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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.

An anonymous white bottle in a 2001 photo brings back the sharp smell of adolescence - of treatments, hidden shame, and the night I looked in the mirror and finally saw what everyone else already had.

A morning walk through Ferrara becomes a journey through scent and memory - from London coffee to a grandmother's market, from ancient hospital corridors to the unmistakable perfume of fresh bread.

A rubber keychain shaped like a foot, a Piaggio Zip, and the sweet, terrifying taste of independence.