Note

This novel is a work of fiction based on historical events that actually occurred in the 13th Century. The contemporary characters are the author’s inventions, and the places mentioned serve to lend authenticity to the narrative. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

© All rights reserved MARCO DEL PASQUA - 2026

No part of this book may be reproduced or disseminated in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.

MARCO DEL PASQUA

DANTE’S BLACK FIORINO 

Translated by Maria Burnett

Published by Tektime

Table of Contents

Foreword

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

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27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

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47

Foreword

by Patrizia Turrini 

The (few) certainties regarding Dante’s youth  

Despite extensive archival research, only two notarial documents have been found regarding Dante Alighieri’s early years: in the first, between March 1283 and March 1284, Dante, son of the late Alighiero—about 18 years old, having been born in 1265—assigned a debt of 21 lire owed to his deceased father (this confirms Alighiero’s death occurred when the future Poet was still a teenager); in the second, dated September 1291, Dante served as a witness in a legal case (New Annotated Edition of Dante’s Works, edited by E. Malato, vol. VII, t. III, Diplomatic Code of Dante,  edited by T. De Robertis, G. Milani, L. Regnicoli, and S. Zampoli, Rome, Salerno, Antenore, 2016, doc. no. 65, pp. 96–97, and doc. no. 74, p. 107 and p. 753).

To these two accounts is added what Leonardo Bruni wrote in the Vita di Dante (of 1436), namely that the “young and well-regarded” man had been at Campaldino, “fighting vigorously on horseback in the first ranks, where he faced grave danger, for the first battle was fought by the cavalry” (New Annotated Edition of Dante’s Works, vol. VII, t. IV, The Lives of Dante from the 14th to the 16th Century. Dantean Iconography, edited by M. Berté and M. Fiorilla, S. Chioso and I. Valenti, Rome, Salerno, Antenore 2017, pp. 225–226). At Campaldino on June 11, 1289, the Guelph league—primarily Florentine—faced off against the Ghibelline league—primarily Aretine—which was defeated. Bruni also reported (Historiae, IV, 10–11) that in that battle Dante was in the “first rank” as a “feditore” (i.e., a lightly armed cavalryman) of the Porta San Piero district, citing a letter from the Poet himself (now lost), in which all this was recounted and which, as chancellor of the Florentine Republic, he had been able to read. Therefore, this testimony, though belated, is considered reliable given the role of chancellor held by the biographer, Bruni.

Moreover, Dante’s participation at Campaldino is confirmed not only by the lost letter but also by the many details accompanying the account of that battle, which can be found in several passages of the Divine Comedy: for example, in the encounter between Dante and Virgil with the valiant Ghibelline Buonconte di Montefeltro, the violent and epic storm unleashed by the Devil is recalled to cause torment and the loss in the Archiano River of Buonconte’s own corpse, who died in that battle invoking the Virgin Mary in extremis—a circumstance that had saved him from Hell and brought him among the souls in Purgatory (Purgatory, V, lines 85–129). One might infer that Dante witnessed and endured that terrible storm! It is also certain that Dante himself, one of the four hundred knights of the Florentine militia, participated in the clash between the Guelph League and the Ghibellines of Pisa that took place at Caprona, in the Pisan Valdarno, on August 6, 1289, a few days after Campaldino; indeed, in the passage of the Inferno where Dante describes the frightened Ghibellines leaving the castle—defeated and forced to pass through the ranks of the victors—it is clearly written: “Thus I saw the foot soldiers already trembling/ as they emerged in disarray from Caprona,/ seeing themselves surrounded by so many enemies” (Inferno, XXI, vv. 95; see The Lives of Dante from the 14th to the 16th Century, Introduction, p. XXXVIII).

As for the siege of Arezzo in 1288, followed by the Battle of Pieve al Toppo, Dante mentions it in the Divine Comedy, but it was essentially led by the Guelph troops of Siena, with little participation by the Florentines.

Hypotheses regarding Dante’s presence at the siege of Poggio Santa Cecilia. It is, however, merely a hypothesis that Dante, at the age of twenty, was “involved in his first military engagement,” namely the siege of Poggio Santa Cecilia, in which one hundred Florentine stipendiari participated.

Published records show that, following a decision made by the  Savi of Florence on November 15, 1285, the Florentine cavalry departed on the 27th or 28th of that month for Poggio Santa Cecilia. The request had been made by the Sienese allies against whom the inhabitants of Poggio had rebelled, incited and aided by the Bishop of Arezzo, Guglielmino degli Ubertini, leader of the Tuscan Ghibellines. Thus, while part of the Florentine expeditionary force remained to guard the passes of the Florentine Valdarno, the larger part joined the Sienese Guelphs. The entire contingent, under the command of Guido di Montfort, Charles of Anjou’s vicar general in Tuscany, laid siege to the rebellious castle, which would fall in a bloodbath six months later, between April 7 and 8, 1286; immediately, “on April 15, the third day of Easter,” five leaders of the revolt, Ghibelline nobles from the Sienese territory, were beheaded (Poggio Santa Cecilia and the Church of the Madonna in Ferrata, edited by C. Alessi, D. Mazzini, and P. Turrini, Siena, Pascal Editrice, 2009).

The Dante scholar Giorgio Petrocchi, in his biography of the Poet (Vita di Dante, Bari, Laterza, 1983, chap. IV), considered it plausible that Dante had joined the ranks of the besieging Guelphs—Sienese and Florentines—based on a passage from *Vita Nuova* (IX, 1–2), in which the Poet himself recounts having left Florence and having been “in the company of many” following the death of a friend of Beatrice’s in the final months of 1285: “After the death of this woman [Beatrice’s friend], a few days later something happened that compelled me to leave the aforementioned city [Florence] and go to those parts where the gentle lady who had been my defense was, even though the destination of my journey was not as far away as she was. Moreover, though I was in the company of many, the sight of the journey displeased me so much that […] his eyes [Love’s] seemed to me to turn toward a beautiful, flowing, and crystal-clear river, which ran along this path to where I was” (Vita Nuova, IX, 1-2).

Other recent commentators have also supported the hypothesis that Dante was present at the siege of Poggio Santa Cecilia based on additional evidence: in particular Simone De Fraja (The Siege of the Fortification of Poggio Santa Cecilia, in “Notizie di storia,” journal of the Arezzo Historical Society, no. 34, December 2015) and Daniele Iacomoni (Dante at Twenty During the Siege of Poggio Santa Cecilia, typescript). Thus, the famous description of the horrible swamp of the Styx is cited, which Dante crossed together with Virgil upon leaving the fourth circle of Hell: “We crossed the circle and reached the other bank / above a spring that bubbles and pours / into a ditch that flows from it./ The water was dark / far more than murky; / and we, accompanied by the murky waves, / descended along a different path. / Into the marsh called Styx / flows this sad stream, when it descends / to the foot of the malevolent gray shores / And I, intent on gazing, / saw muddy people in that quagmire, / all naked, with a wounded countenance” (Inferno, VII, lines 100–111). Certainly, the Styx is not a creation of Dante’s, but one of the five rivers of Hell according to Greek and Roman mythology (Virgil, Aeneid, Book VI); what is original, however, is the description—comments Daniele Iacomoni—that the Poet gives of it, characterizing the marsh with that water “that bubbles.” It is therefore possible that Dante was inspired by the geothermal phenomena characteristic of the area between Poggio Santa Cecilia and nearby Rapolano: the emission of thermal waters, pools, and mud, with water and soil “bubbling” due to the release of sulfur dioxide, which, when mixed with rain, creates a sort of boiling mud. In Italy, this occurs, aside from the Rapolano area, only in Pozzuoli; however, Dante never ventured beyond Rome—which he reached as a pilgrim in 1300 and as an ambassador in 1301—so it is likely that he witnessed the phenomenon and was struck by it while among the besiegers of Poggio Santa Cecilia.

Furthermore, Dante places the shadow of Guido di Simone di Montfort “on one side alone,” as it emerges mournfully from the blood-red water of the bulicame, in the first circle of the seventh circle among the violent (Inferno, XII, 118). To avenge the death of his father Simone, the English commander had in fact killed Henry of Cornwall, nephew of the King of England, in Viterbo in 1270; the murder had been committed treacherously, “in God’s bosom,” that is, in church during the celebration of Mass at the moment of the elevation. This suggests—as Iacomoni further notes—that Dante was personally acquainted with this violent and cruel figure: indeed, if the hypothesis of the future Poet’s presence at the siege were true, he would have been under the command of Guido di Montfort himself, having thus witnessed the darker aspects of his personality. In any case, the brutal and sacrilegious episode had deeply shocked public opinion and was widely known, partly because it had gone unpunished: thanks to the protection of Charles of Anjou, the excommunicated Guido Montfort had taken refuge in the Maremma with the Aldobrandeschi family, having married in 1270 Margherita, daughter of Count Ildibrandino of Pitigliano; later absolved of excommunication, he returned to the service of Anjou and to the hunt for the Tuscan Ghibellines (P. Camporesi, Montfort, Guido di, in “Enciclopedia dantesca,” 1970).  

