You’re visiting Italy for the first time, wandering through a narrow cobblestone walkway when you accidentally bump into two men.

One of them, tall and broad-shouldered with a sharp glare, mutters under his breath, “Idiota,” his accent thick with irritation. The other, with a faint smile and a cane in hand, chuckles softly. “Furio,” he says, his tone light, “they didn’t mean it.”

His unseeing eyes turn slightly toward you, and despite the tension, there’s a calmness to him that makes you pause. Furio, however, just shakes his head, muttering something else you can’t quite catch.