While I was doing some work around the house, a screwdriver slipped and I gave myself a small cut on my hand. Nothing serious, but I decided to disinfect it and put on a plaster. But where are the plasters? My wife thought she had put them in the bathroom cabinet, but... nothing. Failing that, I remembered there were some in the cabinet that had been moved - eleven years ago - from the old house. Old, perhaps, but probably still usable. When I opened the cabinet, I found a small cotton swab, still sealed, whose existence I had completely forgotten. I smiled - which drew my wife's curiosity - because...

That afternoon in 2011, I was on top of the world. I was getting ready for a series of connected events I had been looking forward to for some time. I was going to an introductory meeting with an important potential client - one that would have allowed me to do wonderful things - and then a journey of around 150 kilometres to somewhere else, for a rather important evening, and the following morning, another work meeting. In those two days I would lay the foundations for my entire future and, after such a long time, I was truly, truly proud. I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the house, and I liked what I saw. My smile was full, rich, bright. I decided to take a photo of myself in front of the mirror, to capture that moment.

Keys - taken. Wallet - taken. Laptop - of course. Suitcase with everything I'll need - yes. Does the car have a full tank of diesel? Yes. After closing the shutters and taking one last satisfied look at the living room, I locked up and got into the car.

The Thick as a Brick CD - to get myself going - and off. The journey went smoothly, filled with thoughts about what I would propose, how I would play it. And the meeting was a success: their situation was a disaster, and my project would give them stability within a few days. They approved it immediately, without any hesitation. In the meantime, an unexpected message had arrived, which I only saw at the end of the meeting. This message carried considerable weight - perhaps as much as the previous meeting, though in an entirely different context - and I read it twice, feeling my heartbeat shift. I arranged an evening programme, given how close my hotel was to this person.

I put on the Thick as a Brick CD again, this time turning up the volume and driving more calmly. I watched the people in the other cars and tried to read their expressions. Now and then, someone would look back at me. Who knows whether my expression gave away my emotions. What I do know is that I got a few smiles in return.

While I was comfortably overtaking, I felt something strange in my mouth. I paid no attention - I had eaten a sandwich not long before - and carried on singing. Until the moment I glanced down and saw fresh blood on my shirt. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. My entire mouth was red, and a trickle of blood was running down my face. I opened my mouth and saw a whole pool of fresh blood, with no way of understanding where it was coming from. I froze. I turned off the music. I indicated right and pulled into the first service area I could find.

I couldn't make sense of anything. On instinct, I just thought about rinsing. I opened a small bottle of water I had brought with me, rinsed and spat out of the car door. Again and again, but the more I rinsed, the more the blood increased. The pool beside my door had become enormous, swelled by the blood diluting with water. I decided to run to the service station bathroom.

I don't like the sight of blood - but I immediately thought to bring my bag with me, with my precious laptop inside. They get stolen all the time, precisely when you're travelling alone and you step away toward the bathroom. The blood kept flowing, kept filling my mouth. That taste, that terrible taste, wouldn't leave me. I couldn't understand. The more I tried to find the source, the more agitated I became, the more it accumulated in my mouth.

I started to feel dizzy. I couldn't tell whether it was from the fright or from losing too much blood, but in either case, there was no time to work it out. I decided to sit down, not far from the sinks, on the floor. The service station was fortunately clean, and various people were coming and going. I had come from a work meeting - I was well dressed, with my bag. I was pale, my shirt stained, and visibly worried. I decided to half-close my eyes for a moment, without allowing myself to faint - and I decided that no, I was not going to die there, like that.

Meanwhile, dozens of people came and went. Lorry drivers, family men, businesspeople, young people and not so young - it was a busy service station at peak time. And I was there, worried and deeply ashamed, sitting in the corner of a motorway service station bathroom, alone, with blood coming out of my mouth. Many people saw me. Nobody asked if I needed help. I didn't need help - I would have asked - but nobody cared. Nobody alerted the staff. At best, I was invisible. At worst, someone to glance at sideways with disgust.

I could have cried - from shame, from fear, from the sense of emptiness. Then, all at once, I understood that no, I was not going to die in this corner of a service station, and that, in fact, the bleeding had stopped a few minutes ago.

I waited a moment longer and stood up. I rinsed the shirt - cold water removes fresh blood, a friend had taught me - and decided I would change it as soon as I got back to the car. Or perhaps not - what if the blood started flowing again?

I rinsed my mouth once more and returned to the car. I saw the pool of my blood beside the door, stepped over it, and continued on my way, with the headache of someone who had come close to passing out.

After about ten kilometres, I felt the taste of blood again. I opened my mouth and saw it was coming from a tooth - that wisdom tooth. It had decided to push through on exactly that day, far from home, with such important plans ahead. I reassured myself and simply managed the situation. I understood that by breathing through my mouth and letting air in, it would stop. My dear old platelets - you just have to stop rinsing them away.

Calmer, I continued my journey to my destination, my hotel. I checked in and went to my room to have a long shower. I didn't cancel the rest of my plans, but adapted accordingly. I took off the shirt, looked at it carefully, and decided that if the blood didn't come out, I would dye it a dark colour once I got home. I checked that the others were in order - they were, and I always pack at least one spare. The shower was long and relaxing. I changed into the other shirt - the one I had packed not for work, but for the evening - and checked myself in the mirror one more time before going out.

That night I fell asleep very, very late. The room was exactly as I had left it - yet somehow emptier. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to be alone. I didn't feel calm. Yes, the wisdom tooth and the bleeding seemed to have stopped hours ago - but I was alone, in an anonymous, clean, sterile hotel room. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to die there either - I thought - though this time almost mocking myself for the excessive fear of the afternoon.

When I woke the next morning, I made an unpleasant discovery: the pillow and the sheets were heavily stained with blood. I felt guilty. White sheets, a wonderfully comfortable pillow - ruined. After a shower, I went down for breakfast, making sure to eat only soft things. I went back to the room and got ready for the next appointment, though worried about this new episode of blood loss.

I went down to reception to check out. The receptionist was different from the one the previous evening: an older man, professional, with a reassuring smile - but with wrinkles that showed the smile was simply a professional habit. I handed over the room key and explained what had happened, asking to pay for the extra cleaning or any damage my blood might have caused to their linen.

All at once, his smile became real. "You can't imagine what we find in the rooms", he murmured. And he asked me to wait. After about a minute, he came back with a small white bag. "These are two gum swabs. If it happens again, place one on the affected area. It will absorb the blood and help the wound close." He wouldn't let me pay for them. I thanked him warmly and said I hoped we'd meet again. "Oh, that won't happen. Today is my last day." As he said it, though, his smile shifted, and his face settled back into the shape of his wrinkles, until the greeting for the next guest.

"I've never understood what that thing is, but I suppose it's ready to be thrown away by now?" My wife knew about my adventure on that trip, but some details were and will remain mine alone.

"Nothing, just a swab to absorb blood in case of problems with a tooth. It's fifteen years old, but I want to keep it anyway."

She asked no more questions, and carried on looking for a plaster to cover my slight abrasion.

Anatoly's mother had her eyes lowered, beneath the table. "Why are you looking at your phone? The roast is getting cold!" She put the phone down with a quick, seemingly involuntary gesture. "I haven't heard from my son in two days. It happens, sometimes: at the front they have no signal, and until the mission is over, no one gets in touch. But this time... I don't know." We looked at each other for a second and reassured her. We all knew he was heading to the front, to replace a young man who had been seriously wounded. We all put on a mask of a smile and began to eat, talking about the usual trivialities people talk about over a meal: it was the 25th of March and spring was beginning to make itself felt. And Anatoly's mother, who has worked for our family for over ten years, had already started putting flowers on the balconies of the house. A way of adding colour to such a grey time.

