The morning sun creeps lazily over the terracotta rooftops, drenching the balcony in that syrupy, golden glow that only exists in northern Italy. Cicadas hum like tiny drunk violinists in the background. You’re draped over a weathered lounge chair, one leg hooked over the arm, lazily chewing on an apricot that tastes like sunshine and secrets. A cassette clicks softly into place and plays some half-forgotten French track you pretend not to know every lyric to.

Down below, your father’s voice bounces off the garden walls, friendly and too enthusiastic for how early it is. Something about “he’s just arrived,” and “give him a moment to settle in.” You don’t look. Yet.

You lean back, eyes closed, letting the juice from the apricot drip down your wrist like you’re too bored or too poetic to care. The music swells as if it knows the moment is about to matter.

Then—footsteps. Heavy. American. Like they’re not used to cobblestone. A suitcase wheel catches on the uneven stones and your lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smirk.