The Witness in the Reel

Rome at night had always felt like a place between worlds.

The streets carried echoes of the past, the ghosts of emperors and revolutionaries, of whispers exchanged in candlelit corridors and names that had been erased from history.

Jessica and Olivia moved through the quiet, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and old tobacco.

The address Pasolini had left led to a street that didn’t want to be found. Tucked away in the heart of Testaccio, a neighborhood of warehouses and forgotten buildings, the road wasn’t marked on any modern map.

Jessica ran a hand through her hair, eyes scanning the faded street signs.

“We’re close,” she murmured.

Olivia glanced at her phone. “This street doesn’t exist in Google’s memory.”

Jessica smirked. “Then it’s exactly where we need to be.”

She turned a corner and stopped. Ahead of them, a single building loomed. It had once been a townhouse, but time had worn it down to its bones.The facade was cracked, the windows covered in dust and grime. A metal gate, rusted and leaning on its hinges, stood between them and the front steps.

Jessica tilted her head. “How much do you want to bet we’re not the first people looking for this place?”

Olivia exhaled. “Then let’s hope we’re the first ones to find it.”

Jessica reached for the gate. It swung open with a groan. She climbed the steps, pausing at the door. No signs of forced entry. No recent disturbances. If anyone had come before them, they had covered their tracks.

Jessica pulled out her lockpicks.

“Keep watch,” she murmured to Olivia.

She worked fast, fingers moving with practiced ease. A soft click. The lock gave. Jessica pushed the door open.

* * *

The house smelled of old paper and damp wood.

Jessica stepped inside, her boots barely making a sound against the worn floorboards. Moonlight filtered through the broken shutters, casting fractured shadows along the walls.

The air was still—too still. Jessica had been in enough places like this to recognize the weight of a room that had been waiting for someone to return.

She ran her fingers along the edge of a wooden table, feeling the dust settle against her skin.

“This place has been untouched for years,” Olivia murmured.

Jessica nodded. Pasolini’s note had led them here. But why? She turned, scanning the room. There was a cabinet in the corner, the glass doors covered in grime.

Jessica opened it. Inside, a collection of film canisters sat in perfect order.

She froze.

Olivia stepped closer. “What is it?”

Jessica ran her fingers over the metal reels.

“These are Pasolini’s,” she whispered. “His raw footage.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. “From Salò?”

Jessica stared at the reels. Dust clung to the edges, but the labels were untouched—like someone had hidden them, not abandoned them. Her pulse was steady, but the room felt tighter now. She pulled the first canister free with careful hands, like it might burn her.

“Maybe. Or something else.”

Something that wasn’t supposed to be seen. She turned it over. A handwritten label. Not a title. Not a date. Just two words.

“Il Testimone.”

Jessica’s pulse quickened. “The Witness.”

She and Olivia exchanged a glance.

Jessica exhaled. “We need to watch this.”

* * *

They found an old film projector in the next room, tucked beneath a sheet. Jessica dusted it off, working fast to thread the film through the reels.

She glanced at Olivia. “You ready for this?”

Olivia didn’t answer. She just dimmed the lights. Jessica flipped the switch.The projector hummed to life, the film jittering slightly as it began to play.

A black screen. Then— A man’s face. Jessica leaned forward. Pasolini. He was sitting in a dimly lit room, his expression unreadable.

His voice crackled through the speakers.

“If you are watching this, then I am already a story.”

Jessica’s blood ran cold.

“And you are not here by chance.”

Olivia inhaled sharply. The image flickered. Pasolini looked directly into the camera.

“They believe time is a burial ground.”

Jessica’s hands tightened on the edge of the table.

“But memory survives. In the hands. In the blood. In the names we are not allowed to say.”

Then, the film cut to something else. A new scene. Blurry at first. Then—a figure. A man standing in the shadows, his face half-lit by a streetlamp.

Her mouth went dry. She had seen that face once before, in a photograph Bellanti had died to preserve. But now it moved, it breathed, and it remembered. Her stomach dropped. It was Orlando Sacchetti. The erased witness. The film cut to static.

Jessica and Olivia sat in the dark, neither of them saying anything. The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. Jessica snapped off the projector plunging the house into darkness.

She turned to Olivia and whispered, “Someone else is here.”