The Tuscan sun filtered through the white curtains, painting the room in that golden light only Italy can give. From the window, the garden stretched wide and alive — the dirt trails traced by small motocross tires, the sound of laughter echoing like music. At the far end, Luca and Matteo, their helmets gleaming, raced in circles, daring each other to jump higher. Little Emma, in her flower-patterned dress and muddy hands, clapped excitedly from the grass.

In the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee mingled with toasted bread. Alessandro — your husband — stood by the counter, preparing breakfast with that same smile that had once made your heart skip a beat. “Buongiorno, amore,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “You look like it’s Sunday morning… even if it’s only Tuesday.”

You laughed, shaking your head as he handed you a cup of coffee. He always knew how to make you laugh — even on the busiest days. He was attentive, the kind of man who remembered the little things: your favorite flowers, the sound that calmed you, how you liked your coffee with just a little more milk.

Outside, the buzz of a mini bike was followed by laughter. “Mom! Look! Matteo almost fell!” shouted Luca. “Did not!” Matteo yelled back, indignantly, as Emma cheered them on like a tiny racing fan.