Giovanni Will Never Come Home: DNA Confirms the Fate of the 16-Year-Old Lost in the Crans-Montana Fire.87s

For sixty unbearable hours, a family in Bologna lived inside a fragile space suspended between hope and fear.
A space where every minute felt stretched thin, where silence was louder than any scream, and where the human heart refused to accept what the mind already feared.

Now, that space has collapsed.

DNA testing has officially confirmed the fate of Giovanni, the 16-year-old boy who vanished amid the smoke and chaos of the New Year’s Eve fire in Crans-Montana. The confirmation ends the search—but it does not end the waiting, the questions, or the grief that has already taken root and will never fully let go.

Giovanni will not be coming home.

Sixty Hours Between Hope and Despair

From the moment Giovanni was reported missing, time seemed to behave differently. Hours passed without meaning. Nights arrived without rest. Every phone call carried the possibility of either salvation or devastation.

His family waited.

They waited through fragments of information, rumors, unverified sightings, and whispered reassurances that offered no proof but were clung to anyway. Hope, even when irrational, became a form of survival.

That hope narrowed itself around small, deeply human details.

A necklace.
A belief.
A miracle.

For sixty hours, Giovanni existed in that space between “maybe” and “please.”

The DNA Results

When the DNA results arrived, uncertainty ended in the most brutal way possible.

The remains recovered from the site of the Crans-Montana fire belonged to Giovanni.

For his mother, the confirmation was not closure—it was impact. A collision between everything she had feared and everything she had tried to push away. Words, officials later said, could not soften the moment. Nothing could.

The search was over.

But the waiting—the kind that lives inside a parent who has lost a child—will never truly end.

What Giovanni Carried With Him

Investigators reported that Giovanni’s phone battery had died.

There would be no final call.
No message explaining where he was.
No last words preserved in text or voice.

In his pockets were only his passport and his motorbike license—ordinary objects, painfully ordinary, offering no answers to a mother who had been screaming his name into the void since the night of the fire.

These items now feel heavier than their physical weight. They are reminders of movement, of plans, of a life that was meant to continue beyond that night.