Every Blue Hue
written by: Sladjana Sea
He was just there.
The smell of coffee lingered in her dream, and the soft rustle of turning pages felt so real. She woke up, awaiting to find him across the table, smiling behind one of the travel guidebooks featuring coastal towns they had been wanderlusting over. Instead, she found herself all alone. No bookstore. No coffee.
The truth had met her gently yet again as she opened her eyes.
Morning light spilled through the curved balcony door of her hotel room as the city stirred beneath. Loud voices, rushing footsteps, espresso machines, a single crow. She drew a long, steady breath and looked down the narrow alley away from her balcony. The uneven San Gimignano cobblestones were catching the first glimpse of the bright sky, reflecting various shades of blue the two of them loved naming.
Corfu – blue.
Courage – blue.
Ancestor – blue.
An unexpected flicker of gratitude rose in her chest as she reached for her phone, ready to call him, ready to tell him she was living the life of her dreams.
“You are living the life of my dreams too,” he had said once – before time folded.
Staring at her own reflection of the balcony glass door, she pulled herself up from this ache of realization, determined to meet the city wearing something of his she deeply cherished – his beige checkered scarf. For five months now, she had traveled with one piece of his clothing wherever she went.
“I’m in Rome, Dad,” she whispered. Tightening the scarf around her neck, she could almost hear her father beside her, his voice full of endless facts about the city he once dreamed of seeing alongside his daughters.
January in Rome felt like late April that day – warm enough for promenading, yet pleasantly brisk for the subtle warmth of the beige checkered scarf. The city unfolded like a museum turned inside out, every street a gallery, every ruin so alive. Her phone had long lost service as she kept on walking in awe – along the river, across the bridge, past sculptures, down the stairs, through Trastevere, up the alleys, and away from the crowded salumerias and out of nowhere – the Vatican appeared – luminescing against the twilight.
Entering the gates, her eyes traced every sculpture and every cloud drifting above the sacred grounds like slow-moving prayers. As she lifted her hand to touch the petite white gold cross around her neck, a sudden gasp tore from her chest:
“My scarf. His scarf. My father!”
Tears filled her eyes instantly as she started spinning in circles, scanning the ground. Those in line waiting to enter turned to look as she searched every face, hoping to find someone had found the beige scarf. She ran to the carabinieri, words tumbling out through sobs, pleading for help.
Gone.
Hours have passed at the Vatican grounds as the night has begun to fall.
Gone.
Surrendering as her tears dried, memories started colliding. His jokes, his warm hugs, his dance moves, his war stories – everything that once made him real. Out of nowhere, a sudden wind lifted her hair, brushing her face abruptly in a way so wildly familiar – Gentle. Protective. Nurturing.
Wrestling her hair back into place, she recalled his words – “Winds carry memories” – and she saw it. On the far side of the street she was about to cross, she saw it! His scarf. She ran towards it, blind to the car rushing towards her.
San Gimignano cobblestones had taken on a darker hue that night.
Blood – blue.
- Every Blue Hue - February 11, 2026
