The Tides of Venice

The Grand Canal glittered under the Venetian sun, its water lapping against the stone edges of the city like soft whispers of forgotten secrets. Shirah stood at the edge of the canal, her eyes squinting against the late afternoon light. She was alone in Venice, not entirely sure what she was looking for but determined to find it. Her fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the frayed edge of her travel bag.

Her journey to Venice had been unplanned, a spur-of-the-moment decision after a particularly draining week back home in London. The city had called to her — not through a friend’s recommendation or a travel brochure, but through something deeper, almost instinctual. It felt as if Venice was pulling her in.

She glanced down at the crumpled postcard that had been waiting for her one morning in her mailbox, sent by someone she didn't know. No return address, no name. Just a photograph of Venice with the words- "Look where the water meets the sun."

At first, she had laughed it off, assuming it was a joke or some odd promotional stunt. But as days passed, the image of Venice and the cryptic message burrowed into her mind. Without fully understanding why, she booked a flight and found herself walking the cobblestone streets of a city older than memory.

Now, standing by the canal, Shirah felt a tinge of frustration. She had been here for two days and hadn't found anything out of the ordinary. What if this was just another trip to distract her? A way to escape her life back in London that had become too heavy to bear? Perhaps this had been a mistake. Maybe the postcard was meaningless after all.

Turning away from the water, she wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, her shoes clicking on the uneven stones. The alleyways of Venice twisted in impossible ways, sometimes feeling like a labyrinth designed to lose oneself. Yet she felt a strange comfort in the disorientation. It was as if the city wanted to keep its secrets hidden until the right moment.

Shirah found herself in a quieter part of the city, away from the tourist spots. The air was cooler here, the buildings taller and more worn, casting long shadows over the ground. A small bookshop caught her eye — a faded sign above the door read Libreria del Mare.

Pushing the door open, she was greeted by the soft, musty scent of old paper. The shop was tiny, barely large enough to house more than a few shelves, but it was packed with books of all kinds. An old man sat behind the counter, his head bent low as he carefully repaired a book’s spine.

Shirah wandered through the narrow aisles, running her fingers across the spines of the books. Many were in Italian, some in French, but she barely registered the titles. Something about the shop felt different, as though it was suspended outside of time.

Her hand stopped on a particularly worn book. It was smaller than the others, its leather cover scuffed and cracked with age. There was no title on the spine, just a small engraved symbol of a wave. Curious, she pulled it off the shelf and opened it. The pages were yellowed and fragile, but it wasn’t the book itself that caught her attention.

Inside the front cover was an envelope, pressed flat, as though it had been waiting for her. It bore the same handwriting as the postcard back in London.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced toward the old man at the counter, but he was still absorbed in his work. With trembling hands, Shirah carefully pulled the envelope out and opened it. Inside was a single photograph, old and sepia-toned. In the photo was a young woman, standing on the edge of a pier, her dress fluttering in the wind. Behind her, the faint silhouette of Venice could be seen in the distance, shrouded in mist.

But it wasn’t the woman’s face that caught Shirah’s attention — it was her own.

The woman in the photograph looked just like her. The resemblance was uncanny, right down to the shape of her jaw and the slight tilt of her head. Shirah stared at the photograph, her breath caught in her throat. It felt impossible, and yet there was no denying the truth of what she was seeing.

Suddenly, the shop door creaked open behind her, and Shirah turned to see a man step inside. He was tall, with dark hair slicked back, and wore a long, weathered coat. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You’ve found it,” he said softly, his accent faint but unplaceable.

Shirah tightened her grip on the photograph. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the confusion swirling inside her.

The man stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “That’s a complicated question,” he replied. “But for now, you can call me Bob.”

She took a step back, suddenly feeling the walls of the small shop closing in. “Why do I look like her?” Shirah asked, holding up the photograph.

Bob sighed, as though he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. “Because that woman in the photo — she was your ancestor. A distant one, but tied to you through blood and time.”

Shirah stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or bolt out of the shop. “That makes no sense,” she said. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

“No joke,” Bob said, his voice calm, as though he had delivered this explanation countless times before. “Her name was Nancy de Rossi. She lived in Venice during the 19th century, but she disappeared under mysterious circumstances. People say she drowned, others think she simply vanished. But what ties you to her is not just blood, it’s something more... significant.”

Shirah looked at the photograph again, then back at Bob. “Why would someone send me that postcard? Why would they want me here?”

Bob glanced around the shop, as if wary of unseen eyes. “There are things in this world, Shirah, that are hidden from most people. Mysteries that span centuries, carried through generations. You’re not the first to be called back here, and you won’t be the last.”

Shirah’s head spun, but a part of her, deep down, felt that what he was saying wasn’t entirely impossible. The pull she had felt toward Venice, the strange familiarity she had experienced in the city, now seemed to make more sense.

“What happened to her?” Shirah asked, her voice softer now.

Bob hesitated, then gestured for her to follow him outside. They left the shop, the sound of the canal’s water growing louder as they walked toward the pier. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the city.

“Nancy,” Bob began, “was part of a lineage tied to Venice in ways most people can’t comprehend. The city has always been more than just a collection of buildings. It’s alive, in a way. It draws people in, connects them across time. Nancy was meant to uncover something — something that was lost in the city’s depths.”

They stopped at the edge of the pier, the water shimmering below them. Bob pulled out a small, ornate box from his coat pocket. “This belonged to her,” he said, handing it to Shirah.

The box was cold to the touch, and when she opened it, she found a delicate silver necklace inside, the pendant shaped like a small wave. The same symbol as on the book in the shop.

“She was searching for something in the water,” Bob continued. “Something ancient and powerful. But whatever it was, it took her before she could find it.”

Shirah felt a shiver run down her spine. “And now?”

Bob met her gaze. “Now, it’s calling to you.”

She didn’t know what to say. The weight of the necklace in her hand felt both comforting and terrifying. She had never believed in fate or destiny, but standing there on the edge of the canal, with the city of Venice watching over her, it was hard to deny that something much larger was at play.

“What do I do?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Bob smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “You follow the water, Shirah. Just like she did. But this time, maybe it will lead to answers.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Shirah looked out at the canal, the water dark and mysterious. The tides of Venice were shifting, and somewhere deep below the surface, something waited for her.

She didn’t know if she was ready to find it. But she knew, without a doubt, that she would try.