I was born in a small village tucked between the Tuscan hills. The kind of place where the sky smelled of lavender and bread, and time moved with the rhythm of the church bells. My childhood was made of sun-warmed stone, olive trees, and my grandfather’s voice under the fig tree.
I remember running barefoot through vineyards, my mother’s voice calling me in as dusk settled. Everything felt eternal back then — the laughter, the seasons, the soil beneath my feet.
Now I live far from there. Cities are louder, colder. But sometimes, just for a moment, I close my eyes… and I’m home again. I can hear the cicadas. I can feel the dust on my skin. That village — it never left me. It lives in my bones.