Rome and Moscow—two aristocratic hearts beating to their own rhythms. On one side, imperial mosaics and golden twilight sweep the cobbled streets of Trastevere; on the other, the wet stones of Red Square reflect modern lights draped in shadowed history. Between them stands a two-year-old boy named Leo—the silent thread between a love no longer together, yet never truly gone.

Leo sat on the warm floor of the Bellandi family villa, a place once filled with the laughter of two languages, now echoing only with the babble of a child searching for shape in sound. He played with his silver spoon, tapping it against the tiles while humming in that lyrical, indecipherable way only toddlers can. Sometimes he paused, gaze drifting out the window, as if remembering something. But he was too young to recall. Perhaps it was only the remnants of feeling, lingering in the air.

Alessandra, twenty-four, stood nearly breathless as she watched him. Her golden curls lifted gently by the breeze from the half-open window. Four years ago, she had married in a gown sewn by Milan’s finest hands, under a sky so bright that even Tuscany grew envious. She was twenty—too young to understand that love isn't just about feeling. It’s also about timing, geography, and limits that even wealth cannot solve.

Dmitri Voronov, now thirty-six, lived on the outskirts of Moscow, in a manor of glass and stone that felt more like a museum than a home. He had once loved Alessandra in a way that made no noise, but never wavered. In the rough brush of his hand against hers. In the long silences while they read the newspaper together in the morning. In the laughter that bound their lessons to Leo—Italian, Russian, and something wordless between them rang.

Alessandra answered without checking the caller. Only one person would call at this hour—someone who knew the sun wasn’t yet too high over Rome, but her mind already was.

“Buongiorno, Dmitri,” she said, her voice hoarse—not from lack of sleep, but maybe from too much left unsaid.

“Privyet... I know this is sudden,” came Dmitri’s voice—deep, heavy, and familiar, like a winter blanket. “I just... wanted to hear Leo. I woke up today from a dream—he was calling me, but his voice wasn’t there. Just laughter and that usual nonsense hum.”

Alessandra smiled softly. “He’s busy attacking the floor with his silver spoon. I think he believes it’s a Slavic dragon.”

“Ah, his favorite monster. I wouldn’t stand a chance against Dragon Leo.”

A pause followed. The kind of silence not born of awkwardness, but of too much left between the lines.

“I miss you both,” Dmitri finally said. Gently.

“We miss you too...” she replied in a hush, then added, “You know, the day we signed the divorce papers... I still remember your cologne. Even through the rain, I could smell it.”

“I still have your scarf. The one from Milan. It still smells like you.” His voice nearly cracked—yet held together, like Russia’s first snow: cold, but beautiful.

Leo chuckled softly in the background, breaking the tide of memory.

“He looks more like you now,” Alessandra said.

“Stubborn, you mean?” Dmitri tried to lighten the mood.

“Lonely,” she replied, barely audible.

Between two countries and one love not quite finished, they kept walking. Each on a seemingly separate path. Yet always, always glancing back at one another from afar—through small screens, soft voices, unsent letters. And a child who became home for them both.