On International Women's Day, Anatoly's mother was smiling. Her son had sent her a message with his wishes. He had been moved to the rear lines a few days earlier and, at last, could sleep in a bed. Could wash. Because in the trenches, he told her, days passed all the same, sleeping on the ground, without washing. And in those few hours of light sleep, the nightmare was always the same: the sound of a drone - the kind of drone that, if you hear it, it is already too late. But now, thankfully, he was calmer. Perhaps he might even manage to come home for a few days - who knows - to see his sisters. He wasn't convinced himself; he said it with conviction. The conviction of someone who hopes it might happen. "And you, Mamma, how are you?" She laughed, though moved: she was safe, in Italy, in a warm house with people who have treated her as part of the family for many years. With her aches and pains as age advances, she is well. And yet he worried about how she was doing.

Only a few months earlier, at the end of 2025, Anatoly's mother had received a message. "Mamma, I'm scared. I don't want to die." He was travelling to the front, knowing he would remain there - hopefully - for a long time. An early return would have been decidedly ill-omened, because you only come back early in two ways: wounded or dead. "You won't die, my son. Be brave." We have known her for many years; she is an extremely strong woman and could say nothing else. Her eyes, as she told us, said everything: she would have run there, to take him, to bring him home. But her country is at war and there was nothing she could do. Thirty-five years old, in good health and, like all his brothers, a handsome young man. Until a few months earlier he had been working in Poland, but at a certain point he had to return, and although all his older brothers were already at war, they needed him too. He accepted because he had no other choice. "And you, how are you?" Anatoly's mother smiled. "I'm fine, my son. I'm fine, don't worry about me." She told us this with a smile. The smile of someone who, every day, hopes a message will arrive from her son. "I'm fine, Mamma, don't worry." Even when he was under the bombs. Even when his friend was killed, hit by a drone.

On the morning of the 26th of March, Anatoly's mother was on her way back from the hospital, to collect test results from a few days earlier. When the phone rang, at an unusual hour and from a family member, she answered without a second's thought. Her expression changed instantly and her voice broke. They told her nothing, only that she was needed at home. She already knew what had happened. A mother knows without knowing. She packed in a rush, throwing into a suitcase whatever she could, and managed to catch the bus that same evening. Over twenty-four hours of travel expected, which would become many, many more.

Anatoly's mother said goodbye to her son on the 2nd of April, burying him in the local cemetery. The mud was so deep that the municipality had to intervene with heavy equipment to allow the ceremony to take place. The mayor published photographs. His friends, a video. She saw him for the last time, his face clearly recognisable and at peace, though marked by trauma and wounds. But they told her not to touch him: only the visible parts were still presentable. She approached his coffin and leaned down, supported by one of her daughters. She had always known - always known - it would end like this. But Anatoly's mother, like all mothers, had hoped until the very last that, at least for him, fate would have looked the other way. Their family is Catholic, but the funeral was celebrated by Orthodox priests: the Catholics were busy with Easter preparations and were unable to celebrate the funeral of young Anatoly. But none of this matters very, very much to Anatoly's mother.

A jolt. I check the time: it's early. Too early. But I know this state of mind, and staying in bed would serve no purpose. I hate it, but there's nothing I can do. I lifted my head and immediately felt the weight of my thoughts, of what I heard last night. An evening in which the hope - held for many years - of never again having to go to bed with certain thoughts, shattered.

Still carrying the scent of coffee, I put on my earbuds, started my music, and switched on my computer. The terminal was waiting for me, as always. I smiled.

bastille create new_project 15.0-RELEASE 10.1.1.1 bastille0

I entered my world, where time is measured in beats per second. I began to fly, through that series of words incomprehensible to most, yet dear and familiar to me. Those words don't judge me, don't accuse me, don't attack me. I feel safe, among the bits of my computer.

When I heard arguing, I would run to my room and close the door. I would switch on my record player, turn up the volume, and leave the present behind. Arguments and fights, or just ill tempers. Situations that were sometimes difficult - too difficult for a child, too thin to turn to food, too small to truly understand what was happening. No one could really comprehend. And I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, because the one time I had, it was later used to make fun of me.

When my first computer arrived, I was too young to use it for anything other than games - at least for a while - so I flew on fantasy alone. When I played Maniac Mansion, I was in that house with them. When it was Zak McKracken's turn, I travelled the world with him. I had no interest in finishing the game - only in seeing the "world" and discovering what was out there. When The Secret of Monkey Island arrived, I was in the Caribbean with Guybrush. I was Guybrush.

Inside my computer - inside that screen - everything was predictable. My video games were a safe harbour. No one would insult me, humiliate me, scold me. They were worlds where I could express myself without being judged. My brain was stimulated. I felt safe.

My mind is still desperately thirsty today - my spirit is still that of the child who travelled, and my safety, my world, are still my bits. The operating systems I love are my blank page. The keys on the keyboard spread the ink. The voice of the community, my friends - the people with whom to share a passion, and what makes the world a more liveable place.

I was testing the setup, with a satisfied smile, when the Monkey Island soundtrack began to play.

I looked out of the window and it was still dark. I turned my head forward and I was at my desk, with my Amiga, on a warm summer evening in 1991. In my eyes, the tears of a child setting off on a new adventure, shutting the whole world out of his room. For the first time, he was wearing the clothes of that character. For the first time, the warm breeze coming through the window carried the scent of the Caribbean. That child, that evening, was Guybrush.

I am still Guybrush.

I was driving. Thinking. Listening to music. Resetting my mind. Left and right, haze, flatland and cultivated fields. I watched the road markings follow one another, all identical, in time with the prog-rock I was listening to. Hypnotic. They seemed to do it on purpose. I smiled. Suddenly, the mix changed, and one of Ivan Graziani's masterpieces began to play. And my smile faded.

When I was a teenager, I regarded him with suspicion. He had been born a few kilometres from me, many years earlier, had studied in my city, and yet he didn't appreciate it. Somehow, I disliked him. I liked his sounds, not his words - so hostile towards the places I held dear.

And yet his music made me fly. I would travel, remember. The few memories of a teenager, but already precious. His sea - my sea - I could have written those words myself. Or perhaps not, but the feeling is the same. Too complex for a teenager. I didn't think about it.

One evening I crossed paths with him, right in "our" city. I recognised him and gave him a nod. He returned it with a smile - eloquent, communicative. To an idiotic kid who still hadn't understood a thing. He, on the other hand, had already understood everything. A few years later, when I read about his death, it didn't touch me. He was young - but old enough and distant enough from me. Very distant. But he stayed forever young, and I, year after year, drew closer to him. In age, certainly. But I gradually understood that he had been right - oh, how right he had been - about so many other things. And his warm words became a comfort, breaking through the solitude, knowing I was not the only one to feel those specific emotions.

As he described our sea, the asphalt turned to sand and the road markings to waves. Yes, it is our sea he is singing about! I can hear it in the details. In the depth of the emotions. How much he missed it, just as I miss it now. We are like two seashells, he and I. We can be anywhere, but hold one to your ear and you will always hear the sound of the sea.

My smile returned, wider, calmer. If I could go back to that evening in the mid-nineties, I would thank him. But there is no need. He had already understood. Long before I could understand myself, long before life taught me to listen to my own voice.

Thank you, Ivan.

I flick the indicator. Time to park.

The day is drawing to a close and, before dinner, I sit down to read the news. The count from today's referendum is nearly over and the result seems fairly clear-cut. Some are celebrating, others "reflecting" on what went wrong. Everyone is talking. No one, by now, remembers what was actually being voted on. Perhaps, for the average voter, it never mattered. Perhaps the real subject didn't interest the politicians either. The purpose, as always, was a pure battle between parties.

That winter was cold - the kind of cold we haven't seen since - and that day I would gladly have stayed home, working from my slow but stable ADSL connection of less than 1 Mbit/sec. Poor even then, but necessity breeds resourcefulness. It was urgent, though. Necessary. Two words that have always made everything else seem secondary. The front door made an unusual sound - a delayed click. The ice had crept into the mechanism, and my nose immediately caught that scent of fog and snow together, so rare to find combined.

Had it been an ordinary day, I would have watched from the window, opening it now and then to savour that fragrance, stretching out an arm to feel the frozen flake settle on my hand, already chilled and dampened by the freezing mist.

