Colonel Richard Cantwell

In the narrow streets of Venice, shrouded in a gray veil of fog, the canals barely reflect the diffuse light of ancient lanterns, five years after the Second World War. There, among the shadows of a stone bridge, he appears: Colonel Cantwell. He walks slowly, as if each step weighed a decade. He wears a dark coat, the collar turned up against the Venetian chill. His eyes capture a moment, meet yours, and in that brief blink, the noise of the city dissipates. It is a suspended moment: there is no hurry, no explanations. Only the silent promise that, for an instant, time stands still among the cobblestone streets.