The topic was revisited recently, in 2021, on the occasion of the 700th anniversary of Dante’s death, in a chapter of the exhibition catalog held at the State Archives of Siena (Dantean Suggestions in the Territory of Rapolano Terme, in L’Universo di Dante. Documents – Incunabula – Sixteenth-Century Editions – Woodcuts, edited by C. Cardinali and P. Tiezzi Maestri, Società Bibliografica Toscana, 2021, pp. 53–63). In particular, Antonio Raschi (Dante in Rapolano? Some Hypotheses) revisits the possible presence of Dante in the area between Siena and Arezzo, through which the Poet may have passed (perhaps, or only?) later on the occasion of the gathering of Florentine exiles at the castle of Gargonza (now in the municipality of Monte San Savino): all participants were sentenced to death by Florence, including Dante, whose presence at the subsequent gathering of exiles in San Godenzo (near Florence) is, moreover, certain. However, it should not be overlooked—writes Raschi—that Bullicame is the name of a specific thermal spring in Viterbo, which Dante may have seen while on a pilgrimage to Rome in 1300, but it is also the dialect term for the geothermal spring in Rapolano, where the water “boils” due to the gas bubbling within it; as in Dante’s description, the “bulicame” has a stony bed and slopes; the white limestone reflects the red color of the sky, evoking the Acqua Rossa of Viterbo, but also Bossoleto in Rapolano. Dante also returns to the many peculiarities of the geothermal phenomenon in subsequent “infernal” passages: the Valley of the Centaurs and the river of blood, the steam that extinguishes the flames, the quicksand, the rain of fire, the forest of suicides (Inferno, XIII, v. 19; XIV, lines 8–14, 28–30, 139–142, XV, 43–45). In the past—that is, before Geogas began extraction—Poggio Santa Cecilia was the site of the largest carbon dioxide emission in central Italy: could this have inspired the Poet in his descriptions of Hell? It is likely. Did Dante see it in his youth while besieging Poggio Santa Cecilia, or later in life while traveling to Gargonza at the time his harsh exile was being determined? Or perhaps during other journeys of Alighieri about which nothing is known? It is difficult to say. What is certain is that in Rapolano, the Puzzola crater was surrounded by a fence in 1890 to prevent unsuspecting people from descending into it—since it was believed to be inactive—thereby adding to the number of those who had died there due to the high concentration of carbon dioxide (D. Mazzini, La Puzzola “antico soffione spento”; A. Brogi, Geological and Geothermal Characteristics of the San Giovanni Thermal Springs Area).

The Novel 

It is therefore possible that the Rapolano–Poggio Santa Cecilia area, with the Bossoleto mofette—characterized by gas emissions and the resulting travertine mound—may have impressed the cultured young Florentine knight, as is well recounted in “Il fiorino nero di Dante.” However, a historical novel is also—or rather, above all—a work of fiction, and so Marco Del Pasqua did not limit himself to formulating a hypothesis and attempting to prove it as far as possible, as I have tried to do in this preface, but placed the twenty-year-old Dante on the scene, in a plot of great impact precisely because of that presence. The novel also stands out for its many successful flashbacks between past and present, for the interweaving of historical figures—excellent, for example, are both the portrayal of the combative elderly Ghibelline bishop Guglielmino and that of the cruel Guelph Montfort—and the many fictional characters, both contemporary and medieval: among the contemporaries, the protagonist Umberto di Ruffaldo, a Milanese doctor searching for his Tuscan roots, spurred on by the discovery of “a black florin”; the charming architect Eliana, entrusted with renovating the house near Poggio purchased by Umberto; and Cesira from Rapolano, a bit of a “witch” and the former owner of that house; among the besieged and the besiegers of 1285–1286, Riccardo, a Florentine foot soldier and Dante’s squire; the Muslim slave Zahira; the wet nurse Berta; and Ascanio, the homosexual mercenary... A story of men and women, of arms and love, spanning from the Middle Ages to the present day, revolving around Poggio Santa Cecilia, the object of Marco Del Pasqua’s love and memories, as he hails from there.

Once an important “border” castle, Poggio Santa Cecilia is now a virtually unknown place, abandoned, closed, and inaccessible for years—a ghost town, enclosed by cypress trees, walls, and gates, splendid yet sad, awaiting a “resurrection.” I hope this novel will also serve to draw attention back to this reality and encourage its reopening, along with the necessary work of wise conservation and the desirable reuse of the residential fabric, before we reach the point of destroying a historical, architectural, and artistic asset of such significance. I always ask myself: why are new homes—often subpar—being built, “devouring the land,” rather than reusing what already exists, which is, among other things, charming and significant?

CX 

How the Bishop of Arezzo incited the Poggio of Santa Cecilia in the Siena countryside to rebel, and how it was recaptured. 

In that year, at the end of October, Messer Guiglielmino degli Ubertini di Valdarno, who was then Bishop of Arezzo and was more a man of arms than a man of the clergy, on his own initiative, sending Ghibelline infantry from the countryside of Florence, Arezzo, and Siena, incited a strong castle in the countryside of Siena, called Poggio Santa Cecilia, to rise up against the Sienese, to wage war against them, which caused great turmoil throughout the Guelph part of Tuscany, since there was much war to be waged. For this reason, the City of Siena, with the aid of the Florentines—who sent a large force of able-bodied citizens from Florence—and the Guelph militia of Tuscany, led by Count Guido di Monforte, marched there as an army, casting many siege engines into the fortress. The siege lasted more than five months. Moreover, when the said bishop gathered his army from all the Ghibelline parts of Tuscany to lift the said siege, he was unable to do so, for the Guelphs were more powerful; for which reason those in the castle, having lost hope of relief, came out on the night of Palm Saturday in April, and many were killed and taken captive. Those who were taken to Siena were either hanged or beheaded, and the castle was completely destroyed down to its foundations.  

Giovanni Villani, Nuova Cronica, Book Eight.

1

“We’re all set,” the notary said with a smile, rising from his chair and offering me his hand. “Best of luck with your new home.” I shook it, sweaty but happy, then the notary turned his gaze to the elderly widow who had sold me that ruin near Rapolano for a pittance. She was tired and almost indifferent; one could read in her eyes the desire to leave that stuffy office. I thanked Mrs. Cesira, and we said our goodbyes.  

I had bought the ruin with a large chunk of my savings. More than once I asked myself what the hell I was doing — leaving Milan to restore a crumbling country house and live there all alone, far from everything. However, I had discovered that my family originally came from that very place: Poggio Santa Cecilia, a long-abandoned castle near Rapolano Terme.  

After practicing as an orthopedic surgeon for 40 years, I wanted to enjoy my well-deserved retirement. I had chosen not to marry because I devoted all my time to my career, so I had remained single. Ever since I was young, I had been curious about the origin of my surname, Di Ruffaldo. One fine day, Giuseppe, a colleague and good friend, mentioned over lunch that he had researched his surname, Becevel, and discovered it was a French surname distorted in the Venetian dialect, meaning “lower the sails.” Thus, almost by chance, the story began over a plate of roast beef and potatoes in the hospital cafeteria. 

“Umberto, you have an unusual last name too—why not satisfy your curiosity and find out its origins?”  

“You know, that might be a good idea. My last name has always piqued my interest.” I replied, sipping a glass of red wine. “If you want, I can give you the phone number of the agency I hired to do the research. I assure you they’re very reliable and professionally qualified.” 

I jotted down the phone number in a notebook and thanked him. I had about three years left until retirement, and I was already looking forward to the free time I’d have to devote to such frivolity. A few days later, I found the phone number Giuseppe had given me in my wallet as I was finishing my morning shift, and things were relatively quiet on the ward. 

Driven by curiosity, I dialed the number on my old cell phone, and a woman’s professional voice answered. We set up an appointment in downtown Milan that very afternoon, so when my shift ended, I changed clothes and took the subway to the address she had given me. 

“Umberto Di Ruffaldo, nice to meet you.” I introduced myself to the polite, bespectacled woman. 

“Carla Fumagalli, it’s my pleasure. Please have a seat, Doctor. How may we assist you?” She invited me to sit in an old leather armchair. 

“For some time now, I’ve wanted to learn about my family’s origins. I don’t think I’ll discover anything particularly remarkable since my ancestors are all from Milan, but I’d like to know more.” 

“Would you be interested in knowing if your family is of noble origin?” She fixed her gaze on me. 

“No, actually I’m simply interested in knowing where we come from—in short, who we are and where we Di Ruffaldos come from. It doesn’t seem like a very Lombard surname to me.” 

The woman asked me for my father's and grandfather’s names. Then she jotted down the few details I had about my ancestors: my grandfather, a Bersagliere in Asti; my great-grandfather, a shoemaker in Segrate, whose name I couldn’t even remember. 

“Well, Doctor, yours isn’t a common surname, so we’ll have to do a bit of work on it, but if you’re only interested in knowing your family’s origins, it won’t take long and it won’t cost you a fortune.” 

She smiled, her blue eyes peeking out from behind her glasses. 

I thanked her and said goodbye, then treated myself to a beer at a nearby pub. It was March, and you could already feel the warmth of spring; I walked home after a long stroll. 

A week later, Dr. Fumagalli called me back. 

“Dr. Di Ruffaldo, I’m sorry, but we haven’t found much information about your family; in any case, if you’d like to come by the agency, I’ll provide you with all the information we’ve managed to track down.” 

I was very eager and asked for an appointment for the next morning; at nine-thirty sharp, I rang the doorbell. Dr. Fumagalli greeted me with a smile and invited me to sit down again in the old armchair. 

“I’m truly sorry, Doctor, but unfortunately, we don’t have much to tell you. However, the few historical records that exist are sufficiently reliable. It may surprise you, but your family is not of Lombard origin, but Tuscan.” 

“Tuscany?” I stammered, confused. 