The car was in the garage, but the moment I pulled out, the wheels showed signs of poor grip. Even winter tyres weren't enough. But motivation - that was more than enough. As I drove slowly, struggling to see the road through the thickening fog, I was already thinking about the potential new project they were going to propose. I had put forward a couple of ideas - in my view extremely useful and affordable - and they had shown a certain enthusiasm. But the journey was much longer than expected, so my mind wandered everywhere, without my even noticing. I wondered whether I would have made the same trip, in the same conditions, without this urgency. But urgency, when it concerns public budgets, must always be respected.

There were no parking spaces, except… a mound of snow. I didn't think twice and climbed on top of it, thanks to the rear-wheel drive, though I couldn't quite make it all the way. The car, being short, fitted within the allotted space. I smiled, and a snowflake landed on my forehead.

I headed straight to my contact's office. He greeted me with a triumphant smile. "You made it in this weather. You're a person of incredible motivation. Exactly what we need. We've had some ideas here, and we'd like to share them with you." I was about to speak, but: "We're confident our collaboration will be extremely long and lasting. We all agree. All of us."

That all of us, for reasons I couldn't explain, made my blood run cold.

Two other people arrived whom I had never seen before. They introduced themselves, courteously. In that moment I thought they must have been printing smiles in that office - identical ones. Or perhaps they were fraternal twins, separated at birth. I smiled too, to blend in with this carnival of good cheer, still without having said a single word.

"You are young, upright, well-regarded, respected. You work in an innovative, valued sector. You are someone who can be trusted, and we need you."

I strengthened my smile, turning it into my own.

"One of our current problems is the stagnation of the political class, in the face of demographic change. The elderly are dying, the young are growing up with different ideas, and there are many new arrivals. We're expanding demographically - and not through new births."

I put my polite smile back on, to mask the fact that I wasn't understanding a thing. I didn't even try, this time, to take the floor.

"Many people who come to live here weren't born here. They study, they graduate, and the many industries in our area attract them - drawing them to settle nearby. And you weren't born here, but you're a figure that many people know, esteem, and respect. You are the archetype of the new citizen, and that could be very useful to us."

But I didn't even live there. What were they asking me? I didn't understand - at first. But I sensed something strange in their request. It was time to clarify, but…

"It doesn't matter which political alignment you choose. These gentlemen are the local representatives of the two major parties, and both would be delighted to have you on board. The choice should be ideological, but try to be pragmatic. After all, both sides have their spheres of influence, and you won't lack for work, in the position you'll hold. People will seek you out because you think like them. And for us, a new face would be gold, in this moment of political disaffection."

My smile turned, abruptly, to paralysis. I tried to speak, but…

"You can always change your mind and switch to the other side. Some have done it, and although it may seem absurd, some voters appreciate someone who changes their mind - they see it as a human quality, like their own."

I interrupted him.

"Are you asking me to stand for election, in either of the two parties? I have no experience. No competence in the matter. Shouldn't I start from the bottom first?"

His smile became almost paternal, like the other two:

"My dear boy, it doesn't matter. You'll learn. Besides, people don't want experience - experience makes you cautious, and caution is boring. They want someone young, resolute, convincing. Tell them what they like to hear, with confidence. That will be more than enough. In the meantime, party dynamics count more than individual ideas." And their smiles turned into a laugh. Genuine, probably. Sardonic, to my eyes.

I froze, and decided to put their same smile back on.

"Thank you for the offer and for the trust. Without doubt, it's interesting. But I need to think about it - you must give me time. I would never have expected this; it wasn't in my plans. I need to reflect."

"Of course!" replied Stan (of Stan's Previously Owned Vessels). "Take all the time you want - we're always here. Just give us a sign and we'll always be ready to meet and give you all the details you need."

As soon as I stepped outside the building, I quickened my pace toward the Smart. The snow was bothering me now and I brushed it from my face with sharp, impatient movements. The mound of snow was still there, and so was my Smart. I accelerated to build some momentum and, without even realising it, went into a slight spin. I shifted the lever to D and pulled away, sharply.

I reached home in some indefinite stretch of time, my mind empty. I left the Smart outside and went upstairs, almost slamming the door to make sure it wouldn't freeze shut. I opened the fridge - full of everything - but closed it thinking: "Pizza." I went out again, this time on foot, to pick one up. A few words with someone, I thought, would do me good.

"The usual, thanks." Luca looked at me, probably thinking I had got out of bed on the wrong side, and said nothing more. The television, in the background, was showing the news. At one point an important national politician appeared, charming the journalists with their own words.

"Crooks. Phonies. Hypocrites. Only clinging to their seats, that's all they are" - I whispered in my mind. But, perhaps, not only in my mind. Luca looked at me, while with practised, expert gestures he stretched out my pizza, and said with a smile: "Only just worked that out, have you?"

My wife's expression was distant. It was clear she had no interest whatsoever in seeing a photo from 2001, in which I was showing off a corner of my university bedroom, just to point out where I had placed my green iMac, bought second-hand at a very high price. But out of affection, she encouraged me and waited patiently.

When I found the photo, my attention shifted to a secondary detail: that anonymous white bottle, barely visible on one side. And I could smell it again - that sharp, acrid smell, now unbearable to me, that had followed me for a very long time.

I had just turned sixteen when my mother started saying she was finding my hair on the pillow. She was worried, and so was my father. Honestly - I had so much of it, it could only have been their obsession. It was beautiful, glossy, thick. I liked it, even though I kept it short for convenience. I was doing a lot of sport, so it made sense to keep it practical. But given everything we had been through in the years before, I didn't feel like arguing, so I simply acknowledged their obsession and went along with it. I showed no concern whatsoever - I washed it often, it all seemed firmly in place - but if it meant putting their minds at rest, I was willing to go along with their suggestions. The first of which was a visit to a dermatologist friend of the family. He was professional and kind and, as I expected, said I had a great deal of hair. But who knows - stress, genetics - it would be wise to act early, to prevent things from becoming a problem. Doctors. There was an entire line of products: incredibly foul-smelling ampoules to apply in the evening, designed to stimulate the hair follicles. So foul-smelling that after applying them, I had to sit still for around half an hour with a towel over my shoulders, and the pillowcase needed changing every two days because of the stains and the smell. Then in the morning, my hair had to be washed with that shampoo. A shampoo in a plain white bottle, anonymous. Expensive, but not outrageously so - the kind sold in pharmacies. The good news was that my hair really was glossy and beautiful. The bad news was that the whole thing had become a kind of slavery, and the smell of the ampoules lingered even after washing. At best, it mixed with the shampoo, creating something different. After a few months, I stopped noticing.

Time passed, and the visits, the ampoules, the washing continued. I looked at myself and genuinely didn't understand why any of this was necessary. But after what had happened, I thought it was something that reassured them, so I kept enduring it, going along with it. Of course I was irritated. It was a form of slavery. And that smell, which I had grown somewhat used to, was still different from the scent I would have wanted. But I put up with it, covering it by wearing a great deal of cologne and aftershave. My friends never said anything - in fact, they said I always smelled clean. They teased me gently, saying I smelled "too good" for a teenager, but in a positive way. I will be grateful to them for that for the rest of my life.

I was seventeen and in the changing room at school, after PE. That day I'd finished getting dressed before the others and had gone out to the entrance area. Everyone would gradually arrive there, including the girls from my class, so we could organise ourselves for the next lesson. That day, as class representative, I'd been tasked with asking the teacher to go over a topic again - a clever technique to try to avoid any kind of oral test - but I needed to coordinate with my co-representative, so we could make the request together and give it more weight. The changing rooms were at opposite ends - the boys' was at the far end of the corridor, the girls' had two doors but was close to where I was standing. One of the doors had been left open, so you could hear what was being said inside. Out of habit, I wasn't deliberately listening, but when I heard my name, curiosity got the better of reason - and of the lesson I already knew clearly at seventeen: sometimes it's better not to know.

A voice - one I didn't identify in that moment - said cheerfully: "...he can't cover that incredible stench of whatever it is he has on him. He puts on so much cologne, but it's pathetic because the smell still wins." And a general laugh broke out. My brain refused to identify that voice, or the laughter that followed. When someone stabs you in the back, you often don't want to know who is driving the knife in. It would hurt so much more.

