Arachnea, a bright-eyed nineteen-year-old, leaves the comfort of her small town life to pursue her dreams in the historic city of Verona. As she steps into the ground of the majestic and beautiful city, she is unaware that her life is about to inter...
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Exhausted and parched, Ara collapsed onto the cool tiles of her room, gasping for air after her grueling workout. Her muscles ached, and beads of sweat trailed over her skin, glistening like morning dew. She lay there, gathering the strength sapped by her rigorous routine, when the shrill ring of her phone pierced the silence.
With a weary groan, she mustered the energy to rise, her limbs protesting as she shuffled toward the insistent call.
A frown etched itself across her brow as 'Mama' flashed on the screen of her cell. It was an unusual occurrence; her mother seldom used the phone to reach out, reserving it for moments of sheer necessity. Ara's mind raced back to the harrowing call four years prior, the one announcing her father's accident. That memory lingered, a stark reminder of her mother's peculiar ways-a trait they both seemingly shared.
"Ma?" Ara's voice was a tired whisper, her body slumping against the edge of her bed. Her gaze drifted to the family photo on her round study table, a silent testament to happier times.
"Ara, darling. I need you. Your uncle has sprained his leg, and we can't reach your dad. I'm certain he's still at home. Please, it's urgent," her mother's voice crackled through the phone, each word laced with a frantic urgency that reminded Ara of a mother hen's distressed clucks in search of her scattered brood.
"What? How? Where are you?" Panic edged Ara's words. Her father, the town's respected doctor, was the go-to for any family medical crisis. In their close-knit community, where everyone knew everyone, his absence was a rare anomaly.
"We're at the Hollow Café. Your uncle... in a fit of impatience, he kicked his car's wheel with his right leg," her mother explained, the sound of café chatter and clinking cups faint in the background.
"His right leg? But wasn't that the one he sprained last year? Uncle Brighton really is testing fate," Ara huffed, a mix of concern and exasperation coloring her tone.
As her breathing steadied, Ara rose and exited her room in search of her father. She was descending the staircase at a brisk pace when her father materialized in the doorway leading to the kitchen, a leather bag slung over his left shoulder.
Her phone remained pressed to her right ear, the sound of her mother's panicked voice a stark contrast to the calm of the house. Ara couldn't help but think of her Uncle Brighton, whose antics often caused such chaos. Perhaps it was a family trait, she mused, given her mother's similar flair for the dramatic.
"Daddy!" she called out, her voice tinged with urgency.
Kristoff, her father, regarded her with a mix of concern and caution as she nearly tripped on the final step.
"What is it, princess? You look a bit pale. Is everything alright?" he inquired, his voice steady and calm.
She nibbled on her lower lip, a gesture of worry, before extending the phone towards him. His brow furrowed in confusion at the sight.