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that.” The doctor opened a small folder containing notes and copies of ancient documents, along with a few photos. 

“We discovered a certain Turino di Messer Ruffaldo, who was a Ghibelline nobleman from Siena in the 13th century, protected by the powerful Bishop of Arezzo 

Guglielmo degli Ubertini.” 

I had never heard that name in my life, nor that of the bishop of Arezzo. My interlocutor noticed my puzzled look. 

“I imagine this surprises you…” she smiled. 

“Well… actually, I am surprised because I have no memory of any Tuscan ancestors, and until now I believed my family was entirely Lombard.” 

“That’s not the case, forgive me…” she said, picking up the file again. 

“Turino, son of Messer Ruffaldo, took refuge in 1285 at Poggio Santa Cecilia, a Sienese castle located in the municipality of Rapolano Terme, which the Ghibelline bishop of Arezzo incited to rebel against the Guelphs of Siena. But the castle was besieged by the Florentines and Sienese between 1285 and 1286 and fell back into Sienese hands. Turino, along with the other nobles of Poggio Santa Cecilia, was taken prisoner, transferred to Siena, and beheaded on Easter Day 1286.” 

I stared at her in disbelief.  

“These are the only certain and documented records we have of his family; however, we do not know how or why his surname disappeared from Tuscany and then reappeared in Lombardy. It seems that in the 14th century there was an old painters’ workshop in Milan bearing this surname—or perhaps Di Ruffaldi. But it is only from the 18th century onward that the surname Di Ruffaldo appears with certainty in the civil registry records of the city of Milan.” 

“I’ve never heard of Poggio Castle… what did you say it’s called?” 

Dr. Fumagalli handed me the papers in front of her and pulled out a photograph. 

“This is the castle we’re talking about.” She showed me a photo printed from the internet. 

More than a castle, it looked like an elegant, austere village atop a green hill. 

“Nice little spot, but it doesn’t really look like a castle…” I objected. 

“No, the actual castle was destroyed at the end of the siege in 1286. It was later rebuilt but no longer fortified. The Guelphs probably didn’t trust it,” she remarked. 

“That’s a fascinating story…” 

“It looks really beautiful; I’d never even heard of it before, and yet I know Tuscany quite well.” She closed the folder. 

“This material is yours, Doctor.” 

“How much do I owe you?” 

“It’s 300 euros. I’ll prepare the invoice for you right away.” She typed a few commands into the computer and printed the document. 

I paid with my credit card, picked up the folder, and thanked her. 

At home, I began rereading the papers, then searched online for Poggio Santa Cecilia and Rapolano Terme, the municipality where it was located. 

Beyond the sulfur-water spas, the photos offered a glimpse of an utterly charming Tuscan landscape. And the best time to visit those places was indeed spring. 

So it was that curiosity prompted me to request time off for the end of May, and I rented an apartment in Rapolano online. 

I left Milan in my old Renault. I always kept it in the garage, and despite its age, it hadn’t clocked many miles. I drove along the highway, observing the changes that had taken place over the years since the last time I’d traveled that route to attend a work conference in Florence. The high-speed rail line, new bridges, and tunnels along the Apennine stretch. I reflected on the fact that I had traveled very little in my life and felt a sort of regret for not having allowed myself to do more; yet I was fulfilled by my medical profession, but I brooded over what my future life as a retiree would be like. It would certainly be turned upside down, and I couldn’t imagine it without a hospital, patients to treat, and medications to administer. 

A chill ran through me. 

In Florence, I turned onto the highway toward Siena, captivated by the landscape of green hills, cypress trees, and olive groves—so profoundly different from Lombardy's. Every now and then I pulled over at a rest stop to take photos, eager to reach my destination, that place whose existence I had been unaware of until just a few weeks earlier: Rapolano Terme. 

The town came into view shortly after the highway exit. As I stopped at the railroad crossing, I observed it without much enthusiasm, yet I sensed an unusually familiar atmosphere. 

I parked the car and took a walk around town —ancient doors, narrow streets, and a few churches. Rapolano is built of brick and travertine, a prized local marble. I had rented an apartment in the historic center, and the landlady, a woman of few words, handed me the keys; it was small, simply furnished, but with a terrace offering a breathtaking view of the Crete Senesi. I asked the lady for directions to the thermal baths and to Poggio Santa Cecilia. 

“Poggio?” She looked at me with a frown. 

“Yes, Poggio Santa Cecilia. It should be nearby…” 

“You can’t visit it; it’s been closed for years, I’m sorry.” She sighed. 

“What do you mean, you can’t visit it?” 

“They closed it, but I couldn’t tell you why. It’s been uninhabited for a long time; maybe they did it out of fear of theft, maybe because it’s falling into ruin. You’ll only be able to see it from the outside, but not much.” 

I grimaced in disappointment because it was precisely the castle of my ancestors, the main reason for my trip; nevertheless, I had before me the consoling prospect of relaxing at the spa and visiting the Crete Senesi. 

I was tired and went straight to sleep; it was the tolling of the bells that woke me the following morning. I threw open the door onto the terrace, and a blinding light dazzled me; instinctively, I shielded my eyes, and slowly, before me, the landscape of Crete unfolded in all its splendor. 

I wasn’t used to that light and those colors; as a child in school, I used to paint with tempera, and I was intrigued by the tube of burnt sienna—I didn’t understand why they would burn the earth to make a color, but now it was clear to me what that color represented. 

I got dressed quickly, then slipped a towel into my backpack, went down to the street, and asked where the thermal baths were. An elderly gentleman pointed me toward the provincial road, and I set off; after a brief stop at a café for a coffee, I spent a few hours soaking in the sulfur-rich waters. The lawn began to fill up in the afternoon, and I didn’t feel like staying in the crowd, so I decided to leave. As I was leaving, I noticed a small poster inviting people to a festival at the church Santa Maria in Ferrata, near Poggio Santa Cecilia—exactly the place I was interested in. And as luck would have it, the festival was being held that very afternoon. 

When I took my eyes off the poster, I heard people praying: it was a procession, and the poster said the festival began with one from Rapolano. 

I didn’t hesitate to join the line immediately and asked if they were going to Poggio Santa Cecilia; an elderly woman, hearing my Lombard accent, eyed me warily. 

“We’re going to the Church of the Madonna in Ferrata,” she corrected me. 

“But it’s near Poggio…” the woman reassured me. 

“It’ll be quite a walk!” an elderly man retorted. “Five kilometers!” He held up his gnarled fingers. 

Five kilometers won’t hurt my health, I thought; after all, it’s only about an hour’s walk. 

“Do we go through Poggio Santa Cecilia?” I asked the smiling man. “We go past the foot of the hill, not through the village. It’s closed—don’t you know?” “Yes, they told me yesterday…” 

“You’re a stranger… do you like our parts?” The elderly man was quite talkative and not interested in the rosary the priest was reciting with devotion. “But it’s all in ruins, even the Church of the Madonna Ferrata… thank goodness they’ve started fixing it up now, at least that one.” 

I nodded as the procession set off along a long dirt road, across a plateau. All around were fields, abandoned farms, and the scent of spring. In the background, a village atop the hill that I recognized immediately because its image was now firmly etched in my mind. 

The hill was lush green, and the village looked austere. The procession continued along the dusty road and began to climb the slope toward the hill ahead. 

“If you’d like, you can take the minibus; that way you’ll save yourself the trouble of walking.” The elderly man gestured toward the vehicles slowly following the procession. 

“No, thank you, I’d rather walk.” 

The climb, however, grew steeper and steeper, with fragrant woods and reddish earth all around us, while behind us, the hill of Poggio Santa Cecilia receded, shrinking in the distance. 

The elderly priest stopped more and more often to let the faithful rest. Once we passed the last farmhouse converted into a villa, the path became extremely steep and slippery; and I was panting and sweating. The priest had stopped praying to save his breath, but after a hairpin turn, the church finally came into view. 

I had imagined it larger and more majestic, but instead it was a small, ancient, and solitary Romanesque church in the middle of the woods. Is that all? I found myself wondering as a crowd waited for the procession to arrive and Mass to begin. There was a refreshment stand, and they generously offered me some water, which I gladly drank in one gulp. 

I couldn’t get inside the church because it was too crowded. I caught a glimpse of a dilapidated altar and a fresco of the Virgin Mary, which I realized was deeply revered by the local people. The little church was in need of restoration, and donations were being collected in a basket. 

I noticed a lectern set up in front of the church, along with a microphone. After Mass, a few people took the floor and briefly recounted the place's history. It was a very ancient Romanesque church, whose first construction likely dated back to the Lombard period. They also spoke of the siege of Poggio Santa Cecilia between 1285 and 1286, which ended with the capture of the castle and a massacre in which my ancestor Turino was said to have been involved. The speakers also mentioned distinguished scholars who hypothesized that Dante Alighieri had participated in the siege. 

I listened, fascinated, to the stories that seemed to link, as if by magic, to that of my own family. One of my ancestors had been a key figure in that siege, and I was amazed by it. A book on the history of that church was being sold at a stand, and I immediately bought a copy, intending to read it as soon as I had time. 

Meanwhile, a speaker introduced the Lectura Dantis by a young actress, drawing an analogy between the phenomenon of “bubbling mud”—that is, gaseous emissions from the ground found in the area—and Canto VII of Dante’s Inferno, where the poet places the Irascibles, describing “black waters that boil,” feeding the Styx swamp.