The door opened and the first of the girls came out of the changing room. When she saw me standing there, and realised the other door had been left open, she froze. I decided to pretend nothing had happened, that I had heard nothing, and with a smile I asked if my co-representative was ready, as we needed to coordinate. Escaping her discomfort, she replied with half a smile: "Yes, she's coming. Bye!"

I never spoke about it to anyone.

When I got home, I made a decision: I would never put those ampoules on my head again. At most, I would keep using the shampoo. But the ampoules - no. I didn't explain why. I didn't want them to feel guilty about any of it. After all, even if in their own way, they were doing it for my good. And yet I felt trapped - without knowing how to get out. We agreed I would finish the current box of ampoules - there were still a few months' worth left - and then we wouldn't buy more. They were very expensive, but according to my parents, they were working. "Expensive, this placebo", I thought - and not just in financial terms.

A few months later came one of the highlights of the year: a Carnival party, organised by an important local association, where you could attend either in costume or well-dressed - jacket and tie - and only by invitation. I always had an invitation, thanks to my friends, and I looked forward to it every year. This time, though, everything was different: in the meantime I had turned eighteen and got my driving licence. When I got dressed at home, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I hadn't used the ampoules for two days - to avoid the smell - and my hair was glossy and bright.

That evening I arrived by car and brought a friend along, who I signed in with me. A girl who was and would remain only a friend - but that evening, I felt genuinely good about myself. I was independent - my own car! I arrived with a beautiful girl - just a friend, of course, but all of it made me feel good - and I felt adult, accepted. Respected. There was dinner, then the after-dinner - the moment when they played music for our generation and people danced. It was the late nineties, disco music still had a pulse, even if its final stages, while we were in full bloom. At a certain point I got thirsty, took a break, went for a glass of water. I decided to stop by the bathroom to rinse my face and wash off the sweat. As I splashed water on my face, I was thinking about how wonderful the evening was, how marvellous it was to be growing up and becoming an adult. I looked up at the mirror, smiling the smile of someone who is happy. I looked straight into my own eyes - bright, full of energy - and then I saw something: above those eyes, my hair was thin. At the front, and on top. I tried moving it a little - maybe the sweat had flattened it? - but nothing changed. I froze.

A close friend walked into the bathroom. I looked at him. He looked at me. A moment - just a moment - and then he gave a small nod, the kind that doesn't need words. I pushed all the negative emotions back down, overwhelmed by the positive ones. This was me. This was really me. I ran a hand through my hair to put it back in order, and walked back into the ballroom, smiling, with an enormous sense of relief. I would carry on with the ampoules and that shampoo in its anonymous white bottle for years more.

Until life, like the bottle, came into colour.

Morning errands in the city centre have a bittersweet flavour. The need to park far away brings a long walk which, depending on the day, can be either a punishment or a tonic.

This morning fell at that particular hour - the moment when every city releases its own scent. Like nature in spring, every city gives its best when the morning's activities begin to stir. Like when a curtain rises: the real theatre begins. The one where, in London, you could smell the Starbucks coffee everyone carried to the office. Too hot to consume on the go, scalding at just the right temperature to fill the air, otherwise already saturated with the smell of kebab. The one where, in Paris, you smell croissants and pain au chocolat, while the traffic on the Champs-Élysées reminds you that frenzy and poetry travel side by side, there. The one where, when I went to the market with my grandmother, it meant I would soon be eating my corn focaccia - the reward for... having eaten. Because, back then, getting me to eat was difficult, and they tried everything just to stop me wasting away.

And crossing Corso della Giovecca, you catch the stately, ancient scent of the old hospital. A place of care, respect, and reverence - the way hospitals were once regarded. Different and distant from the smell of disinfectant in the new one. Brighter, certainly. Precisely - more sterile. Smells that are familiar to me - like when I used to visit my parents at work, in a hospital too, but hundreds of kilometres from here. Yet the sensations remain the same.

The Palazzina Marfisa d'Este opens its ancient door and, from within, that unmistakable scent of old walls, mingled with the perfume of the flowers in its garden and freshly cut grass. And then the bars - from which drifts the aroma of espresso, typical of Italian bars - and the older the barista, the further back in time that scent carries you. The many buildings, at that hour, see their occupants stepping out to reach their destinations. Peeking inside, you glimpse damp courtyards, well-kept gardens, car parks. Or heaps of useless clutter, mixed with mould and weeds. Bicycles - oh, so many of them - everywhere. And each one emits its own perfume, its own smell. As people reach their destinations, these places come alive, and from their freshly reopened doors comes the scent of that building's era: the ancient ones smell of damp, almost of mould - but a precious, ancient mould. The merely old ones carry the typical smell of their era. For someone like me who has already lived through a few decades, these scents are somehow linked to memories of my own life, lived in buildings of that period. The modern ones, by contrast, smell of newness, of the future. Perhaps a little sterile, but clean.

Arriving in the main square, the distance between the buildings frees the air, and you breathe in history, antiquity. The many university students, sitting at tables talking about their insurmountable problems - love affairs, exams, accommodation - carry the mind forward, connecting past to future. Speaking of the present. And the scent is tied to whichever drink is fashionable at the moment, always surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of cappuccino. I'm not a cappuccino lover, but that scent takes me back to my university years. Then as now, in Bologna, I liked walking to lectures. Three and a half kilometres through the city centre, crossing streets full of bars, trattorias, hotels, hostels. Flats of young students stumbling out of their doors, still half-asleep, their faces still bearing the marks of the long night before. Like the nights I spent with my flatmates - sometimes until four in the morning - sitting on chairs, laughing, joking, chatting, talking about everything and nothing. Dreaming of the life we - hoped - we would have.

But the scent that envelops Ferrara in the morning is mainly one: bread. The coppietta, but not only. Every kind of bread, expertly prepared by artisans or bakeries that still contribute to the beauty of the landscape with an unmistakable, unique perfume. Bread that I remember, as a child, on my aunt's table. She wasn't from Ferrara, but she loved that kind of bread all the same. I liked it, yes, but it was... how to put it... exotic. It was the scent of the trip to my aunt and uncle's house, which I loved so much. Also because my uncle had a PC - which I didn't yet understand, except that the files I could run were the ones marked .com, .bat, or .exe - and it looked so professional!

Then, as the hours pass, the scents shift to the residential streets, which, with windows open, enrich the air with the aroma of ragù - each one different, mind you! - prepared by the person who lives in those places, following the ancient recipe of their mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, in a ritual that remains unchanged despite the passing of time. Just as my grandmother used to do. Just as my mother does. As I do myself.

When evening falls, the scents change. The aroma of cappuccino transforms into spritz. That of bread becomes pizza. That of ragù turns into roast. Even Marfisa d'Este changes its scent, because the open windows and the coming and going of people have altered its atmosphere. And when people return to their homes, they imbue the buildings with a different aroma. All day long, they will have turned on air conditioners, opened windows, set out fragrances. But, all at once, they return to silence. And the silence, in the night, will restore their dignity and their original character. Because people, with time, come and go. They appear and they vanish. But the scent of the city - that remains.

I was staring at the rubber keychain, shaped like a big foot. I was bursting with anticipation. The next morning, weather permitting, I would go to school on my scooter. On my scooter. My "Zippo" - that’s what I called it because it was a Piaggio Zip - which had been sitting there for years, waiting for this moment. That evening, I told my grandfather that no, he wouldn't be driving me to school the next morning. "But it might rain", he remarked, just to make me give up. I didn't care about his "adjusted" weather forecasts. I was going to get on Zippo. That night, I barely slept. It was September 1996, and the moment had arrived. That moment.

The next morning, my friend pulled up under my house and honked. It was time to go. I grabbed the keys and, instinctively, brought the keychain to my nose. I smelled the scent - that specific smell of rubber that, from that moment on, would be, for me, the scent of freedom.

