assignments, test papers, and the daily worries of her students. She loved him, of course, but she had neither the time nor the energy to notice how deeply her husband was sinking into melancholy.

They had one son, Marco, married for eight years and living in the city. Paolo was proud of him — a good man, steady job, a house of his own. But Marco had no children. And over the years, that fact had become a quiet, persistent ache, a wound hidden beneath everyday life.

Paolo didn’t crave wealth or success — he had plenty of both. What he longed for was something different: a sense of continuity, a gentle touch of destiny — a small hand to hold, a granddaughter to take to the park. Every time he saw a father with his little girl, a sharp pang hit him inside. It wasn’t envy, but a deep, indescribable nostalgia.

That wound, however, had not started with retirement — it was much older.
When he was around thirty, he and Elena had dreamed of having two children. She had hoped for a boy, but Paolo — secretly — had always wished for a daughter. God had given them only one child, and Paolo loved Marco deeply. But the dream of a daughter lingered, suspended, unspoken, like a knot that never quite loosened.

Marco had always been very close to his mother — as a boy, a teenager, and even now, as an adult. He would confide in her, ask for advice, share his worries. Paolo often watched them with tenderness, but also with a quiet sadness. He felt left out — a silent witness to their bond, yearning for a connection that had never fully formed with him.

He still remembered the day he tried to speak about it: he had sat next to Elena in the living room, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “I miss having a daughter. I miss that kind of bond…”
Elena smiled absentmindedly, thinking he was joking or being sentimental. Then she returned to sorting her papers. Paolo didn’t say another word. That smile — light, distracted, almost careless — had pierced him deeper than any argument ever could.

They never spoke of it again.
The years passed, and Paolo buried that pain under mountains of work, meetings, and responsibilities. Whenever his mind began to wander, he immersed himself in projects — the only way he knew not to think.

But now, in retirement, there was no escape.
Free time had brought everything back — the thoughts, the emptiness, the desire he had hidden for decades.

He tried going out for walks, riding his bike, fishing by the river, even reading self-help books about overcoming depression and finding a new purpose. But nothing worked.
The more he read, the more he realized that other people’s words could not reach the wound inside him.

Every day, the house felt larger — and quieter.
Sitting in his old armchair by the window, he would watch the children playing in the courtyard and think:
“Maybe if I’d had a daughter, I wouldn’t feel so useless now.”

Then his mind wandered into memories.
He remembered when Marco was small and had fallen asleep in his arms after a long day at the park, knees smeared with mud, hands sticky with sand. He remembered the evenings they spent building model cars together, and the early mornings waking him up to go fishing at the nearby river, just to see him happy, smiling, eyes shining with excitement and wonder.

Those memories were both sweet and painful. They reminded him of what he had, and yet of what he was still missing. Marco was his greatest joy, certainly, but he could not replace the dream of a daughter, of a family continuity that had never come to be.

And then there was the evening. When Elena came home from work, tired and distracted, Paolo felt the weight of his isolation even more. They did not speak of Marco or friends’ children; there were no shared stories, no laughter filling the house. Only silence, broken by the sound of Elena’s footsteps in the hallway, or the rustle of papers she sorted.

The scars he carried were invisible, yet heavier than any wealth or success he had ever achieved. Paolo knew, deep down, with a lump in his throat, that some wounds never truly heal.

As night fell, sitting by the window, he kept dreaming of what he had never had — an imagined daughter, with gentle eyes and a smile that could fill the emptiness life had left him.

In that silence, his mind began to wander further: he imagined Marco becoming a father, himself becoming a grandfather, holding a tiny creature with soft hair, feeling the light beating of a heart that would be partly his, partly Marco’s. The thought brought both comfort and pain — a longing that had always been there, latent, hidden behind years of routine and responsibilities, a desire he had carried quietly for decades.