The actress approached the microphone and took a breath: 

“Into the marsh called Styx flows this sad stream, when it descends to the foot of the gray, malevolent shores. 

Moreover, I, intent on gazing, saw muddy people in that quagmire, all naked, with a look of offense.” 

A shiver ran through me as I thought of Hell; I had spent the whole day at the thermal baths and, like a fool, I associated the infernal image with that of the bathers smearing the sulfurous mud on their skin. 

The actress, with a vibrant voice, recited the entire canto from memory, then, in honor of the little church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, they introduced Canto XXXIII of Paradise, which opened with St. Bernard’s prayer to the Virgin: 

“Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, humble and exalted beyond all creatures, fixed end of the eternal counsel, you are she who so ennobled human nature that its Maker did not disdain to become its creation.” 

The audience listened in absolute silence while the girl continued to recite, deeply concentrated and in a low voice. 

“Here my lofty imagination fails; but already my desire and will were turning, like a wheel that moves evenly, the love that moves the sun and the other stars. 

The actress lowered her gaze and fell silent; after a moment’s pause, a loud and prolonged round of applause erupted. 

I felt as if I were intoxicated by the beauty of the place, by Dante’s words, and by the thought that my ancestors had lived here. I was setting foot here for the first time, yet it felt as though I had always lived here, extraordinarily moved by the land of my origins. If it hadn't been for my Lombard accent, no one would have taken me for an outsider. 

Once the Lectura Dantis was over, the celebration continued with music from the band, while people crowded around the food stand. I realized I was hungry and gladly accepted the good food generously offered, then began walking back, holding my book under my arm and following others returning to Rapolano since I wasn’t familiar with the way. 

I knew the road was long, but I didn’t care. The closer I got to the hill of Poggio, the smaller and more insignificant I felt. I crossed a short flat stretch and caught up with an elderly couple walking ahead of me. 

The man immediately noticed that I wasn’t from around there. 

“There used to be a cemetery here,” he pointed to a slope, “and further ahead, right where that intersection is, on the left, there was a church a long time ago, but few people remember it now.” The older man offered to guide me. 

“My dad, when I was little, always told me there used to be a church there. And the hill up here is called Calvario; there was an oratory up there at the top too, but with the manganese mining, they destroyed it during the Fascist era…” He was happy to remember all those details at his age. 

I smiled and thanked the man for the information. 

“But many houses are abandoned…” I remarked. 

“Unfortunately, yes, almost everything is falling into ruin.” The woman nodded. 

“But you see, some are being restored, like here in the village…” The older man pointed to a stone house at the foot of the hill, and I noticed that an old building had been transformed into a charming little villa. 

Not far away stood a sad ruin, an old dilapidated house, right at the foot of the ancient, disused road leading to the castle. The name “village” referred specifically to the castle. It was getting late, and it would soon be dark, while the walk to Rapolano was still long, so I had to hurry, but I resolved to return the following day. 

The minibus driver stopped and kindly offered me a ride to Rapolano. I was tired, so I accepted; in the company of older people and nuns, I arrived in town within a few minutes and went straight home, dead tired but happy.

2

The next day I got up around nine, immediately threw open the window to sip a cup of coffee while taking in the view of the Crete, a landscape that was new to me and yet strangely familiar; I was eager to return to Poggio, so I hurried, grabbed my camera, and set off. 

The sunny spring days put me in a good mood; I wasn’t used to so much sun and such intense light, since Milan is a damp, gray city for most of the year. After passing the spa, I turned onto the dirt road and was immediately enveloped by a cloud of dust rising from the unpaved surface. I arrived once again at the foot of the hill and continued up the long road lined with cypress trees, but I noticed it was full of potholes—clearly little-used and semi-abandoned. 

The road ended in front of the castle’s medieval gate, but I couldn’t proceed because a heavy iron gate blocked it, and there were apparently no other access routes. The gate, however, was stunning, built of stone and travertine, with an arch surmounted by two coats of arms: the Sienese Balzana and an ancient coat of arms depicting an eagle and three towers, suggesting that the castle belonged to a great noble family. 

My frustration grew alongside my curiosity to see beyond that gate, locked by a heavy chain. An abandoned and inaccessible castle, and I was wondering why. I snapped a few photos, hoping that, by luck or by some miracle, someone would arrive who could open the gate, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Disappointed, I got back in the car and drove down toward the village. 

I parked in front of the sad ruin. That abandoned house at the foot of the hill fascinated me, and I walked back and forth to study the surroundings; the small villa not far away was deserted, and further on, there was a magnificent farmhouse with a beautiful three-arched loggia, apparently still in good condition but uninhabited. 

I wondered what could have caused such abandonment when I spotted, half-hidden among the weeds, a narrow path leading behind a hill. I locked the car and set off down that path with an explorer’s spirit, though I was careful where I stepped. 

Behind the wooded hill lay an abandoned cemetery; the chapel’s roof had collapsed, but the perimeter wall was intact, and some graves were still recognizable. I entered through the gateless entrance, flanked by two towering cypress trees that seemed like guardians of the afterlife. 

Among the paths, the names of the dead could be read on the headstones; some were infants just a few months old, and many were young people, for life, in the past, was often short and difficult. The sky clouded over, and a cold wind suddenly began to blow; I thought it best to leave and head back. At the exit, I turned with a sad glance toward those lonely graves. 

“Life is beautiful!” A shrill female voice startled me as if I’d been struck by lightning. I shuddered with fear, and my heart began to pound. I looked around to make sure it was truly a woman’s voice and not just my imagination. 

I heard the rustling of branches in the woods above the path. Someone was there, and slowly an elderly woman emerged from the bushes, holding a basket full of mushrooms. 

“May mushrooms—just a taste!” she exclaimed, showing me a porcini. 

I exhaled and ran a hand over my forehead to wipe away the sweat. 

“Oh, I’m sorry I startled you…” The woman noticed how pale I was. 

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” I stammered. 

The woman, who appeared to be about seventy years old, had white hair, a face full of wrinkles, and the hands of a farmer; yet, from the way she spoke and gestured, she seemed quite cultured and gentle. 

 “I saw you wandering around the cemetery looking pensive, whereas I—forgive me—am just so happy about all the mushrooms I found that it just came out of me to shout that life is beautiful… I’m sorry, but at my age I’m a bit scatterbrained.” She chuckled. 

“I’m happy for you; they really are beautiful mushrooms.” I looked at the basket with admiration, and my fear had passed in the meantime. 

“You’re not from around here…” The woman was interested, but I couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or just an observation. 

“No, I’m from Milan. Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Umberto di Ruffaldo.” 

“What a beautiful name—are you a nobleman?” 

“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m a doctor.” 

“A doctor?” 

“Yes, I’m an orthopedist…” 

“Just what I need…” She put a hand to her side to indicate pain. “You know, at my age, back pain—but I don’t want to bother you.” She said with a wry grin. 

“It doesn’t bother me at all. Actually, do you know this area well?” 

“Of course, I know it well—I was born here. Ah! I almost forgot—my name is Cesira. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand. 

We set off together along the path back, and the woman told me she was born on the nearby Rossole farm to a family of farmers who, however, had sent her to school so she could become a teacher. She had spent most of her life teaching in a village in the Maremma, but then she had returned to Rapolano with her husband, who had died a few months later, leaving her a widow with no children. 

“Can't you hear that house calling for someone to save it? And it’s looking for someone who loves it and will take care of it.” She pointed to that very dilapidated little house that had fascinated me. 

“But I’m too old to do that now…” Her eyes welled up. 

“You mean it belongs to you?” I turned to her in surprise. 

“Yes, my poor husband bought it when we returned to Rapolano with the intention of fixing it up to spend our old age there, but he died shortly after, and I didn’t feel up to renovating it on my own, so I put it up for sale, but no one wants to buy it.” 

“Well, it’s in pretty bad shape,” I objected. 

“I’m asking for very little money, you know, because as you can see, the house needs to be completely rebuilt. I want to get rid of it; for me, it’s just a sad memory, but no one wants to come and live around here. It’s become a lonely and inconvenient place now, yet it used to be so full of life.” 

My interest was immediately piqued. I already adored those ruins and longed to retire to the countryside in my old age. I had neither a wife nor relatives, so the prospect of rotting away in an apartment in Milan didn’t appeal to me, and I felt the need for something different. 

“Would you like to buy it?” The woman smiled. 

I raised my eyebrows. 

“We could talk about it if you’d like.” I could already picture a beautiful stone cottage in place of those crumbling walls. 

“I have to go now, but if you’d like, you can call me, and we can talk about it at our leisure.” She gave me her phone number, which I saved on my cell phone, then headed toward a tree, behind which her car was hidden—an old green Fiat. She waved goodbye, then sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust. 

I studied the stone walls. There was certainly nothing salvageable except the stones themselves, and everything had to be rebuilt from scratch. I had saved up quite a bit over many years of work, and the time had come to spend it on something beautiful, something of my own. I wanted to buy that ruin because it fascinated me so much, and I decided to call the woman that very evening. 

I drove on down the dirt road through a landscape of abandoned farmhouses and cultivated fields; I looked around and took pictures of everything, then returned to Rapolano and had a quick lunch at a trattoria. At home, I took a nap, and in the late afternoon, I called Cesira. 

She lived just a few steps away from my apartment, and in a few minutes, I was right there with her. 

“I knew you’d like it.” Cesira was pleased. 

“I hope we can agree on the price.” I looked at her apprehensively. 