Wearing my full-face helmet, I was terrified. But my friend was with me, on his trusty 60s Vespa, to escort me. I nodded, he took off. I followed. The smell inside the new helmet was strong, and the promise I had made to my parents was clear: I would get a license to drive any motorcycle by taking proper driving school courses. Only on those conditions would they allow me to keep riding my Zippo. Conditions I found decidedly acceptable.

During my first trip, I thought about my grandfathers. The one at home, disappointed to have "lost" his taxi driver role, and the other one, who had died two years earlier, who had given me the scooter and the helmet. And I felt lucky. Fear gave way to satisfaction. A kid left home. A young man arrived at school that morning.

When I arrived at school, I flew to my classroom. I walked in and, as per tradition, placed Zippo’s key on the teacher's desk. My classmates cheered and congratulated me. Another one of us had crossed that milestone of life.

That sense of freedom and growth changed me. I started to feel different. To carry myself more securely. To have greater awareness, and this improved my social relationships, my self-esteem, my perspectives.

Then came a day of frost. One of the few, at those latitudes. My grandfather warned me: "Be careful - it's going to freeze tomorrow morning". I didn't listen to him. When my friend came by, we set off in a line, as usual. At the curve of the bridge, I saw him skid slightly, but before I could process it... boom, I was on the ground. The speed was low, so I didn't get hurt, but I damaged Zippo. My friend turned around and burst out laughing. I was more disappointed than in pain, and I decided to go back home. Not for the dirty jeans. Not for the pain. For the shame.

The next day, at 7:30, my grandfather was waiting for me proudly in his blue Fiat 131. That regained role had rejuvenated him by five years. The same years I felt I had lost the moment I admitted to myself I didn't want to try that road again. So the following day, I decided to try again, and on that fateful bridge, I managed to keep my Zippo upright. Arriving triumphantly near the school, I realized there was a cluster of young people right at the street's curve: there was another sheet of ice, and as they arrived, they slipped and fell. One by one, almost all of them. I realized it in time and got off before the curve. Instinctively, I started signaling from the road to slow down. Some followed my advice. Others decided to kiss the asphalt. Maybe it served as a lesson to them. Or maybe not.

January arrived, and I was at driving school. I liked the lessons, and right after, I would go to my tennis practice, not far from there. All on my own. That afternoon, however, tennis lessons were suspended: heavy rain was forecast, and the courts, at river level, would almost certainly flood. When the driving lesson ended, the heavens had opened. I waited two minutes and got on the scooter anyway. My mother, worried, called the driving school. She asked them to stop me, saying she would come by car, but the secretary looked out and saw neither me nor my Zippo. At that instant, I opened the front door: my mother burst out laughing. It looked like I had just stepped out of a bathtub, leaving rivers of water behind me. "Rain is not a problem", I repeated. "Freedom cannot be contained by a little water", I thought.

In May, a good opportunity arrived: my father was buying a Vespa ET4 125, and they had made him a good offer for another scooter - bigger, modern, fashionable. A Gilera Runner. I accepted willingly; I would have one of the trendiest scooters, and I didn't mind that. But I knew I would miss my Zippo, so on the day of the handover, I decided to make a short video, immortalizing all the details I had grown attached to. I still have that video, with the faded colors of a VHS recorded in a hurry in a garage. I took off the keychain and decided to keep it as a souvenir. And the helmet would stay with me, of course. Along with the hair I was starting to find inside it, even if I wasn't paying attention to it. It didn't take many hours to realize I had made a monstrous mistake, because Zippo was small and light, maneuverable. This new one might have been fashionable, yes, but decidedly too high and uncomfortable for me. But that is another story.

Years later, I was already in Bologna. I had another "Zippo" - which I adored - and the same helmet. One evening I went to the cinema, in the center, and coming out I found a surprise: they had forced open the compartment under the seat and stolen my helmet. That helmet, the only remaining part of my grandfather's gift. Old, smelly by now, but it was my helmet. My reaction was very, very negative. To the point that when I got home, a friend and housemate tried to calm me down by downplaying it, reminding me that there was probably more hair inside that helmet than on my head. He was good. I was not. I lashed out verbally, almost insulting him, even though he remained calm until the end and let me vent. Then I told him the story of the helmet, and he lowered his gaze and, in a friendly way, patted me on the shoulder. I probably still owe him an apology for that night, if he remembers it. He probably forgot it many, many years ago.

From time to time, when I am at my parents' house, I open my old memory drawer. There are many of my things - many from that very period - and last time I found the "big foot". Faded, hardened by 30 years. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose again. And I still smell, intact, the scent of freedom.

179 Euros.

Decidedly over the budget I had set for myself. But it was beautiful, Japanese, big, and efficient. It had a grill and a "crisp plate". Terms whose meaning I ignored at the time, but they sounded good.

I thought about it for a few seconds. There were only two left, and a couple of gentlemen were approaching, looking interested. After all, the original price was 299 Euros, so it was an excellent deal.

Impulsively, I grabbed the box - large and decidedly heavier than I expected - and headed toward the checkout, satisfied.

I had already owned a microwave for many years, but a cheap model had broken down back in 2008. When I threw it away, I learned to do without it. It was 2008, and doing without had become something I was getting used to, willy-nilly.

But I had recently reappreciated its advantages during a trip and didn't want to do without it anymore. "So I did well to get a good model", I thought as I struggled to get to the car. However, I hadn't reckoned with one detail: that day, in Bologna, I had gone with the Smart. And that big box, in the trunk of a Smart car, would never fit. Since I was alone, I managed to work some magic with the passenger seat and, somehow (under the amused and approving gaze of the shop assistant, who had carefully avoided helping me), I managed to load it.

When I arrived home, triumphant, a neighbor was there. As soon as he saw me open the car door, he burst into laughter. We had never spoken much, but that scene, worthy of a cartoon, was the first step to getting to know each other better. I had a new friend.

This scene, lost for years in the fog of memory, came back to my mind just this morning, while I was defrosting bread for breakfast. Then the “beep” brought me back to the present, leaving a smile on my face. Starting the day in the right way.

Just before lunch, rearranging the freezer, I found a bag of fries. And I went back to 2011 - to that evening when a pizza at the neighbors' house was planned - on the day of my return from a long and tiring trip but, due to a last-minute problem, the evening was canceled. Too late to order a pizza nearby, too cold to go out, alone and not in great shape, to look for another one. I opened the fridge, remembering why I had planned to go grocery shopping the next day. But I found, in the freezer, some fries meant for frying. I had no oil, though, so I decided to try putting them on the crisp plate and firing up my trusty oriental ally. In a few minutes, the scent left no room for doubt: even without oil, I had somehow saved dinner. That term, “crisp plate”, finally made sense.

While making coffee after lunch, a very heavy truck passed by the house, causing a tremor. And my mind went back to May 2012, while continuous earthquake tremors were terrorizing our area. A neighbor was preparing his dinner and, due to a strong shock, the oil in the pan spilled out sideways, ending up on the flame and triggering a small fire. I, for prudence, decided I wouldn't use gas cooking tools, especially at dinner, but only the microwave. In those days, I specialized in many recipes - thanks to the grill, my roasts had become legendary among my friends. Prepared quickly, soft, and seasoned just right. I often thanked this “grill” - even this word, suddenly, made sense—for what followed.

Once cooled, I decided to prepare some jars and freeze the ragù leftover from lunch - which will undoubtedly be useful for dressing pasta at least two more times. Glass jars with a lid - not too full. Seven minutes with program number 3 and they are ready to be poured onto the pasta, hot at the right point. Like when, many years ago, I prepared entire pots (strictly terracotta!) of ragù, letting it boil for hours, as per the traditional recipe. And then I prepared all the jars that I froze and that would be lifesavers when, returning home hungry after a trip or a visit to a client, I was in a rush to eat. Or like that time when my neighbors had a breakdown and found themselves, at lunchtime, without the possibility of cooking, during the heavy snowfall of early 2013. They came to ask if I had gas and, in return, I invited them to share lunch with me. I perfectly defrosted two extra jars and increased the pasta dose. They decided they would buy an oven like that too, and the day ended with many beautiful laughs, made of stories and serene chatter. Snow outside, but human warmth, that was abundant inside the house.

