Morning came gently to Valdoro.
No bell.
No tension.
Just light.
Soft sunlight spilt across rooftops and narrow streets, brushing against stone and windowpanes as if nothing unusual had ever happened.
And yet—
Something lingered.
Not visible.
Not spoken.
But present.
Adriano woke slowly.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t think.
Just… existed.
The quiet of the room wrapped around him, unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.
The faint scent of aged wood and paper lingered in the air, grounding in a way he couldn’t explain.
Peaceful.
Strangely peaceful.
Then memory returned.
Valdoro.
The bell.
The house.
His grandmother.
A faint shadow passed through his expression.
Then it was gone.
“Sei sveglio?”
The voice came from beyond the door.
Adriano sat up.
“Yes.”
The door opened slightly, and the old man stepped in.
His name, as Adriano had learned the night before—
Signor Bianchi.
Simple.
Unassuming.
But fitting.
“We eat, then I go to the archive,” Bianchi said.
“There is not much to do today.”
Adriano nodded.
“I’ll come with you.”
Before Bianchi could respond—
“I called it first!”
A smaller voice cut in.
Both turned.
The boy now stood in the doorway, arms crossed with dramatic determination.
His name—
Tomaso.
“I said I would show him around town,” he insisted.
Bianchi sighed lightly, though there was amusement in it.
“You did say that.”
Tomaso lifted his chin slightly, victorious.
“He needs to see everything properly.”
Adriano glanced at him.
There was something earnest in the boy’s insistence.
Something simple.
Uncomplicated.
“…va bene,” Adriano said, unlike the accents of everyone else.
Alright.
Bianchi nodded.
“Then you show him.”
He paused, glancing between them.
“And afterwards, come to the archive office. I will close early today.”
Tomaso grinned.
“Perfetto.”
The town of Valdoro in daylight felt… different.
Alive in a quieter way.
The streets were narrower than they seemed from afar, winding through stone buildings that carried years within their walls.
Wooden shutters opened, voices spilt out, and the scent of baking bread drifted through the air.
Tomaso walked ahead, talking without pause.
“This is the bakery,” he said, pointing proudly.
Inside, trays of fresh bread lined the counters, golden and warm.
The baker looked up—
And paused.
Just briefly.
His eyes landed on Adriano.
A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
Then—
Recognition?
No. Something close to it.
“…buongiorno,” he said slowly.
Adriano nodded once.
“Buongiorno.”
Tomaso tugged at his sleeve.
“Come on!”
They passed the school next.
Quiet for now, its doors are closed until the coming weeks.
“I hate it,” Tomaso said immediately.
Adriano almost smiled.
The cobbler.
Bent over worn leather, hands steady.
He glanced up— Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Paused.
Frowned slightly.
“…ti conosco?” he muttered.
Do I know you?
Adriano didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know.
The craftsman.
Wood shavings were scattered across the floor.
The blacksmith.
Hammer striking metal, sparks rising—
Until the rhythm faltered for just a second as his gaze shifted.
The seamstress.
Needle stilled mid-thread.
Eyes narrowing slightly.
Studying.
Everywhere they went—
It was the same.
People looked.
Paused.
Almost recognized.
But didn’t.
By the time they reached the hill, the town had quieted behind them.
The grass was soft beneath their feet, the trees offering shade as the breeze moved gently through their leaves.
They sat beneath one of them.
Close enough to see the edges of Valdoro.
Close enough to feel… something beyond it.
Tomaso stretched out, arms behind his head.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
Adriano didn’t respond immediately.
“I talk when I need to.”
Tomaso turned his head.
“That’s boring.”
Adriano glanced at him.
“…for you.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then Tomaso sat up suddenly, eyes narrowing with mischief.
“Maybe I just need to fix that.”
Adriano didn’t react.
Which only encouraged him.
Tomaso reached over suddenly, shoving his shoulder lightly.
Nothing.
Adriano didn’t move.
“…okay,” Tomaso said slowly.
“That was disappointing.”
Another attempt.
A louder comment.
