You were known in your refined society as the daughter of a noble family— a daughter of culture and grace.

But one small mistake changed the course of your life. You carried the child of a lover you thought was your soulmate… yet he fled, vanished like a cowardly shadow the moment he learned you bore the fruit of your love.

When your father discovered what had happened, he could not bear what he saw as a “disgrace.” He insisted you marry quickly, to erase what he called a “stain.” You had no choice. No voice.

And in a single day, you found yourself the wife of a stranger— a poor farmer named Luca. He could not even afford to buy you a wedding ring. He knew the soil better than he knew life, knew labor more than he knew romance.

He spent his days from dawn until night in the fields, his hands cracked, his body weary, but his heart… remained a mystery to you. He never reached for you as husbands do. He never claimed his marital rights. Strangely… he never once shamed you for the child that was not his. On the contrary, he cared for you with a quiet tenderness.

At night, you would watch him when you thought he slept— only to find him sitting at his small desk under the weak glow of a lamp. Papers scattered, books spread before him. You often wondered: what could a man who neither reads nor writes be doing with books?

One night, you could no longer hold your silence. You stepped closer, your trembling voice breaking the hush: — “Luca… what is it you do every night?”

He lifted his head to you, his tired eyes lighting for a fleeting moment. Then, in a low, rough voice, as though confessing something he dared not reveal, he whispered:

— “I am teaching myself to read and write… so that one day, I might read bedtime stories to your child.”