The oven then became a friend to my girlfriend - later wife - who now uses and appreciates it more than I do. After 16 years, the buttons are now faded, and the right side, very close to the stove, has oxidized. But the operation is still perfect and after so many years, for sure, I don't need to read the buttons.

And a little while ago, while I was using it to heat the water for our nightly herbal teas to the perfect temperature, I thought back to how, in some way, it has been a witness to the transformations of my life. In serene moments, in tragedies, in small discoveries - like the fact that in the old house, when it was on, the entire WiFi network stopped working. He has always been there, ready to serve me, a silent witness to many changes. He was the only clock in my kitchen. Then he became a way to discover if the power had gone out during my absences. Then he moved to a new house, in three different positions.

I opened the door, took the cups - at perfect temperature - and said goodbye to him. Until tomorrow morning, when, again, he will defrost and heat my bread to the right point, bread that I learned to make precisely in those years when the oven and I were the only, silent companions of many, many meals.

The doctor, with an air that was austere yet kind, looked up at the patient: "You see, until a few years ago, it was thought that certain pains were of psychosomatic origin. Perfect test results, no instrumental readings, impossible to explain: invented, self-induced. Then we understood that they weren't invented, but real - today we know how to treat them, with good results, restoring a normal life to those who suffer from them. We are not yet able to detect the markers that tell us which nerve endings, transmitters, or whatever element gives or causes these pains, but we know they exist and we know how to treat them. Science will explain this too."

I was a mere spectator of this situation, but fascinated. The doctor's clear, crystalline eyes showed passion and confidence, while her wrinkles, though composed, betrayed the concrete fear of not having enough time to see these developments. To cure her patients. Those who were initially labeled as psychotic, then sick with something unknown, and now, at least, able to lead a normal life. Something she had worked on for a lifetime.

Passion has no age. And that look, that spark, that satisfaction of having identified something others had ignored - I won't forget it easily.

"Keep me updated, let me know.". Smiling, she half-closed the door as she returned to her notes.

The box of the new earbuds stayed closed for a few hours - I had other priorities. Once things calmed down, I took my time to take them out. A necessary unboxing rather than a desired one, because the previous pair, after years of honorable service, had started showing signs of age. I use them mainly for calls, so I need efficient and reliable tools, especially when I'm on the move.

The first thing I tested them with was a podcast I follow, whose new episode was about Pixar. And while some titles were being listed, Up was mentioned. It was in that instant that something sparked, making me reflect.

I still remember the first time I saw it, 16 years ago now. Carl looked just like my grandfather, his "cartoon" version. Identical! But it was a particular moment in my life, a specific situation, a personal mood, a recent impactful experience - I remember the first part touched me deeply. Carl and Ellie's story left an immediate mark. Two invented characters, yet bearers of something true, something profound. Of something wonderfully and joyously painful.

Somehow, I identified with both of them and, for a few days, I often found myself thinking about that situation. A normal situation, one that over the course of a lifetime we might, unfortunately, find ourselves facing. Either they were good at rendering it, or I was particularly susceptible.

Wearing the earbuds and hitting play, I went back to that mood. With 16 more years, a different life, and somehow, a different awareness. At 30, you see certain things as distant. At that moment, perhaps impossible. And I couldn't say if, back then, I was more afraid of living an experience like Carl and Ellie's, or of not living it. Of not wanting to live it. Of not being able to.

Today, everything is different. More certainties, perhaps. Fewer safety nets, certainly. And an awareness: that defending yourself helps protect you, but it makes you lose all the pleasure of what lies in between.

So - I ask myself today - does all this make sense? I don't want to give myself an answer. Or rather, it’s too late to wonder: I'm already on the dance floor, fully involved in the dance. In the meantime, however, I'll enjoy the view, as long as there is still sun to illuminate it.

I'm in bed, but sleep won't come. And in these moments, the mind wanders - often in the wrong directions.

When I was born, it was a joy. Much wanted, I came into the world a bit late, on a cold December morning. The hospital was up on a hill but that hadn't discouraged my loved ones. I didn't seem very eager to come out, apparently, but everyone had rushed to wait for me. Outside the delivery room were my grandparents, without doubt the most impatient. One of my grandfathers walked back and forth along the corridor, restless, while the other (who had already lived through this experience with my cousin) tried to calm and reassure him. It wasn't easy for my mother. A somewhat complicated delivery, but everything turned out well.

When I finally started breathing, many smiled. I had so much hair - red! - and it was impossible to comb it down. The midwife, bringing me out, apologized for not managing to flatten my hair. Poor woman, it wasn't her fault: it's still impossible to flatten it today, even though it's a fraction of what it was back then.

Sometimes I think about the day I'll die. If I'm lucky, I'll be very old. If I'm very lucky, I won't realize it. If she's lucky, my wife won't have to live through this experience. And I think that, probably, I'll die alone. On one hand this reassures me: I've never liked to inconvenience others or to be a burden to them, and I don't want that to happen when I take my leave from life. Yet, from another point of view, it casts a veil of sadness over me. Perhaps I'll be in a sterile hospital room, alone or surrounded by strangers, and when my heart stops I'll be just another old man who passed away, handled with the appropriate professional detachment by staff who see these situations every day.

When I arrived, there was joy, anticipation. I was surrounded by loved ones. When I leave, if I'm lucky, there will be silence, indifference, and solitude.

I close my eyes again, in the overwhelming silence of the night.
Tomorrow morning, thankfully, there will still be familiar people, lights and sounds.
My coffee. My breakfast. My life, still waiting to be lived.

I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock next to my bed. For the first time in days, I had managed to sleep. It was 7 and I was in no hurry to get up, but I no longer felt... I no longer felt the tingling in my legs. I felt nothing.

I fixed my gaze on the photo hanging beside me. The one where I stood leaning against my car, at the Piana di Castelluccio. Standing. I didn't have the courage to try. The moment had arrived - that moment. I wasn't ready. The whirlwind of thoughts continued to envelop me and, as I often do in these cases, my brain told my body to let the thoughts tangle among themselves while I acted. I turned and placed my feet on the ground. I felt the floor beneath me. I stood up. I felt no pain. I tried walking in various directions. I moved. Apart from the back pain, everything from the legs down was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. I sat back on the bed and, finally, managed to cry.

It was a cool but sunny morning in March 2007. I had an appointment at the training center I collaborated with. The goal was to present new courses on Open Source operating systems, focused on Linux and BSDs. The attendees were system administrators expert in other OSs who wanted to approach the open-source world in a systematic, complete, and guided way. I liked it, I liked it a lot, so by 10:15 I was already in the saddle of my trusty Suzuki Burgman scooter. Bologna's traffic, at that hour, was decidedly less intense, but parking a car would have been impossible. Besides, it was a beautiful day; two wheels were undoubtedly the best way to move. I had time, so I planned to enjoy the ride calmly, already thinking about how to present my ideas to the organizers. Smiling, positive, optimistic.

I left the house and put all my documents under the seat, safely stowed. I opened the gate and edged the nose of the scooter out. No cars were coming, so I decided to set off slowly. The limit was 50 km/h, but I had just left, so I was advancing much, much slower. A few meters later, as I was proceeding, I saw something out of the corner of my left eye. Then I felt a blow and lost control of the Burgman. Instinctively, I threw myself off the vehicle, sliding on the asphalt. My gloves, helmet, and jacket completely cushioned the blow, and in a split second, I realized I had made the right choice, without yet understanding what had happened. I was going so slowly that I slid for very little distance; I was already stopped and ready to get up. Before I could even focus, I felt a very strong blow to my back, without feeling any pain. Again, I didn't understand, but I saw the handlebars of the Burgman coming closer right after. Instinctively I stood up, immediately, and turned around.

There was a car, a Fiat Punto, and my scooter near me. The car was trying to maneuver to get around the "obstacle", but I understood immediately, from the damage, that it was a car - that car - that had hit me. I planted myself in the middle of the road and immediately stopped the person behind the wheel, an elderly man - but not too elderly. Meanwhile, some people who had witnessed the scene or heard the noise rushed over. I wasn't alone. He got out of the car and looked at me and the scooter. He only said, "Well, I see you're standing and you haven't hurt yourself, I'd say I can go, right? I'm in a hurry." He wasn't confused. He wasn't trying to pull a fast one. He was just focused on his schedule.

