{"id":22338,"date":"2026-09-28T06:26:57","date_gmt":"2026-09-28T04:26:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/?p=22338"},"modified":"2026-09-28T06:26:57","modified_gmt":"2026-09-28T04:26:57","slug":"antonella-zanca-breath-short-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/i-racconti\/racconti-brevi-scrittori-emergenti\/antonella-zanca-breath-short-story.html","title":{"rendered":"Antonella Zanca \u2013 Breath"},"content":{"rendered":"

He knows her well. He recognises the sound of her breathing and always knows how she feels, what she is afraid of, what makes her happy.
\nThey say it\u2019s love. It has been this way for a long time; their heartbeats are proof enough. He doesn\u2019t ask himself too many questions. It is enough for him to find himself reflected in her eyes, to go on recognising her breathing, which sometimes turns into sighs, sometimes into trumpet blasts, and at other times erupts into cries of joy, or fear, or the exhilaration of reaching a summit.
\nA life in which the kaleidoscope of their needs mingles colours with light and shadow, and every day the perfect pattern seems to form, only to slip away again, leaving them to wonder whether they really saw it at all.
\nThe art lies in paying attention: if you stay alert, you recognise the magical moment and can relive it, drawing strength from the certainty that you were there, at the right time, in the right place, with the right person.
\nThen there is the unpredictable.
\nChristmas is approaching, and our couple decide to take a break. Yes, you can escape the preparations, the parties with friends, the dinners, the kitchen that is always a mess, a December filled with everyone else and never with just the two of them.
\nThey give themselves three days by the sea. The blue sky, the pure colours of the water, the magic of being able to sit in the sun without a jacket, the certainty that down there, on the plain, there is fog, while between the two of them there is none.
\nShared silences, books and newspapers, warm focaccia and long walks give them the break they need to face the final week before 25 December.
\nIt is over almost at once, but the joy and energy remain inside them.
\nThey decide to take the motorway home. It\u2019s quicker.
\nThe motorway runs high through the mountains. The sun does not reach it; the road is icy. The Telepass beeps, loudly, as always, but the barrier does not rise. Brakes, and a movement that makes no sense\u2014how can a car move so fast? It skids, overturns, what\u2019s happening, what\u2019s happening, what\u2019s happening?
\nWe were going slowly, slowly, a beep, my head is pointing towards an iron barrier, everything I see is white and red, I hear a loud, continuous shriek, it\u2019s the Telepass and it won\u2019t stop screaming, everything\u2019s in order, I\u2019ve paid, it\u2019s charged directly to my account, why didn\u2019t it open, why?
\n<\/em>So many thoughts in just a few seconds, and then the precise moment when he no longer recognises her breathing. Where is it? Why can\u2019t he hear anything? Why can\u2019t he recognise the fear, or pain, or any of the feelings she has always been able to convey to him simply through her breathing? He tries to reach out his hand but cannot. He gets angry: nobody has an accident at a Telepass lane in a motorway toll station in the middle of the mountains, where nobody is passing because it is one o\u2019clock on a holiday Sunday and normal people are all sitting down to lunch, and only those two idiots decided to drive home at that hour, when there would be no one around.
\nCan you hear me? Love, can you hear me?
\n<\/em>The two Red Cross volunteers are kitted out in green gowns and latex gloves. The doctor with them looks like a Martian; Dr<\/em> is scrawled across the back of his gown in marker pen. They have known each other for years, but it is only in the last few months that they have started using first names. They have seen and done too much together to maintain the formal distance of language.
\nMario, one of the ambulance\u2019s two veterans, almost sighs with relief when he sees the overturned car. Tired of the people swept away and drowned in the latest flood, he finds himself back in the familiar routine of road accidents and feels at home again, far from unanswered questions.
\nLuigi looks him in the eye as though he can read his thoughts. They approach, and the situation is serious. The doctor manages to reach towards the two occupants: the woman is unconscious; the man appears to be alert.
\nA siren can be heard. Thank God, the firefighters are coming too.
\nHalf an hour later, everything has been dealt with. Sometimes Mario is amazed by the skill of all of them, working together in silence and harmony, with the perfect timing of a well-practised team.
\nA second ambulance has arrived as well; they race together towards Lavagna. Luigi holds the woman\u2019s hand. Her breathing is regular now, but she does not open her eyes. Still, Luigi talks to her, tells her about himself, about his little girl, and Mario smiles.
\nThey reach the hospital. The two stretchers enter the Emergency Department together. The man manages to raise his head a little; his eyes dart around, searching, then come to rest on the woman\u2019s arm. He lets out a low moan of pain and anguish, manages to speak, and everyone knows that this is the moment, the one they will never forget.
\n\u201cCan you hear me? Can you hear me? I\u2019m here, we\u2019re here, together. Together.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He knows her well. He recognises the sound of her breathing and always knows how she feels, what she is afraid of, what makes her happy. They say it\u2019s love. It has been this way for a long time; their heartbeats are proof enough. He doesn\u2019t ask himself too many questions. It is enough for […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1539,"featured_media":21993,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[31],"tags":[11975,12343],"yst_prominent_words":[7035,3998,6276,5995,6786,3480],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22338"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1539"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22338"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22338\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":22341,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22338\/revisions\/22341"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21993"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22338"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22338"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22338"},{"taxonomy":"yst_prominent_words","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.inkroci.it\/racconti-brevi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/yst_prominent_words?post=22338"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}