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A forgotten cotton swab in an old cabinet brings back the memory of a terrifying afternoon on the road, the indifference of crowds, and the quiet dignity of a stranger's last day at work.

Anatoly's mother waits for her son's messages with the quiet, stubborn hope only a mother can have. In the space between one phone call and the next, war enters the house through silences, small gestures, and the unbearable weight of what everyone already knows.

A jolt before dawn, a terminal waiting in the dark, and the Monkey Island soundtrack pulling me back to a warm summer evening in 1991. The screen has always been my safe harbour - it just took me thirty years to understand why.

A chance encounter with Ivan Graziani in the mid-nineties, a nod I didn't deserve, and the years it took to understand what he already knew about our sea and the places we leave behind.

A snowy drive to a meeting that turned out to have nothing to do with IT - and a pizzaiolo who understood politics better than the politicians.