La falena

In a chiaroscuro Rome where marble dust hangs like spectral fog, Thea—sculptress of flesh-colored stone—learns that her lungs bloom with the same white roses that kill saints. She flees the altar, leaving Filippo clutching a ring now colder than Carrara snow, and wanders through catacombs of memory, carving busts of her own decay. Consumption gnaws; pride petrifies. Hearing death’s wingbeats, she stages a twilight salon in a candle-crumbling palazzo: guests arrive like moths to a dying flame, champagne flutes tremble like test tubes of bubonic gold, and the estranged husband steps across the threshold just as the final cough of blood christens her lips—an operatic curtain falling on a woman who turned morbidity into sculpture and, finally, into theater.