Chapter Two — The Silence of Elena

Elena loved Paolo.
She had loved him through every season of their life together — when they were young and full of dreams, when they struggled to make ends meet, when they raised their only son, and even now, in the heavy quiet of their retirement years.

They had shared everything — joys, hardships, hopes, and disappointments — and looking back, Elena knew she couldn’t say she had been unhappy.
She had had a good man by her side: responsible, loyal, and kind. Paolo had been a devoted husband, a loving father, and a tireless worker. He managed money wisely, cared for their home, and never let his family lack anything.

And yet, deep in his eyes, Elena had always seen a quiet sadness — like a shadow that never fully fades.
It was the pain of an unfulfilled dream: the dream of having a daughter.
He almost never spoke about it, but Elena knew.

She saw it in his small gestures — when he looked tenderly at a father teaching his little girl to ride a bike, or when, on television, a father walked his daughter down the aisle and Paolo suddenly lowered his gaze.
It wasn’t envy or anger. It was nostalgia — nostalgia for something he had never been able to experience.

One day, many years earlier, he had whispered to her,

“If we’d had a daughter, I think my life would have been different.”

She smiled, gently touching his hand.

“But we have our son, Paolo. He’s a good man, and he loves us.”
“I know, Elena,” he replied softly. “But it’s not the same.”

They never spoke of it again.

When Paolo retired, Elena noticed that something was changing.
At first, she thought it was natural — after forty years of work, feeling lost was normal. But over time, she began to see a deeper emptiness in him, a silent kind of resignation.

Yet Paolo wasn’t completely shut in at home.
Sometimes he went out cycling, as he always had — following the roads along the sea, greeting a few acquaintances, stopping to watch the sunset.
Other times he took his fishing rod and spent a couple of hours at the harbor, sitting quietly, staring at the waves.

Elena liked to believe those small outings helped him.
But when he came back, it was as if nothing had changed. He would put away the bike, wash his hands, and return to his silent, distant thoughts — as though he had found nothing outside worth mentioning.

One evening she tried to talk to him.

“Paolo, why don’t you go out more often? It’s good for you. Go for a walk, do some fishing…”
He smiled faintly.
“I do go out, Elena. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“Nothing?”
“No. The world outside keeps moving forward — I don’t.”

Those words hit her like a punch.
She tried to hide her reaction, but that phrase stayed with her for days.

As the months passed, concern turned into anxiety.
Elena began to notice that Paolo spent more and more time alone in his study, in front of the computer.
When she walked in, he would downplay it: “Just reading, writing a few thoughts — nothing important.”
But his eyes didn’t convince her.

Eventually, worried, she called her closest friend, Lucia, a longtime colleague she often confided in.

“I don’t recognize him anymore,” she said one evening, her voice trembling. “It’s like he’s not himself.”
“Have you tried getting him to do something he enjoys?” Lucia asked. “A trip, a weekend, anything…”
“Yes, but it doesn’t work. It’s like he’s… distant.”
Lucia was silent for a moment, then said quietly,
“Then stay close to him, Elena. But watch him carefully. When men start feeling useless, they can do unpredictable things.”

Those words struck her harder than she wanted to admit.

From that day on, Elena began to keep an eye on him discreetly.
She asked where he was going, texted him during the day, tried to keep him busy with small errands. Sometimes she even thought about installing a camera in the living room, just to be sure he was okay. Then she immediately pushed that thought away, ashamed of herself.

She tried again to speak more openly.

“Paolo, maybe you should talk to someone… a psychologist, perhaps. Just to talk a little.”
He sighed.
“I’ve already tried that once, remember? It doesn’t help. They told me to go out, to live, to distract myself. But how do you distract yourself from yourself?”

Elena had no answer.

One afternoon, while he was out cycling, she went to his computer.
She didn’t mean to spy — not completely. She just needed to understand.
Some time earlier, she had asked him for his password under the pretext of “handling some online paperwork.” Paolo had given it to her without hesitation, completely trusting her.

