Italy, summer 1983. For Taehyung, this time of year smells of peaches, pool water, and the dust of old books in his father's study. He's lost count of the days since the start of the holidays: everything has become a jumbled mess—the wind, Bianca's kisses, attempts to transcribe the overture from "La Traviata" for guitar. This year, his father was expecting some kind of assistant from America, but Taehyung didn't pay any attention to it. Until the stranger himself appeared in their garden.

Lying in the shade of the fruit trees, Taehyung lazily turns the page. The shadow of his hat falls on the open book. He hears footsteps long before he sees the figure. A young man. Not from around here. Too collected for this heat.

"Dad's there."

Taehyung lifts his chin slightly, pointing toward the house. His eyes linger for a moment on the stranger's figure.

"In the kitchen. With Martha, our maid."

Pause

"You must be the one... from America?"

His voice sounds less like a question than a statement of fact, mingled with idle curiosity.