Cesira pulled a sheet of paper from a folder and showed it to me. It was the listing for the ruin from a real estate agency. It listed a price that seemed fair to me. 

“You’re a nice guy, doctor. If you want to get a good deal, I’ll offer you a ten percent discount.” 

Trying to haggle further, I pointed out that I’d essentially only have to pay for the land, since the house needed to be completely rebuilt. 

“You’re right, but that’s not how it works here in Siena, because even a ruin has its value. Anyway…” She thought for a moment. 

“Would a fifteen percent discount suit you?” 

I did a quick calculation. It was a more than reasonable and acceptable sum. 

“It's a deal!” I exclaimed, and we shook hands. 

It felt like I was doing something crazy, but I was overjoyed. 

Cesira picked up the phone and called the agency. We went straight to the real estate agent to formalize the purchase offer. The agent explained the restoration options to me, informed me that he could find me a good architect, and showed me the property records. Then he printed the document from the computer, and I wrote a check to Cesira. The preliminary sales agreement was set for the next day. 

I didn’t sleep that night, lost in my thoughts. Buying a house in the uninhabited countryside of a place completely unknown to me and yet strangely intimate, I roughly calculated the amount I would have to spend to rebuild and furnish it, but I didn’t have a clear idea. It would certainly require a lot of money, but in the end, I would have a gem of a home to spend my old age in. 

It wouldn’t even be easy to organize everything from Milan, but I was optimistic enough to believe I could manage it. In the morning, I got up early and I sipped a cup of coffee while the morning sunlight filtered into my bedroom; I hadn’t slept much, but I didn’t care because I was on vacation anyway. I strolled through the village and sat down on a bench in the square that the people of Rapolano call “Piazzone.” Leaning against a low wall, two young lovers were kissing and embracing, and I wondered if I had missed out on something in my life. I had always lived alone and had never fallen in love; I didn’t know what life as a couple was like, what it meant to get married and have children. My parents had died young, and I had started working early to support myself through college. Love simply hadn’t interested me, and I probably wasn’t a completely normal person, but I was fine with that. 

I knew my life was about to change completely, and the change instilled a certain fear in me; nevertheless, I was sure that life in that town would be better than growing old in an apartment in Milan. 

I had lunch, enjoying some good Tuscan cuisine with the traditional unsalted Tuscan bread and then I returned to the real estate agency for the preliminary sales agreement. Cesira was ahead of schedule and clearly excited. 

“Doctor, if you need builders, plumbers, or electricians, I’d be happy to help you because I know everyone in Rapolano and I have nothing else to do.” 

“Thank you, you’re really kind. I, on the other hand, don’t know anyone and I’m sure I’ll need help.” Cesira inspired a natural sense of trust in me. 

I signed the preliminary agreement and paid the deposit via online bank transfer in the agent's presence. Mrs. Cesira was a bit perplexed as she watched me fiddle with the computer, but the agent reassured her that everything was in order. 

“These computers nowadays—excuse me, but I don’t understand a thing.” 

“You’ll find the money in your bank account tomorrow, ma’am.” I reassured her. 

Cesira shrugged and smiled. 

3

 I returned to Milan, but my mind and heart had stayed in the Siena area. Cesira had given me a list of builders, artisans, electricians, and painters with their phone numbers, and I was spoiled for choice, but I had to get back to work because my vacation was coming to an end. 

At lunch, my friend Becevel sat down across from me in the cafeteria. 

“Hi Umberto, it’s great to see you again. How was your vacation in Tuscany?” 

“Hi Bepi, it was wonderful, but I’m afraid I’ve done something crazy; I bought a run-down house to renovate.” 

Giuseppe looked at me a bit bewildered, and I could see in his eyes that he thought I’d lost my mind. 

We ate lunch while I told him the story, and he nodded in puzzlement, chewing his food slowly. 

“How are you going to manage all the work from Milan now? It won’t be a walk in the park.” He took a half-sip of water. 

“Well, it certainly won’t be easy, but I still have a lot of vacation time saved up, and I want to talk to the HR department. Getting them to listen to me will definitely be a challenge, but I’d better go talk to them right away.” 

We returned our empty trays, and I headed straight to the HR office before returning to the ward. 

Dr. Salvetti was a young man in his mid-thirties and had been hired about three years ago as the clinic’s head of human resources. He was completely ignorant of how a hospital operated and knew nothing about medicine, but he had been tasked from above with reducing personnel costs and viewed so-called “human resources” as mere pawns on a chessboard to be eliminated little by little in a perverse game of chess. 

A sort of headhunter, as incompetent as he was unscrupulous, who always diligently carried out orders from above, and the clinic’s owners obviously found such a person very convenient. 

We greeted each other without shaking hands, and he peered at me through his thick glasses. I calmly explained that I needed to use my remaining vacation days by the end of the year. In his mind, he was searching for the right phrase, rummaging through his meager vocabulary, to give me a negative answer, and he fiddled with the computer to buy time. 

“Doctor, I believe you have at least six months of accrued vacation time, and I don’t think it’s possible to use it all by the end of the year because your colleagues also have their own needs to meet. If you’d like, you can take a few weeks in the fall, but you’ll understand that we can’t do more than that.” 

Meanwhile, I was thinking about how to organize the shifts to extend the weekends so I could take care of business in Rapolano. 

“Well, thank you anyway.” I stood up to leave, thinking that a few weeks of fall vacation was still better than nothing. 

Dr. Salvetti smirked as he motioned for me to leave, then glanced back at the screen. 

“Dr. Di Ruffaldo, could you wait a moment, please?” He called out, squinting behind his glasses. 

I turned around, a little surprised. Was he having second thoughts? 

“I’m looking at your contribution status… might you be interested in early retirement?” 

My eyes widened because I hadn’t been thinking about retirement, which I still considered a distant goal. 

“Please sit down, let’s take a closer look.” Dr. Salvetti’s eyes were shining, perhaps because he saw a good opportunity to get rid of an old, expensive doctor. 

His fingers seemed to dance across the keyboard, and he clicked the mouse anxiously. 

“You meet the requirements for early retirement—the so-called ‘slide’—I can confirm that.” He took a breath and leaned back in his chair, delivering the news as if it were excellent news. 

A shiver ran down my spine. 

Salvetti did some calculations on the computer and offered me a severance package of several tens of thousands of euros, while I grew increasingly stunned. 

“If you accept, you can leave as early as the end of the month.” He printed out the summary sheet. 

“Think it over and let me know; it seems like a good offer to me.” 

In disbelief, I promised I’d think it over soon and took the sheet from his hands. 

As I left the office, I glanced at it—it really did seem like a good offer—but I folded it up and put it in my bag. I’d study it calmly at home. 

That evening, exhausted from work, I lay down on the sofa and turned on the computer. I looked at the photos of the ruin again, imagining what I could do with it. I wanted a comfortable, energy-efficient home and was exploring possible solutions. I also wanted a small garden around it so I could spend time outside during the warmer months. 

I would have to get rid of almost all the furniture in my apartment because almost all of it was too modern for a rustic Tuscan home, and I also had to choose the right architect for a good design, while I could sell or rent out the apartment in Milan. Cesira had also recommended a young architect from Siena who specialized in restoring old country farmhouses. 

There was certainly a lot of work to be done, but I was excited because I was planning something beautiful for my future and, in the meantime, restoring an abandoned property. 

I picked up the sheet with Dr. Salvetti’s proposal again. That money would have been very useful to me, and then I would have had plenty of time to oversee and organize the work properly. I thought it would be best first to rent a studio apartment in Rapolano while the work was being completed, and perhaps put the Milan apartment up for sale. There were a thousand things to plan, but I was tired and didn’t want to stress myself out any further that day, so I turned off the computer and went to sleep. 

The next morning, I went back to Salvetti to tell him I accepted the offer. He smirked with satisfaction at the thought that he’d save on a mid-to-high salary by replacing me with a young doctor, perhaps on a temporary contract. 

“June 30th will be your last day of work,” he said after double-checking the computer. 

I signed the papers, we shook hands, and I left. 

I returned to the ward feeling dazed. A nurse called me over to see a patient complaining of severe shoulder pain, but she had to repeat the details a couple of times because my mind was elsewhere. 

“Doctor, you seem very distracted today. You aren’t in love at your age, are you?” the elderly head nurse quipped. 

I chuckled. “It’s time for me to retire.” 

“Really? Are you leaving us?” 

“Yes, I’ve signed the early retirement papers.” 

“I’m so sorry, you know? We’ll miss a good doctor like you.” 

“My colleagues are all skilled and knowledgeable.” 

“But they aren’t nearly as compassionate.” She huffed, pushing a cart and reminding me to check on the patient. 

Becevel seemed bitter, too. 

“I’ll be losing a good friend and an excellent colleague.” 

“Come on, Beppe, promise me you’ll at least come visit me in Tuscany.” 

“You know full well how things are with vacations and shifts.” He sighed. 

Replacements at the clinic were complicated because the staff was increasingly stretched thin. 

“Anyway, I promise to come visit you; you’ve piqued my curiosity now.” He smiled. 

The next day I called the architect whom Mrs. Cesira had recommended to me. A young woman from Siena who was interning at an architecture firm; after I explained what I needed, she scheduled an appointment in Rapolano for early July. From the sound of her voice, she seemed very enthusiastic about the idea of restoring a ruin—or perhaps it was me who was infecting her with my enthusiasm. 