She turned on the laptop.
Scrolling through the folders, she found only old documents, a few photos, scattered notes.
Nothing that explained the darkness surrounding him.

She closed everything and sat in silence.
She felt worse than before — as if she had crossed an invisible line only to find nothing on the other side.

That night she couldn’t sleep.
Lying next to him, she listened to his steady breathing, yet the distance between them felt infinite.
There had been a time when they talked for hours, sharing dreams and hopes. Now there was only a wall of silence.

“What’s going through your mind, Paolo?” she thought in the dark.

She wished she could slip inside his thoughts, understand the pain he couldn’t put into words.

Days went by.
Paolo kept cycling and fishing, but he always came home the same — with that tired, faraway look.

One evening, while he was in the garden, Elena approached the computer again.
This time, she noticed a file she had never seen before:
“Cercasi la figlia.”

She froze, her heart pounding.
She didn’t have the courage to open it.
Not yet.

She closed everything, took a deep breath, and realized something:
Paolo wasn’t just remembering.
He was searching — for something, or someone.

For the first time, Elena understood that the man she had loved all her life had become a mystery she no longer knew how to read.
She sat in silence, listening to the ticking clock in the living room as her thoughts raced.
Then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint smile.
A thought crossed her mind, clear as light in the fog:

“Maybe… I can help him.”

She stood up, closed the laptop, and looked at him from afar — as if she had just discovered a secret door into her husband’s heart.
And in that moment, Elena decided she would find a way to enter that hidden world.
She didn’t know how yet.
But she already had an idea.

Chapter 3 — The Other Side of the Screen

When Paolo went out for his usual evening bike ride, Elena stayed alone in the quiet house.
On the table, next to the open laptop, the file “Looking for a Daughter” seemed to stare back at her like a half-open door.
She had spent days wondering whether to open it or not.
But after what she had discovered, hesitation no longer had a place.

She had a plan.
Simple, but bold: she wanted to enter that virtual world where Paolo often escaped, to understand what he was truly searching for.
Not with reproach or accusation, but with intelligence, patience — and a touch of feminine cunning.

She took a deep breath and clicked on the link she had seen the night before.
The site loaded slowly: a clean, quiet-looking portal filled with hundreds of profiles, each accompanied by a few words and a hidden longing.
The section was called “Heart Dialogues — for those who seek only to be heard.”

He called himself Silver_60.
Clicking on the profile, Elena instantly recognized his tone:

“I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter, but life had other plans.
Now that I’m retired, there’s an emptiness I can’t seem to fill.
I’m not looking for anything inappropriate — just a conversation with a young woman who could be the age my daughter might have been.
I’d like to know what it feels like to talk as a father, even if only for a few moments.
Whoever wishes to write to me — I’ll be grateful.”

Those words pierced her.
There was no deceit, no self-pity — only sincerity, and the fragility of a man longing for something pure.

Elena rested her chin in her hands.
Then a clear thought formed in her mind:
“I’ll be that woman. But he must never know it’s me.”

She logged in from her phone this time and created a new profile.
She chose a neutral yet pleasant name: Clara32.
In the description, she wrote:

“I love reading, cooking, and listening to other people’s stories.
I live alone and believe that sometimes a simple conversation can change an entire day.”

She smiled softly.
She was ready.

Her first message was brief:

“Good evening, Silver_60.
I read your post and it touched me deeply.
I never knew my father — he left when I was three.
I’d love to chat with you, if you’d like.
I think two lonely souls can sometimes keep each other company.”

She pressed Send.
Her heart raced as if she had just finished a run.

Hours passed.
When Paolo returned home, everything seemed as ordinary as ever.
After their usual small talk — brief, almost mechanical — he went into his study, just like every night.
Elena heard the computer turn on, then the faint tapping of the keyboard filled the house.
She knew exactly what he was doing.

