There are books that follow the rules. Then there are books like Libitina, ones that don’t just break the rules but seem wholly unaware they ever existed. I don’t mean that as criticism. I mean it as the greatest compliment I can give to a novel this raw, this strange, and this unflinchingly emotional. What starts as a supernatural thriller, Death interrupted by a newborn’s scream, spirals into something much harder to categorize. This isn’t genre fiction. This is spiritual fiction written with a broken pen and a bleeding heart.
Savino takes a bold risk narrating much of the story from the point of view of a Reaper, a cosmic soul-taker thrown off his rhythm by a girl who shouldn’t exist. It’s through his eyes that we watch Libitina grow, a child whose life defies the laws of mortality. What surprised me is how emotionally resonant the Reaper’s perspective becomes. His confusion, his curiosity, and the way his emotional distance begins to erode mirror our own as readers. He doesn’t just observe Libitina; he begins to feel something deeper. And for me, that slow unraveling of detachment is what gives the novel its pulse.
When this book works, it works. I’m talking about scenes that knock the wind out of you, passages where you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the page turns. Savino doesn’t play it safe with emotion. There’s grief here, and longing, and the impossible weight of spiritual purpose. There were moments where I felt like the book wasn’t just telling me a story. It was holding up a mirror and daring me to look into it. That’s not something most novels do. That’s not even something most great novels do.
What lingers with me most isn’t the premise or even the plot. It’s the feeling this book leaves behind. There’s a grief humming underneath the surface, a quiet question about why some people live and others don’t. And Savino doesn’t try to answer that neatly. They let it hang in the air, daring you to sit with it.
What I admire most is that Libitina doesn’t chase trends. It leans fully into its strangeness, into its faith, into its emotional messiness. It’s not afraid to ask questions most books avoid. What happens when death fails? What does it mean to live a life that was never supposed to begin? And how does the world, physical and spiritual, bend around that anomaly? The answers aren’t always clear, but the asking is relentless, and that’s what gives the story its gravity.
Libitina isn’t about a reaper or a miracle child. It’s about the ache between what we believe and what we fear. It’s a book that takes risks, dares you to feel everything, and lingers long after the final page. In a landscape of supernatural fiction often driven by tropes and pacing tricks, Libitina opts for stillness, for weight, for meaning. It reminded me less of thrillers and more of grief-fueled myth.
And it would be a mistake not to mention the cover. The Libitina cover leans into grief through stark imagery and atmospheric color grading. The image of hands clinging to a bare back, hair spilling forward like unraveling threads, paired with a dark forest path fading into light, it’s arresting, almost mournful. It captures the spirit of Libitina perfectly: intimacy edged with dread, grief tangled with the divine. This is one of those rare covers that feels like part of the story itself.