I spent my last days at work writing notes and memos of recommendations for my colleagues and preparing for the handover. 

I had just graduated when I started working in that department and had spent almost my entire life there, yet I felt no sadness or regret at the thought of leaving it forever. 

In the evenings, I would return to my apartment on the second floor of an elegant building on Via Ariberto and carefully select the furniture to move to Rapolano. I would take with me only my bed and a few family heirlooms; I hadn’t yet decided whether to sell the apartment or rent it out, but I intended to resolve the matter soon. 

I called the real estate agency, which offered me a two-room apartment in the center of Rapolano to rent for the duration of the construction work, and, at least from the photos online, it seemed like a good temporary arrangement. I asked them to speak with the owner to secure the place and told them I would sign the lease as soon as I returned to Rapolano; in the meantime, I sent the deposit via bank transfer. 

I couldn’t sleep that night; how could an old “city slicker” like me want to leave Milan to move to a Tuscan town I’d never even heard of before, feeling some sort of call of the wild? It was as if I were a Tuscan transplanted to Lombardy, nostalgic for my roots, yet unable to resist the urge to return to the land of my ancestors. Milan no longer belonged to me; it was no longer my city. The leap into the unknown fascinated me; a feeling that was absurd in many ways, but it was what I felt deep down. 

On my last day of work, my colleagues celebrated me with pastries and sparkling wine. The chief of staff gave a brief farewell speech, then handed me a commemorative scroll, and I thanked him with a few words. Everyone expected me to be a little emotional, but instead I was happy and didn’t shed a single tear. Yet I had poured my heart and soul into my work, giving up many of life’s joys, but I was now determined to change my life in a completely different environment. 

I packed my bags to move. I put off the decision to rent or sell, leaving the apartment in Milan empty, and packed only the essentials; I would move the rest later, once the new home was ready. 

I turned off the water, gas, and electricity and left the spare keys with a trusted neighbor, in case anyone needed to enter while I was away. I loaded my bags into the car and… off I went! 

I arrived in Rapolano in the afternoon and went straight to the real estate agency. The agent and the owner were waiting for me—a middle-aged man with a crew cut and gray hair. 

We went straight to see the apartment, which looked exactly as I’d imagined from the photos. 

“I’ll only be staying here until the work on the new house is finished.” 

The owner grimaced. He would have preferred a long-term lease because, after all, I was surely a tenant who paid on time, but he had already been told I wouldn’t be staying long. 

We went back to the agency, I signed the lease, paid a month’s rent, and the owner handed me the key. 

“Doctor, call me if you need anything.” He greeted me cordially, shaking my hand. 

I got in the car and went to unload my luggage. It was hot, and the house was full of mosquitoes, but I went out right away to do some grocery shopping. It was almost evening by then; I was tired, and I had an appointment with the architect the next day. 

Eliana was a twenty-eight-year-old professional. Fresh out of college, she had started working for a firm in Siena specializing in the renovation of rustic farmhouses. We agreed to meet in front of the spa, and she arrived on time in an SUV. 

She was a tall, rather pretty girl with long, straight black hair and light-colored eyes. We introduced ourselves, and she was a bit shy. 

“Doctor, I looked at the land registry documents you sent me by email. 

It seems like an interesting property. You said it’s in ruins, right?” “Far from just being in ruins… You can barely make out the perimeter walls.” 

Eliana looked a bit puzzled. 

“If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ll show you.” 

“Certainly,” she agreed and started the engine, while I led the way in my old Renault. On the dirt road, she kept her distance because of the dust, and her dark-colored vehicle was immediately covered in a thin white layer. 

At the village, I parked under a tree while Eliana got out with a look of disappointment at the dirty car. 

“This is the house.” 

She looked around with a professional air. Then she pulled the site plan out of her bag and compared the map with the few remaining stones and the bushes covering them. 

“The property extends all the way down there, doesn't it?” 

“Yes, I was told the property ends where that fig tree is.” 

Eliana wanted to go further in, but there was too much brush. 

“I’m not going any further because I’m afraid of snakes,” she protested, “but it all seems clear enough to me.” 

She looked up at Poggio. 

“We really are right at the foot of the hill.” She was doubtful. 

“Doctor, I’m afraid we won’t see much sun in the winter.” 

I hadn’t thought of that because it was the height of summer, but the hill loomed over the house, and in winter, with the sun lower in the sky, there was a risk it would remain in shadow for most of the day. 

“I’m afraid a solar panel system won’t perform optimally,” she declared, and I shook my head at the first signs of trouble. 

“To be honest, Doctor,” she said to me, “it seems clear to me that there’s nothing to salvage here except a few stones.” 

“It’s perfectly clear.” I looked around dejectedly. 

“The house needs to be rebuilt from scratch, and the city will require us to rebuild it exactly as it was. However, a complete rebuild will certainly be an advantage in meeting maximum energy efficiency standards, and that will allow you to save significantly on your utility bills.” 

“That’s what I want: a comfortable, energy-efficient home.” 

“You’ll pay a slightly higher cost, but then you’ll have a lovely little house all to yourself with a garden, and in the end, the market value will be much higher than what you paid”. 

“Whatever its market value, it could never match what it will mean to me…”. 

Eliana smiled. 

“I’ll put together a great plan for you, with all the bells and whistles; you’ll see I won’t let you down, Doctor.” 

“I’m currently renting in Rapolano; I’d like the work to proceed as quickly as possible.” 

“You’ll see we’ll get it done quickly. There’s the bureaucratic part with the city, but I’ll take care of it because I know how to handle things by now. Rather, have you already thought about who to hire for the work?” 

I remembered the names Cesira had mentioned. 

“I have a list of names to contact.” 

“If you’d like, I also know a specialized company; they’re very good. Would you be interested in a quote from them? Then you can decide.” 

“Thank you, please send me the quote, and I’ll decide.” I felt excited. 

“Doctor, at this point I have to say goodbye because I need to get right to work.” 

I nodded and asked her for an estimate of her fee. She gestured for me not to worry, since it would be modest, but she promised to email it to me. 

We said our goodbyes, and she got into her SUV, started the engine, and sped off in a cloud of dust. I looked at that pile of rocks and was already imagining my new home. I got into my car and drove off slowly to avoid the dust kicked up by Eliana’s vehicle. 

In Rapolano, I stopped for lunch at a restaurant and then returned home. I took out the phone numbers and began looking up the names Cesira had given me. I would contact the plumbers and electricians later, once the project was ready, but I wanted to speak with a bricklayer right away. I called the name Cesira had recommended, a man named Ivo who lived in a small village in the Valdichiana Senese. 

I let the phone ring for a long time, but no one answered. I tried again a couple of times to no avail, then decided to lie down on the bed to rest and fell asleep immediately. 

The phone's frantic ringing woke me up in the late afternoon. 

“Hello, I received a call from your number.” 

“Hello, are you Mr. Ivo, the bricklayer?” I mumbled with a slurred voice. 

“Yes, that’s me. Who am I speaking with?” 

“We haven’t met in person. My name is Umberto di Ruffaldo, and Mrs. Cesira from Rapolano gave me your name.” On the other end, my caller immediately realized who Cesira was. 

I told him I’d bought a house to renovate near Poggio Santa Cecilia, and there was silence. 

“Hello, can you hear me?” I was afraid the line had gone dead. 

“Yes, of course. Sorry, I was just listening to you.” I sensed a note of concern in Ivo’s voice about the massive amount of work ahead, but he promised to come by the property the following day in the late afternoon. 

An overwhelming sense of euphoria came over me. I had never created anything that truly belonged to me; I had inherited the apartment in Milan from my parents, and in my life, I had only studied and worked. 

Ivo arrived at the appointment around 7 in the evening, apologizing for the delay caused by an unexpected issue at work. He was a young man, slim and muscular, with a surprisingly youthful face. Given his physique, I could hardly believe he was a real bricklayer, yet he began to examine the ruins I had bought with an expert eye. 

“The whole house needs to be rebuilt from scratch; there’s no other option,” he concluded, scratching his head. “What do you have in mind? Rebuilding it with stone walls?” 

I looked at him, shaking my head. 

“I imagine that would cost a fortune. Would you be able to do it?” He had a flash of pride. 

“Certainly. Stone walls laid with lime mortar are a true work of art; by mixing in some broken bricks, we can create a ‘coccio pesto’ effect… beautiful but expensive because it requires a lot of labor; if you’d like, I can still give you an estimate, and then you can decide.” 

The idea fascinated me, but I didn’t dare face such huge expenses, so I asked for a quote for traditional masonry with exposed stone, perhaps reusing the remaining stones. 

“There are plenty hidden down here under the bushes.” Ivo observed, peering around. 

“Doctor, once it’s fixed up, this will be a beautiful home. Do you already have a professional for the project?” 

I mentioned Eliana, and Ivo nodded in agreement. 

“I know her; she’s young but really quite talented. As for plumbers, electricians, and painters, if you’d like, I can handle everything myself, because I deliver the houses turnkey, and you’ll only have to worry about furnishing it.” 

I knew I was facing a difficult undertaking on my own, and the idea of lightening my load a bit was appealing. 

“Get me a quote then.” I smiled and shook his hand. 

Ivo was happy; it was clear to him that work was a value, not just a source of income. 

4

A few days later, Eliana called me. “The project is almost ready; I’ve already spoken with the municipal engineering office, and you’ll see we’ll get it done quickly. Have you found a contractor for the work yet?” 

