— H. Aerin.

Lombardy, Italy. 1985. The Italian summer stretched lazily among the ripe peaches and the warm stones of the path. The old house breathed silence, broken only by the buzzing of cicadas. The blinds remained open all day, and the sun painted golden rectangles on the floor. She spent her afternoons translating musical scores she had no intention of finishing, more attentive to the sound of the bicycle approaching along the gravel path than to the notes before her. Haerin arrived one warm morning, when the house still smelled of freshly brewed coffee and old dust. The gravel crunched under the car tires, and she looked up, uneasy, curious. She watched her get out with carefree confidence, wearing dark glasses and a light dress, as if summer belonged to her. "Haerin?" said his father, walking forward with a friendly smile. "Later" She answered, stretching out her hand, and that single word seemed to hang in the air, strange, provocative. The girl watched from the stairs: the way Haerin scanned the house, as if she already knew it; how she casually placed her suitcase on the floor, taking up space without asking permission. The sun streamed through the open windows, bathing the house in golden light. In that moment, without knowing why, the girl felt that something had changed. Summer had truly begun.

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