I lost my temper. He only thought about the fact that he "had to leave", and not out of fear or a sense of responsibility. He was distracted. I lashed out, "But didn't you see me coming?" His response, calm and relaxed, froze me: "Of course, but I was in a hurry to get to the bar for my usual card game and I was late. I thought I could squeeze past, I was in a hurry. Anyway, you're standing and the damage seems minimal. I have to go."

No, he wasn't a confused elderly man. He was a person focused on his routine, and this had been just another hindrance. It was him, being himself. I shouted, with the support of the people who had gathered, "No, you're not going anywhere, we're waiting for the Carabinieri." In that moment, fueled by adrenaline, I lifted the Burgman and leaned it against the side of the road. Alone. Immediately after, my vision went almost black, and I had to sit down. A piercing pain in my back which - I realized only then - I had had since the beginning, but the adrenaline was making me ignore. Meanwhile, both the Carabinieri and the Ambulance arrived together. Someone had called them, and they had arrived with some speed.

I got into the ambulance on my own legs, and they examined me immediately. They decided to take me to the hospital for checks, especially for the back pain. Meanwhile, the Carabinieri took their measurements. One of them got into the ambulance. He must have been only a few years older than me and, looking me in the eyes, said words I will never forget: "So much damage, so much pain caused by small distractions, by small things. By our small lives. That man didn't do it on purpose. He is sorry, but he keeps repeating that he was convinced he could get through and keeps emphasizing that 'he couldn't be late'. So much damage, so much pain due to our vices and whims!" A venting from a man who, every day, saw all kinds of things. Yet they were words of comfort. Somehow, this man was bitter for me, sorry. And, probably, in the general confusion, amidst the professionalism of the medical staff and the voyeuristic interest of the passersby, I really needed a contact without barriers.

As soon as he got off, I called the Training Center: "I had a small accident, I won't be able to be there as agreed. Can we postpone by a few days?" They, of course, agreed.

Small accident. I downplayed it. Because, all things considered, I was back on my feet. Because I didn't want to show vulnerability to the client, risking losing this beautiful project. Because, perhaps, I was protecting myself from reality.

When I arrived at the hospital, everyone was extremely kind and diligent. They did all the necessary checks - including an X-ray. And it was precisely that X-ray, suggested by the type of impact and the tingling I felt in my legs and feet, that brought the doctor into my room. There had been a hairline fracture of two vertebrae and, for less than a millimeter, there hadn't been grave, very grave damage. That damage would have caused the total loss of sensation from the pelvis down. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the doctor continued: "We have to monitor the tingling. I believe the problem is linked to the impact, to the effort made immediately after to lift the scooter - suggested by the bruises on both legs - but we are not certain. We have to wait." Confused, I asked what that meant. What we had to wait for. He was vague. At that point, I was myself and went straight to the point: I asked him if I was still risking losing the use of part of my body. He lowered his gaze. He didn't answer. He stayed vague and said that within a few days we would better understand the situation. He focused on the tingling. "It will probably disappear - and at that point, we will understand. If you feel everything normally, it means everything went well. Otherwise..." He said no more. I asked no more. I didn't want to know, at that moment. I kept focusing on the probably. The rest of the sentence, instead, I metabolized in the following hours.

I was just going to present my ideas for my course, on a pleasant early March morning, calmly, on a road I had taken every day for years. With prudence. Building my life, my future. My projects. If I had left 30 seconds earlier - or later... or by car. In that instant, probably, I would have already been on my way back, maybe retrieving the car from a distant parking lot, regretting not having used the Burgman.

I was discharged in the afternoon, with the prescription to get out of bed as little as possible, exclusively to go to the bathroom. There was no way to sleep: I had pain everywhere, my legs had turned completely black. I took a photo in front of the mirror - then deleted it, in the terror of what I had seen. There was no position that didn't give me pain and pangs. I had continuous tingling and little sensitivity from the pelvis down. Problems going to the bathroom, problems doing everything.

They were terrible days, compounded by a further problem. Because of the false promises of a salesperson, I was also left without an Internet connection. But necessity is the mother of invention, and the discovery that a directional antenna pointed towards the end of the street, where there was an old router with an easily "guessable" WEP password, was like a lifeboat after a shipwreck.

The tingling went on for days, until that morning. The morning I realized I had managed to sleep because I no longer had pain. The "probably" had come true. And it had gone away giving me back, again, my sensitivity.

The doctor confirmed: it was an excellent sign, meaning the healing phase had begun. No serious permanent damage. It would take time, but I would heal.

That day I understood many things - many more than I thought - about myself, about the world around us, and, more specifically, about those around me.

And about the importance of keeping one's access points updated, of course.

My smartphone just showed me a photo, taken exactly four years ago today. I published it on the Fediverse back then, showing nothing but enthusiasm for the great takeout food we had ordered.

The truth was different.

That morning, I had received a phone call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother wasn't feeling well. We thought it was just a common flu, but it felt "strange". I rushed to her. I found her standing, in high spirits, welcoming me with her usual affection and joy. She was already feeling much better but was a bit tired, so she had already eaten dinner and was heading to bed early. Her usual spirit, her usual stride, her usual grit.

Relieved, we decided to pick up some seafood takeout from a restaurant owned by a former classmate of mine. And the fish, besides being delicious, was abundant.

The next morning, I received a call from my mother: my grandmother was doing terribly - in her view, perhaps close to death. She had wanted to stay in her own home, alone - she refused to give up her independence - but seeing that her shutters hadn't been raised, my parents had burst into her house before 7:00. She was barely lucid, very lethargic.

The point was this: she was nearly 93 years old and almost unconscious - would it be right to call an ambulance, or would it be better, since she wasn't suffering, to let her take her leave from life that way? We talked about it for a moment: she was in perfect shape, took no medication, and until the day before, she went for walks of over an hour every day (to do the grocery shopping and back), carrying a cane only "to give her security" but never actually using it. We decided to call the ambulance immediately, and she was hospitalized as an emergency. The doctor told my father to prepare himself - it was too grave, and saving her was almost impossible. That night, mentally, I tried to prepare myself to say goodbye. I tried.

A week later, she was back at her house, on her feet, in good shape, with perfect lab results.

But it was a hollow victory because, as my other grandmother used to say, "death looks for its reason". Her condition would decline - slowly - over the following months, giving her both the awareness of her own frailty and the knowledge that she was leaving. She lost the self-sufficiency that meant everything to her.

I would only see her two more times, and speak to her on the phone a few others. On her birthday in March, she was angry because she had wanted a party, knowing it would be her last birthday. She knew it; we didn't. We saw a recovery; she saw the decline.

And today, looking at that photo, I asked myself if, perhaps, it would have been better to avoid calling that ambulance. To let her go like that, without suffering, in her own bed, in her own home. Independent, until the very end. Things went differently: one is never truly ready to let go of someone they love.

And today, looking at that photo, I can't help but think that the restaurant in the picture is now closed. Because the restaurateur, my former classmate, passed away a few months ago. At an age when one should be living life to its fullest, certainly not gone.

Sometimes, a photo is enough to bring you back to the exact mood of that precise instant. A photo where all you see is excellent and abundant fish, but all you feel is anguish, suffering, and sadness.

This morning, I opened the studio window as I do every morning. But the pigeons' nest on the ledge was occupied by a magpie. Startled by the noise, she turned toward me and began to screech. Like a Pavlovian reflex, I slammed the glass shut and jumped backward, hitting my leg against the cabinet.

That stare. That sound.

It was late autumn 2022 - a year when everything had happened. We were slowly emerging from a period even heavier than the one we were living through, just trying to return to some form of normality. And normality, among other things, meant sitting at my desk around the same time each morning, soft jazz in the background, running through my usual checks. Small rituals. Anchors.