I replied that I had, and that they’d already sent me an attractive quote by email; she then told me she’d be passing through Rapolano around lunchtime the next day. 

My invitation to have lunch together was spontaneous, and she accepted, though she made it clear she didn’t have much time to stay and that we’d have to move rather quickly. 

Eliana arrived a few minutes late, apologizing, and we sat down at one of the few empty tables in the restaurant. She set her bag full of papers on the floor, catching her breath and relaxing. 

I felt a slight unease having lunch with a beautiful young woman who could have been my daughter, and she certainly wasn’t at ease either; however, she was used to dealing with clients in similar circumstances with a certain ease. 

She pulled a tablet out of her bag and began showing me the projects it contained. 

“For electricity, I thought of using photovoltaic tiles that blend in perfectly and don’t spoil the aesthetics, just on a portion of the roof, not all of it. Here we’ll install solar collectors to produce hot water that will feed the underfloor heating. Of course, a traditional wood-burning fireplace in the living room will look good aesthetically, but in winter the house will still be nice and warm. We’ll create the bathroom here, making the bedroom smaller since the original one would be enormous by today’s standards. 

The windows will be energy-efficient, so the house will be cool in summer and warm in winter. However, if you need air conditioning, we can install it—the electricity generated by the roof system will be more than enough.” 

She scrolled through the images on her tablet with her fingers, while I was completely absorbed in her words. 

I jumped when the waiter came to serve us lunch because I was so distracted that I’d forgotten I was in a restaurant. 

Eliana continued. 

“Doctor, as for the furnishings, I recommend typical Tuscan furniture because anything else wouldn’t fit in well. Maybe just a few antique pieces of particular value, but nothing more.” She seemed worried that I’d bring my modern furniture from Milan. 

“From Milan, I’ll only bring the bed, a 19th-century family chest, and little else; everything else will stay in Milan.” 

She let out a sigh of relief as she ate with a certain voracity. 

“Do you like the design? If there’s anything wrong, let me know. Some things can be changed, even though the city requires us to rebuild the house practically exactly as it was.” 

“I need to think it over, but it looks like excellent work. You’re really talented.” 

She blushed slightly as she raised the glass of water to her lips. 

“Thank you, I’m glad to hear that. The house will be big, you know? The living area is almost a hundred square meters, and then there’s the cellar below, which is just as big—you’ll be able to use part of it as a garage—and then there will be a large living room.” 

I shuddered a little at the thought of so much space all to myself. 

Her cell phone rang, and she apologized. It was her boyfriend, and she greeted him with a loud “Hi, honey!” then mumbled so I wouldn’t understand the conversation. 

She finally hung up a bit abruptly. 

“As soon as the sale is finalized, you can sign the documents to start the business; they’re already ready.” 

“The closing is set for tomorrow with a notary in Siena.” 

“Perfect, she’ll sign the papers the day after tomorrow; actually, let’s do this. 

If you don’t mind, after she’s signed the deed, she can stop by our office so we can finalize the paperwork, and I’ll submit the file to City Hall the very next day.” 

“That works perfectly for me.” 

“Now excuse me, but I have to go; I have a business meeting in Asciano.” She stood up as soon as she finished sipping her coffee. 

She smoothed out her tight-fitting dress. She was truly beautiful, and the restaurant patrons turned to look at her. 

I paid the bill while she hurried away, smiling at me. 

We finally signed the deed in front of the notary in Siena—I was excited and Cesira looked tense—and I acquired full ownership of the ruin; then I signed a pile of papers in Eliana’s office. 

Work began after a few weeks during which I distracted myself at the spa, with trips to the surrounding area and long afternoon naps. 

One weekend I also returned to Milan to sign the lease for my old apartment with a young engaged couple. By then, the city no longer belonged to me; I felt like a stranger and handed over the keys as if they had never been mine; I got everything done quickly because I couldn’t wait to return to Rapolano. 

Around mid-September, the work finally began, and Ivo showed up right on time at eight in the morning on a beautiful, warm, sunny day with an excavator and a very young worker. 

Eliana also arrived in her SUV an hour later, sober and elegant. She spoke with Ivo about some technical details and then apologized because she had to leave. 

“Doctor, I have to pass through Rapolano again around one o’clock; maybe I’ll stop by to take a look.” 

“May I invite you to have lunch together?” 

Her eyes sparkled. “Of course. I’d love to.” We made plans to meet at our usual trattoria. 

Ivo was working diligently with the excavator to clear the ruins of weeds 

and level the ground, while the young man shuttled back and forth with the pickup truck to haul away the debris. 

After a few hours of work, the rubble was at least free of brambles. 

“We’ll be able to salvage a lot of stones, Doctor; there are more than I imagined.” Ivo was quite satisfied, and the idea of saving money on materials made me happy. 

At 12:30 p.m., he and his assistant left for their lunch break, promising they’d be back in about an hour, while it was still too early for my meeting with Eliana. She had texted me to say she’d be a little late, so I began wandering around the work area, which had now been cleared of weeds and smelled of earth. Near the perimeter walls, Ivo had dug a deep trench about three meters long to check the condition of the foundations. The ancient stones were seeing the light again in the excavation after many long years of neglect. I checked my watch; I, too, had to head to Rapolano. I glanced absently at the pile of freshly dug reddish soil and noticed a small dark object. I thought it was one of those oddly colored stones so common in those parts, but it wasn’t a stone. I picked it up and realized it was metal. I rubbed the object to remove the dirt and immediately realized it was a coin; I began handling it cautiously. Almost nothing could be read on one side, so I carefully removed the dirt covering the other side. To my surprise, I thought I recognized the symbol of Florence, the lily. I immediately realized it was an ancient coin, and finding it on my new property on the very first day of work struck me as a good omen. 

I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wrapped the coin in it, then got in the car and set off for Rapolano. 

Eliana arrived at the restaurant a few minutes after me, out of breath. 

“Doctor, I’m sorry; I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but there are always complications.” 

“Don’t worry, I have all the time in the world.” 

She nodded as she adjusted her cotton T-shirt, which highlighted 

the perfection of her breasts. Luckily, I had reserved a table because the restaurant was packed that day, and everyone was watching Eliana as she followed me, feigning indifference. 

We sat down, and she asked me how the start of the work had gone, but I noticed her mind was elsewhere. We chatted about this and that, and she assured me she would visit the construction site often to check on the work. 

As we sipped our coffee, she fiddled with her cell phone, replying to messages. She was nervous and kept adjusting her hair. 

“Look what I found today in the excavation site.” I tried to distract her by showing her the handkerchief in which I had wrapped the coin. 

She picked up the little bundle, feeling a certain curiosity, and opened it. 

“It’s an ancient coin!” she exclaimed. 

“I think it’s very old because I think I recognize the symbol of Florence on one side.” 

She looked closely, squinting. 

“It really is the lily of Florence, but wait, doctor, I need to go to the bathroom to wash my hands, and if you don’t mind, I’ll clean the coin with water to remove the dirt.” 

I agreed, and she disappeared into the bathroom. She returned after about ten minutes, holding the coin in the palm of her hand. 

 “Now that it’s clean, there’s no doubt about it. And on the other side, I think I can make out the outline of a human figure.” She was as excited as a little girl. 

I took her hand to get a better look and felt a tingle from our physical contact. We locked eyes for a moment before she bent her head toward the coin. 

“It really does look like a man’s figure; you’re right…” I confirmed. 

“If you’d like, I can give you the address of a coin shop in Siena. They’ll surely be able to tell you what it is.” 

“I consider this coin I found today, on the first day of work, a good-luck charm. Thank you, and I’ll have it appraised as soon as I can.” 

Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the display nervously and held the phone to her ear. 

“What is it?” she exclaimed irritably, then began answering in monosyllables. 

“Doctor, excuse me.” She stood up and rushed out as I heard her raise her voice. 

“Andrea, tell me what you want!” she screamed as she was already outside. 

I waited a few minutes while I watched her through the windows, talking, gesturing, and pacing back and forth, then I got up to pay the bill. 

When I left the restaurant, she was leaning against the wall, staring at the sky, her right arm hanging down, her hand still clutching the now-dead phone. 

Her eyes were teary and she was bright red. 

“It’s over,” she whispered and hugged me, bursting into tears. 

I was taken by surprise by her reaction and didn’t know what to do. 

I reached out an arm to hold her as I felt her body shaking with sobs. 

“Cheer up and stop crying. You’re still very young; you have your whole life ahead of you.” 

“Forgive my frankness, but you’re about my father’s age.” She pulled away from me, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Would you like a glass of water?” 

She shook her head in refusal. 

“I have to go now… I’m sorry.” She tried to fix her hair. 

“Don’t you want to talk?” 

“Not now… I’d rather not…” 

“As you wish.” I spread my arms in resignation. 

She picked up the vehicle keys and turned to leave. 

“Anyway, thank you, doctor, you’re very kind.” 

She said goodbye with a fleeting kiss on the cheek, while I didn’t think women could still attract me at my age. I had no experience with courtship or relationships, but somehow, she stirred emotions in me with her body, her face, her feminine scent. 

She left, and I was alone, so I decided to go home; I didn’t feel like going back to the village. 

5

In the days that followed, Eliana and I spoke only by phone. Every time, she promised to come check on the work, but there was always some excuse that kept her away. I asked her how she was doing, and she dodged the question by changing the subject. 

