What Stirred in the Forgotten Vassallo Library

The first breath inside the library finds a faint spice of dried basil and crushed mortar dust. Nothing is toppled, yet each object feels nudged out of its usual course. A vellum folio lies half-open on the desk, its pages slightly buckled, as though warmed by a lamp that burned too long.

The hush is not empty—it is watchful, shaped by a room accustomed to careful blending and softly spoken decisions.

A Life Bound to Remedies and Reading

Giovanni Matteo Vassallo, born 1871 in Cagliari, worked as a household apothecary for traveling merchants. His sister Alessia sent him provincial herb sachets, now faded to pale green and pinned inside books on humoral theory. Notes smudged in umber ink record his steady habits: dawn infusions, mid-afternoon cataloging, evenings of quiet cross-referencing. The library’s narrow drawers hold brass sieves, delicate stopcocks, and recipe slips that hint at modest training—practical, diligent, unpretentious.

Texts That Bent Toward Precision

An atlas of regional flora lies beside a tray of dried orange rind and myrtle. Giovanni seems to have refined compound drafts here, using the desk as both dispensary and lectern. A ledger—kept spare and orderly—lists payments from mariners who trusted his remedies for fever and salt-rashed skin. Yet the final entries blur, crowded by corrections in trembling strokes.

The Fracture of Trust

A series of unsigned slips—wedged between herbal volumes—accuse Giovanni of adulterating a cough elixir. One slip names a sailor who “did not mend.” Another bears only a date and a shaky underline. A cracked beaker sits on a cushion of torn handkerchief linen, its rim neatly filed as if tested for flaws. The room’s symmetry frays: an armchair angled toward the door, a lamp downtuned too quickly, a dropped sprig of lavender on the floorboards.

Back in the library, a final clue rests beneath the reading desk: Giovanni’s smallest scale weight, wrapped in scrap linen, hidden as though it could sway a verdict. Its presence deepens the silence but confirms nothing—the room keeps its question.

The house remains abandoned.