She waited a few minutes, then lay on the bed and picked up her phone from the bedside table.
Her heart was pounding, but her fingers moved steadily across the screen.

Paolo:
Good evening, Clara. I didn’t think anyone would answer my message.

Clara:
Good evening, Paolo. Your words sounded sincere — that’s why I wrote.

Paolo:
Thank you. I’m not looking for anything special, just a quiet conversation.

Clara:
That sounds nice. I like talking without expectations, just to get to know someone.

Paolo:
I’ve always wished for a daughter, but it never happened. Now that I’m retired, I miss that kind of bond.

Clara:
I understand… I never had a father. He left when I was a child.

Paolo:
I’m sorry. Maybe that means we understand each other, in a way.

Clara:
Yes, maybe. Two people who meet by chance and share a little company.

Paolo:
I’d like to know more about you. Where do you live? What do you like to do?

Clara:
I live in a seaside town and work in a flower shop. I enjoy reading and evening walks.

Paolo:
That must be a beautiful job, surrounded by colors and scents.

Clara:
It is peaceful. And you, what do you do with your days?

Paolo:
I’m retired now, but I try to stay active. Sometimes I go cycling, other times I fish.

Clara:
That sounds lovely. I’ve never gone fishing, but I like quiet places.

Paolo:
Silence helps you think. Maybe that’s why I enjoy this conversation.

Clara:
Me too. It’s simple, but it makes me feel good.

Paolo:
If you’d like, we can keep writing from time to time.

Clara:
Sure. I’d like that. Maybe we’ll become good friends.

From that night on, their silent game began.
He sat in his study, facing the computer.
She, lying in bed just a few meters away, replied from her phone.
Every time she heard his footsteps in the hallway, she quickly closed the chat, placed the phone on the nightstand, and pretended to sleep.
And so, night after night, they lived side by side — yet separated by a screen.

As days passed, their conversations deepened.
Paolo told her about his childhood, the sea he loved, and the memory of a strict father.
Elena replied carefully, keeping her role — but inside, something was changing.
It wasn’t just curiosity anymore; it felt as if she were discovering a new Paolo, more real, more vulnerable.

“I think,” Clara wrote one evening,
“a father’s love doesn’t need blood — only listening.
I never had a father, but I think I would have wanted one who wrote like you.”

Paolo replied shortly after:

“Maybe you say that because you still have a sweetness most people lose as they grow.
You know, Clara, when I read your messages, I feel like I can breathe again.”

Elena read those words over and over, her heart tight.
It was her husband — yet he had never spoken to her like that.

Their conversations went on for weeks.
They talked about everything: books, the seasons, their dreams.
They shared memories, fears, even small daily quirks.
There was a lightness to it, almost childlike, but also a depth she hadn’t expected.

Each evening, when Paolo turned on his computer in the study, she heard the tapping of the keys and smiled to herself.
It was the signal: he was writing to Clara.
So she picked up her phone, turned off the light, and replied.

As days went by, that double life became a strange routine.
Elena began to look at Paolo differently, discovering a side of him she’d never known before.
And Paolo, unknowingly, was falling in love with a younger, freer version of the same woman who slept beside him.

One night, he wrote:

“You know, Clara, I’m surprised by how much good you do me.
Talking to you feels like finding something I’d lost.
I wonder if someone like you really exists in the real world.”

Elena stayed silent for a long moment.
A tangle of emotions filled her chest — tenderness, fear, the urge to confess.
Then she typed slowly:

“Maybe in real life, people meet only when they’re truly ready.
And maybe I’m just learning how to listen for the first time.”

Paolo answered:

“You’re a rare person, Clara.
Thank you for the time you give me.
You make me feel like a father — even from afar, without ever seeing you.”

Those words struck her like a caress and a blade at once.
She closed her eyes, hugging her pillow.
She knew the game couldn’t last forever —
but for now, it was enough to feel him close, even if only through a screen.