For a few days, something unusual had been happening. Curious, almost pleasant. A magpie had taken to perching on my windowsill and peering inside. This happens sometimes - especially with pigeons. But there was something different: even when I stood up from my chair, she stayed. Magpies are intelligent creatures, I thought. She probably understands the glass is closed and I pose no threat. I saw it as something positive, if odd.

As days passed, she came more often. Stayed longer. At some point, she began tapping her beak against the glass. Insistently. Obsessively. I didn't pay it much attention and went on with my life.

Until that afternoon.

I had decided to replace the old intercom - we couldn't do without one, but replacing the entire system was out of the question. I went outside with everything I needed and started dismounting the old unit. I stepped back for a moment to figure out where to mount the new device. Suddenly, she landed on the low wall in front of me, right on top of my screwdrivers and the new intercom. I barely had time to register the scene before she launched herself straight at my eyes.

I ducked. She circled around me, then returned to the wall. I took out my phone to record, tried to back away, but she kept attacking. She pecked violently at my jacket, damaging it, then flew back to the wall. I tried to run inside, but she was faster. She landed on my head - even as I moved - and tried to reach my eyes. Instinctively, I extended my arm, hoping for the perch effect. She calmed immediately and settled on it. I froze. All I could do was take out my phone and capture the moment. Then I thought: I need to get back inside, somehow. But seconds later, she began hopping up my arm toward my head again.

A truck passed close by, disturbing her enough to make her fly to the balcony ledge. I seized the moment and ran for the door. As I opened it to enter, she tried to jump on me and follow me inside. I slammed the door and inadvertently caught her between the door and the frame. She kept trying to enter. Finally, I managed to close it.

No one fully believed me. My wife did, but she hadn't quite grasped the extent of it. We locked ourselves inside. For a few days, we didn't see her. I convinced myself the blows against the door had injured her - perhaps killed her. I felt guilty. I hadn't wanted to hurt her. I just hadn't wanted her to hurt me.

The morning of 6th December, I was tired of staring at the monitor and suggested a walk to my wife. She agreed. The air was humid but not too cold. As soon as we stepped outside, we started our usual route, but my wife noticed something on the garden wall. It was her. Distant, but I recognized her voice immediately. Before I could look closer, she arrived, landing on my wife's head. My wife panicked and ran toward the house, but the more she fled, the more the bird insisted. She targeted her hair and pecked - fortunately the hood offered some protection. But the path to the front door wasn't short. I threw myself at the bird to drive her away, which worked. For a few seconds. As we neared the door, she returned, screeching relentlessly. I yanked the door open and tried to get my wife inside, but the bird wouldn't let go. I waved my arms, tried to push her away with my hands, but she had clamped down with her claws. Finally I managed, and my wife got inside - but the bird came back for me. I barely made it in, nearly crushing her in the door again.

The security cameras captured everything. Including what she did afterward: she perched on the boiler pipe, puffed up her feathers triumphantly, and flew away.

We contacted the authorities. At the carabinieri station, they didn't take us seriously - until I showed them the video. Then they called the local wildlife protection office immediately.

The following days were a nightmare. The magpie had learned our schedules. Every time I opened a window, she would attack or try to enter. She would station herself on my windowsill for hours, pecking at the glass, working at the rubber seal as if trying to break through. Screeching while she knocked. We couldn't go outside during the day anymore. We couldn't set foot beyond our door: she was there, waiting.

The mail carrier rang. There was a letter requiring a signature. Strangely, she was in her van. I couldn't go out and asked her to take it to the post office, where I'd pick it up. I explained it was because of a deranged magpie. She almost smiled with relief: "So it's not just me. This is why I don't get out of the car around here anymore. She attacks me. Always. It's like a horror film".

We only went out after sunset. Talking with neighbors, we discovered the bird had a precise pattern. She attacked women, younger men, and children. But she was playful and friendly with elderly men. She had injured someone's eye a few days earlier, not far from us. A girl's ear - someone who lived across from our window. She knew when that girl would return from work and would position herself there, waiting. All of this captured by our cameras.

The neighborhood divided. Everyone who had been attacked pushed for something to be done. The others resisted. "She's a free, playful animal. You're clearly the aggressive ones, and she's just defending herself.". So much for community spirit.

Meanwhile, despite reporting to every possible authority, nothing moved. A game of responsibility - which no one wanted - while people walked around with umbrellas for protection. In some cases, she entered through windows and attacked people inside their homes.

That February evening, the sun had already set, so we felt safer. The kitchen shutters were still open, as usual, and I decided to close them. I opened the window and looked around, even though it was dark. I felt calm: in the darkness, there's no danger. A dull thud of claws against the metal gutter and, in a flash, her screech announced the attack. She had been just above me, on the roof, ready to strike. Fortunately, the mosquito net was half-broken and she got partially tangled in it, giving me time to slam the window shut. The shutters stayed open until late that night. So did my eyes.

The next morning we woke to banging. It was barely dawn and she had started hurling herself against the shutters. Obsessively. Continuously. From the cameras I could see her: she would charge from the tree across the street, slam into the shutters, return to the tree, repeat. That day we didn't open the windows. We spent the entire day in darkness, using only electric lights.

The only way we could breathe was to take the car and drive away. To the city center, mostly. We felt safe only among the tall buildings, though every now and then a magpie's call would freeze us in place.

One early April afternoon, I had just made coffee. As I often do, I walked to the window - closed - to look outside. The horse chestnut had begun filling with leaves, a beautiful spectacle marking the start of the warm season. She was right there, on the chestnut tree. The moment she saw me, she launched herself with that unmistakable voice, slamming violently against the glass. She had a sort of crest raised: she was furious.

A very private neighbor had been unaware of the whole affair. Or rather, she knew something but hadn't had direct experience. She too thought the stories were exaggerated by local gossip. Until the magpie tried to attack her husband and then her little girls. Drawing on her civil protection contacts, she immediately took action. We sent her our video to strengthen the case. It was late afternoon and raining heavily. A phone call came: "They caught the magpie. They came to take my statement and she arrived on the scene, attacking even them. They should come to you - since you have the video - for a statement and an identification.".

Incredulous, I agreed immediately. It seemed strange that everything had gone smoothly. Too easy.

Two minutes later, the forestry service car arrived below our house. "Would you like to come see her, to confirm it's the same bird?"

I agreed. A neighbor came too - more for vindication than curiosity. As soon as they opened the trunk, we both jumped back. The magpie, the moment she saw us, began screaming and throwing herself violently against the walls of the cage. In that moment, I believe, she would have torn us apart. It was her. Without a shadow of doubt.

They came upstairs and took our statement, along with permission to include the video. They wouldn't harm the bird, they explained, but they would have to keep her somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone: a sanctuary for birds raised in captivity, unable to survive in the wild.

Like this magpie. And they told us her story.

She had been captured by an elderly man who, since she was a chick, had fed her and let her roam free in his home. She had become possessive and demanding, but never dangerous - with him. With his wife and children, however, probably out of jealousy, she was extremely aggressive. The man was very old, and eventually he died. His wife and children were afraid of the magpie but couldn't report it: magpies are protected and cannot be captured or kept in captivity. So they released her, several months before our first encounter. Perhaps a year earlier. The area was different, so she had likely wandered into our neighborhood in late summer 2022.

While they told us this, one of the officers received a call from colleagues outside: two elderly neighbors were circling the car, trying to open it. They wanted to free her. A criminal offense, but they didn't care. In their eyes, we were evil creatures for wanting "the capture" of that poor, defenseless animal. Even though she had injured dozens of people. Even though she was a direct and constant danger to children. The officers managed to send them away, though they remained angry and threatened legal action against us too.

The rain stopped. A timid ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. I looked up. I saw the trees full of leaves, felt the warmth on my skin and that particular scent that rises around the house just after rain.

I felt free.

I called my wife and asked if she wanted to take a walk. She said yes. We went out and, for the first time in months, returned to places that had been forbidden to us.

This morning, opening that window, I relived the nightmare for an instant. But this magpie, true to her nature, immediately flew away in the opposite direction. She had never known an old man's living room. She had never learned to see a human as home.

I left the window open for a few seconds, breathing in the humid air of the first real day of winter.