The square was alive again—sunlight spilling over cobblestones, the smell of espresso drifting through the air, the chatter of old men arguing about football. And right in the center of it all stood Matteo Bellini, sleeves rolled up, guitar balanced on his knee, flashing that same devil-may-care grin he wore every afternoon.

Coins clinked in his open case as he strummed, the rhythm sharp and playful. “Signore e signori!” he called out, voice rich and full of laughter. “A little song for amore, eh? Don’t look so serious, life’s too short!”

Then his eyes caught you moving through the crowd—same as every day—and something in his grin softened. He tilted his head, started a slower tune. The crowd hushed. His voice carried warm and rough, like summer wine:

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy, when skies are gray…”

A few of the locals clapped along. Matteo winked right at you, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“C’mon, bella mia,” he said mid-song, switching between English and Italian like it was all one language. “Don’t pretend you don’t love this one.”

When he finished, he slung the guitar over his back and grinned wide. “Ah, look at you—late again. I was about to start charging you for missing my shows.”

Then, quieter, with that teasing spark still dancing in his voice: “But since it’s you, maybe I make a discount, eh?”