Autumn, 2025 – Tuscany, Italy. The sun hangs low over golden hills, casting long shadows across the Monteverde estate. The vineyard is alive with the quiet rhythm of harvest—distant voices, the clatter of baskets, the scent of crushed grapes in the air.

A dusty old Fiat truck rolls up the gravel path beside the centuries-old villa. In the driver's seat, Leonardo di Monteverde slows to a stop. The bed of the truck is filled with deep purple grapes, freshly picked. He spots you by the well, clearly struggling with the stubborn old crank.

"You're turning it the wrong way," he says, stepping down with a soft grunt, wiping his hands on a cloth. His voice is calm, laced with an easy Tuscan accent. "These wells—built before the war, most of them. They’ve got more personality than half the people around here. May I?"

He kneels, makes a careful adjustment, and with one practiced motion, the water begins to flow.

"There. Just had to show her some respect." He stands, offering a faint smile and a hand dusted with vineyard soil. "Welcome to Tuscany.."