A dramatic sigh.
Still nothing.
Then—
“Are you always like this?” Tomaso asked.
Adriano looked at him.
For a moment—
Something softened.
“…no.”
Tomaso blinked.
“You’re not?”
A faint pause.
Then—
“…not always.”
A small silence settled between them.
Different this time.
Easier
Standing up, Tomaso went behind Adriano, picking a few tiny stones and then started throwing them at him.
“Stop.” Adriano plainly said, waving him off.
“No,” Tomaso said, sticking out his tongue when Adriano gave him a look.
And then he continued throwing the stones at him, closer to his neck this time.
After having had enough, Adriano stood and chased him.
Tomaso ran circles around the trees, chuckling with Adriano right behind him.
Tomaso was pretty fast, but he got caught sooner than he had expected.
Adriano pinned and straddled him onto the grass, getting a wholesome laughter from Tomaso, as he tickled him.
They both sigh as Adriano lies next to him, breathing heavily.
“How long will you be staying for, Fratello maggiore?” Tomaso asked casually.
Older brother.
Adriano raised a brow slightly and turned to him, blinking once.
Then—
Very faintly—
He smiled.
The archive office building stood near the centre of town.
Older than most.
Stone walls lined with tall windows, their glass slightly warped with age.
Inside, shelves stretched high, filled with scrolls, books, records—centuries of memory pressed into paper and ink.
Custode della Memoria.
Keeper of Memory.
Tomaso pushed the door open.
“We’re here!”
Bianchi looked up from a desk.
“You took your time.”
Tomaso shrugged.
“I was being thorough.”
Bianchi huffed lightly. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Then gestured.
“My assistants.”
At a nearby table stood two figures.
The first—
A young man.
Elio Moretti.
Lean, with dark curls and sharp eyes that missed very little.
Ink stains marked his fingers, and his posture was relaxed but attentive, like someone always observing more than he said.
The second—
A young woman.
Sofia Rinaldi.
Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, dark but catching hints of brown in the light.
Her eyes were warm, expressive—and at that moment—
Fixed on Adriano.
She didn’t look away.
Not immediately.
Because he stood differently.
Tall.
Straight.
Effortless.
His hair fell in dark, soft strands, slightly uneven as if it had been cut without care for style, but somehow still settled perfectly around his face.
It brushed just above his eyes, shifting subtly when he moved, never fully still.
His eyes—
Dark.
Not just brown.
Deeper.
Like shadows that held something beneath them, something unspoken.
They didn’t wander.
They observed.
Quietly
Fully.
As if he saw more than what was in front of him.
His features were sharp, but not harsh.
A straight nose, clean and defined.
A jawline that held structure without effort.
His lips rarely moved, but when they did, it was deliberate, measured.
Nothing about him asked for attention.
But it came anyway.
There was something about the way he carried himself—not noble, not exactly—but not ordinary either.
His clothes were simple, yes.
But not worn in the way most were.
Not common.
They fit him too well.
Moved with him too easily.
And his presence—
Quiet.
But impossible to ignore.
Sofia blinked once.
Twice.
Then quickly looked away.
“…piacere,” she said, a little too quickly.
A pleasure.
Elio, on the other hand, simply studied him.
Longer than most.
More carefully.
“…Adriano, right?” he said.
Adriano nodded.
On the walk home, the sun had begun to lower by the time they left.
The streets filled again with softer movement, people winding down from their day.
As they walked, greetings followed.
“Signor Bianchi!”
“Buonasera!”
“How is the archive?”
Bianchi responded to each with ease.
Familiar.
Respected.
Then—
The questions.
Always the same.
“And who is this?”
“Un nuovo aiutante?”
“A relative?”
Bianchi glanced at Adriano.
Just briefly.
Then answered simply—
“È con me.”
He is with me.
That was enough.
For now.
But the looks lingered.
The pauses.
The almost-recognition.
And as they walked—
The wind shifted.
The ground stilled.
The air watched.
Because in Valdoro—
Some faces were not remembered.
But never truly forgotten.