Meanwhile, the work was progressing quickly, and Ivo was working hard alongside three other young laborers, while the walls rose before our eyes. Every day I visited the construction site and lingered for a long time watching, but then the autumn rains came and the work stopped. 

I decided to go to Siena for a stroll to kill some time and took with me the coin I wanted to have appraised by the numismatist Eliana had recommended. 

It was raining heavily that day, and I had a hard time finding the shop’s address in the city’s winding streets. The shop was on a narrow street and had no sign, just a small display window full of coins and a glass door. I went inside, shaking my umbrella and placing it in the umbrella stand. 

I was greeted by a man about my age. 

“Good morning, how may I help you?” 

He eyed me with a touch of that typical Tuscan wariness because I was an unknown customer. 

“Good morning, I found this coin on my property but I don’t know exactly what it is. You were recommended to me as an expert, and I’d like to understand what it is.” 

The man took the coin, placed it under a large magnifying glass, turned on a lamp to better illuminate it, and began examining it carefully on both sides. 

“It’s a copper florin, sir, a Florentine coin from the Middle Ages, also known as a black florin because the copper darkens over time. 

It’s not easy to find one like this in the fields, but… I imagine you’re disappointed.” 

“Not at all—why should I be?” 

“If it had been a gold florin, it would have been worth much more.” 

“No, I didn’t even know the gold florin existed. Forgive me, but I’m a retired doctor and certainly no expert on history or Tuscan coins.” 

“A doctor? All right, I’ll explain briefly: the gold florin was a Florentine coin with high purchasing power. On one side was the image of the lily, the symbol of Florence, and on the other that of St. John the Baptist, the city’s patron saint. See? This figure here.” He invited me to look through the magnifying glass, and I could make out more clearly what I hadn’t been able to recognize before. 

“Since the florin had such a high value, there was a need to subdivide it, so in Florence they minted silver florins and copper florins, and this is one of them. Twelve silver florins or two hundred and forty copper florins were equivalent to one gold florin. Do you understand?” 

“Interesting… I wonder how it ended up on my property, though…” I muttered. 

“Do you happen to live near Florence?” 

“No, I live in Rapolano now, and I found the florin on my property near Poggio Santa Cecilia.” 

“Poggio? I know it, you know. My father used to take me there as a boy because he was friends with the noble owners. Too bad it’s a ghost town now.” 

“Yes, it really is a shame… but one day it will rise again—at least, I hope so.” 

“If you’d like to sell the item, you should know that I don’t deal in this type of coin.” 

“I don’t want to sell it; I just wanted to understand what it was.” 

The numismatist's face lit up. 

“I want to show you something.” 

The man turned toward the safe behind him and opened it. He pulled out a small blue box, removed the lid, and inside shone a gold coin sealed in a clear plastic bag. 

“See, this is a gold florin; a modern replica, but made of real gold.” 

It was a beautiful, sparkling coin. 

“The designs are identical, see? The lily and St. John, just like the ones on your copper florin.” 

“It’s beautiful.” 

“If you like, I’ll give you a good price. An authentic florin is worth at least twelve hundred euros, but this is a replica, and I’ll sell it to you at a special price: two hundred and forty.” 

I thought about it for a moment, already knowing who I would give it to. 

“Deal.” 

The man smiled and wrapped the box with the florin for me; I paid and headed for the door. 

“May I offer a piece of advice, Doctor?” 

“Go ahead.” 

“If you want to know more about your black florin, study the history of the place where you found it; perhaps you’ll find an answer.” 

“Thank you. You’re truly very kind.” 

We shook hands, and I stepped out into the rain, keeping my coins in my pocket—an authentic copper one and a gold replica. 

Maybe I’d spent a little too much on the gold florin, but the shopkeeper, with his gentle manner, had really known how to work his charm. I shrugged. Oh well, it was still a valuable item. 

I returned to Rapolano in a downpour, and as soon as I got home, I noticed a message from Eliana on my phone. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to check on the work.” 

I replied right away. 

“Shall we have lunch together?” 

“Okay.” Her reply came in less than a minute. 

6

By now, the work was well underway, and the workers were laying the roof beams. Ivo told me that the company would be coming in a few days to install the photovoltaic tiles. Meanwhile, the plumber and electrician were installing the underfloor heating and the electrical system. I wandered through the rooms, still without plaster, windows, or floors, but I could already imagine the house furnished. 

“We’ll hand over the keys to you before Christmas,” Ivo promised. 

Around noon, Eliana arrived, getting out of the SUV with her bag. 

She was wearing dark sunglasses, a pair of skinny jeans, and a jacket. 

“Good morning, Doctor,” she greeted me, taking off her sunglasses. 

“Good morning, Eliana.” Her gaze pierced me. 

“The work is really coming along nicely,” she observed with satisfaction. 

“They’re a really fast company; I’m amazed by how quickly they’re moving.” Then she looked for Ivo, and they talked while going over some papers; they both seemed satisfied with each other—he with the design, and she with how well the work was progressing. 

“Doctor, come with me. Let’s take a tour of the rooms.” Eliana motioned to me, and I followed her. 

“I imagine you’ve already seen them, but let’s take another look together.” She walked carefully, watching her step, and had even put on a protective helmet provided by Ivo. 

“I’d put the living room fireplace right here—what do you think?” “Sounds great to me.” I agreed. 

“You won’t need it much; it’ll mostly serve as a rustic decorative element, as befits a Tuscan country house, and besides, a fireplace always creates a certain atmosphere.” 

“Well, at least I won’t have to haul too much firewood.” I smiled. 

Eliana motioned for me to continue. 

“You’ll have a large kitchen at your disposal, as you can see. Keep in mind that downstairs there’s also enough space to create a large dining room.” 

“I don’t think I’ll have many guests because I no longer have any family and I only have one friend in Milan.” 

She scrutinized me again with her sharp eyes. 

“And this will be the bedroom. Twenty-five square meters—quite large, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it’s large, but in the farmhouses of old, the rooms were large; they had to accommodate many people.” 

“For a single person…” She bit her lip for a moment, then showed me the study and the guest room. 

“A lovely farmhouse. Ah! I almost forgot—for the garden, I’ve chosen native plants: an olive tree, a fig tree, a hedge of myrtle or laurel, no exotic plants.” 

“I love olive trees; they’re quite rare up north.” 

“The garden will be a good opportunity to relax and spend your free time, but it won’t be huge, and you can lay out a nice little lawn. Over there at the back, you can plant some vegetables instead.” 

“A few little tasks for a retired old man—I’ll certainly have plenty of free time; I don’t know much about vegetable gardens, but I’ll learn.” 

“You look much younger than your age.” 

We were now talking to ourselves because the workers had disappeared for lunch, and I invited Eliana to join us for lunch. 

The restaurant was crowded as always. Eliana kept looking around; she was clearly nervous, and I thought it best to encourage her to talk. 

“How are you feeling after the accident the other day?” 

She turned abruptly toward me with a look of confusion. 

“I’m referring to the sudden end of your love story.” 

“Ah! I’m sorry, I thought you were referring to a car accident.” 

I smiled. 

“I’m trying not to think about it anymore.” 

“I imagine it isn’t easy for you.” 

Her eyes welled up with tears. 

“Eliana, may I? Can we drop the formal ‘you’ and ‘I’? I feel uncomfortable addressing you formally.” 

“Yes, of course.” She was slightly embarrassed. 

“I’m old enough to be your father now.” 

“Don’t say that… please… my father is no longer with us, and besides, you don’t look that old—I’ve told you.” Tears streamed down her face. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” 

“You couldn’t have known; we never talked about it.” She took a sip of water. 

“All the men in my life disappear suddenly.” She buried her face in her hands. “Forgive me. I’m very tired.” 

The waiter served the first course and I began to eat, while she twirled her fork in her plate. “Don’t you have an appetite?” “No.” 

“Try to eat a little, come on.” I urged her in a fatherly tone. 

Eliana slowly began to bring the food to her mouth, then picked up the pace until she had cleaned her plate. 

“So, you were a little hungry after all.” I teased gently. 

“Don’t make fun of me; my appetite comes and goes—it’s all nerves.” 

“Don’t take it so hard; you’re young and beautiful, and you’ll see that the hard times will pass.” 

She smoothed her hair. 

“They’ll pass, but for now it’s tough.” 

“How long were you with your ex-boyfriend?” She took a breath. 

“Six years; we met in college, and now he’s fallen in love with someone else.” 

Her deep pain was evident. 

“I understand; I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll get over it.” She sipped some wine. 

“I’d like to thank you, in the meantime, for your commitment to the project.” She looked at me in surprise as I handed her the package containing the gold florin. 

She took it in her hands, somewhat embarrassed, and opened it. 

“A coin, but it’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have.” She kissed me on the cheek, her lips almost brushing mine. 

“Do you remember the coin I found on the day work began? I took it to the numismatist, and he told me it’s a medieval copper florin, whereas this is a replica of a gold florin—the coin that circulated in Florence back then.” 

“My goodness, it’s beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“I just wanted to give you a gift.” 

She seemed pleased, and I saw she was more relaxed and happier. 

We left the restaurant and I said goodbye to her as she got into the SUV, and she wanted to kiss me on the cheek again. I didn’t take my eyes off her until she disappeared from view, and I walked slowly home. 

“Life is beautiful!” I heard someone shout behind me. 

I turned around and there was Cesira, smiling. 

“Cesira… you almost gave me a heart attack.” 

“She really is a beautiful girl; you two are very much in love, aren’t you?”  

“Cesira, please. You’re