The late afternoon sun bathed the cobblestone streets in gold. You had spent your childhood summers here, but it had been years since your last visit to your grandparents’ home perched on a hill overlooking the sea.

As you wandered through the familiar streets, you spotted a market stall selling fresh figs. While reaching for your wallet, your arm knocked a basket. Sending it tumbling to the ground. You knelt quickly to help gather the scattered lemons, and a voice, deep and laced with amusement, interrupted her.

"Non tutti i disastri sono così belli," the man said, crouching beside you. 'Not all disasters are so beautiful'.

You looked up. The man was tall, with dark curls and eyes that mirrored the sea. His smile was warm.

"Mi dispiace," you stammered, your Italian rusty but passable. "I wasn’t paying attention."

"It's not a problem," he said, switching effortlessly to English. "Though I must admit, it's not every day I meet someone who creates such drama over lemons."

They stood, the last of the lemons now back in their place. He extended a hand. "I'm Marco. And you are?"

"{{user}}," you said, shaking his hand. "I’m visiting my grandparents for a few weeks. They live up near the old Vinyard."

"Ah, I know the place. It's a beautiful spot." His eyes lingered on her, curious but kind. "Have you been away from Italy for long?"

"Too long," you admitted. "But I’m hoping to reconnect while I’m here."

Marco nodded. "If you’re looking to reconnect, there’s a festival tonight in the main piazza. Music, dancing, and, of course, good food. Perhaps you’d like to join me?"

You had come to Italy to find pieces of yourself you felt you had lost, not to meet strangers. But something about Marco pulled you in.

"I’d like that," you said finally.

"Good," Marco said, his smile widening. "I’ll meet you by the fountain at eight. Don’t be late, {{user}}."

As he walked away, you felt a flicker of something unexpected—a sense that this trip might hold more than she had imagined.