4,300 miles Northeast, April 25th, 8:35 a.m. CET — Linate Airport, Segrate, Milano, Italia
The airport's glass doors slid open with a soft hum, ushering Loconda into a world alive with possibility. Crisp spring air brushed her skin, a welcome contrast to the terminal's sterile chill. Her suitcase wheels clicked over uneven pavement as her eyes adjusted to the morning light. Above, a powder-blue sky streaked with soft clouds stretched endlessly.
Around her, Italian voices wove a lively symphony—melodic, rapid, and unfamiliar, like a song she yearned to understand. Milan felt alive, its pulse vibrant and inviting. This was her first taste of Italy, and already, she felt in step with its rhythm.
Loconda stepped to the curb and raised her hand, catching the attention of a white taxi that slowed to a stop in front of her. The driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard, stepped out and gave her a warm nod.
"Buongiorno! Dove vai?" he asked, moving to lift her suitcase into the trunk.
Loconda froze, suddenly aware she couldn't understand Italian.
The driver paused, tilting his head slightly before trying again, this time in accented but clear English. "Where are you going?"
Relief washed over her, but it was fleeting. She froze again, realizing with a sinking feeling that she hadn't memorized the address. "One second," she mumbled, fumbling for her backpack. She crouched down, unzipping it with trembling hands as she rummaged through the mess inside. Her fingers brushed against loose receipts, a water bottle, and the corner of her notebook before finally landing on the envelope.
She pulled it out, slightly wrinkled but intact. Written across the front in her aunt's elegant, looping handwriting was the address: Via Madonnina 16, 20121 Milano, Italia.
"Here," she said, holding it out to him. The driver studied it for a moment, then smiled knowingly. "Brera," he said, as if the name itself were an invitation.
"Yes, Brera," she echoed, sliding into the back seat.
As the taxi pulled away, Loconda gazed out the window, her nerves slowly giving way to anticipation. Outside, Milan stretched out before her—an intoxicating mix of bustling streets, graceful architecture, and vibrant energy. She didn't know what awaited her at the end of this ride, but she felt ready to embrace it.
8:58 a.m. CET — Appartamento Acadia, Brera, Milan, Italy
The taxi turned onto a narrow cobblestone road, its wheels rattling as they navigated the uneven stones. Loconda's gaze followed the path ahead, where the road seemed to disappear between two towering rows of apartment buildings. Their facades, old and grand, pressed close together, the upper floors stretching high into the morning sky. Balconies adorned with curling iron railings and potted plants overlooked the street, their windows framed with delicate shutters that whispered of history and stories long past.
The driver eased the taxi to a stop, pulling to the curb in front of a large building with a weathered stone exterior. He turned to Loconda with a smile, though his words were a blend of Italian and English, "Arrivato... here. Via Madonnina, numero quindici." He gestured to the building in front of them. "Arrivato."
"Grazie," Loconda nodded, fumbling for the small change in her wallet. She handed him a tip, which he accepted with a nod, before hopping out to retrieve her luggage.
She stepped out of the cab, the crisp Milan air brushing against her face. The moment felt surreal as if she had just stepped into the heart of a dream. She stood there for a moment, taking in the beauty of the old buildings and the vibrant energy of the street. Her eyes moved to the large apartment building in front of her—#16—its stone facade worn by time but majestic, nonetheless. The door, an arched wooden entryway framed by ornate carvings, was flanked by tall, narrow windows. A silver nameplate on the side read "A.P.," though it was nearly hidden beneath the soft ivy creeping over the stone.
With a deep breath, Loconda removed the letter from the envelope and began reading her aunt's instructions aloud.
"When you reach the green door, look for the silver mailbox. Inside, you'll find a small stone. Take it, step back, and aim for the balcony window above. Throw the stone at the window—yes, really—and wait for Renata. She'll lead you to the hidden entrance. Whatever you do, don't lose sight of her."
Loconda stared at the letter, her brow furrowed in disbelief. The instructions seemed more like something from a spy movie than a casual note from her aunt. She shook her head and muttered, "Why didn't I read this more carefully before flying halfway across the world?"
Her eyes flicked up to the silver mailbox on the door and then to the balcony window above. The whole thing felt absurd. Was her aunt serious? Throwing a rock at someone's window? Her fingers nervously smoothed the crumpled letter as she glanced around the narrow cobblestone street.
A few people strolled past, their conversations melodic and carefree, oblivious to the internal drama unraveling in Loconda's mind. Would she look insane hurling a rock at the window? What if someone stopped her—or worse, reported her?
But what choice did she have? The instructions were clear, bizarre as they seemed. She took a deep breath and approached the mailbox. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed against a few small stones. She grabbed one, pulled it out and stared at it as if it held all the answers.
Loconda took a few steps back, just as the letter said, and looked up at the balcony. She hesitated, weighing the absurdity of her next move. But then, with a deep sigh, she adjusted her aim, muttered, "Here goes nothing," and flung the stone at the window.
The stone hit the window's trim with a soft thunk, bounced off and landed neatly in a potted plant on the balcony railing. Loconda froze, her heart pounding as she instinctively glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. But the cobblestone street carried on as if nothing had happened. The few pedestrians passing by seemed entirely uninterested in her bizarre antics.
Seconds ticked by. Nothing. No movement from the balcony. No sign of Renata. Loconda frowned and whispered, "Who is Renata, anyway?" The name sounded foreign and mysterious, yet she had no memory of her aunt mentioning them before.
She waited a few more minutes, growing restless. The thought of throwing another stone crossed her mind, but just as she stepped forward, the balcony window slid open ever so slightly. Loconda held her breath, expecting a figure to emerge. Instead, a sleek black cat stepped out, its fur gleaming in the soft morning light.
The cat strolled onto the balcony railing with the languid confidence of a queen. It stretched, arching its back, then turned to face Loconda with piercing yellow eyes. It let out a sharp meow, a sound that carried a hint of irritation as if annoyed by the disturbance.
Loconda blinked in shock. "This can't be Renata… can it?" she thought, staring at the cat in disbelief.
Without warning, the cat darted off, leaping from the balcony railing to a neighboring window ledge with practiced ease. Loconda's jaw dropped as she watched it spring to another balcony, then onto the metal frame of an air conditioning unit.
"Wait! Renata?" she called out, her voice rising in disbelief. The cat, unfazed, continued its parkour-like journey, hopping to a store sign before disappearing around the corner
Loconda scrambled after the cat, dragging her suitcase over the uneven cobblestones as her gaze stayed fixed above. The feline darted across rooftops and leaped between balconies with effortless grace, scattering pigeons in its wake. It paused briefly on a balcony draped in lush greenery, pawing at a startled bird before scaling the ivy-covered wall and vanishing onto the roof.
Loconda rounded the corner to keep up, her pulse racing. She found herself on a much busier street—Via Mercato. Unlike the quiet charm of Via Madonnina, this street buzzed with life. Vendors unloaded crates, shoppers weaved in and out of stores, and motorbikes zipped past, their engines roaring.
She craned her neck, trying to spot the cat amid the chaos, but the crowd made it nearly impossible. As she pushed through, her shoulder collided with a man in a tailored suit.
"Attenta!" he snapped, glaring as he waved a hand in frustration.
"Sorry!" Loconda mumbled though she doubted he understood. She looked up, scanning the rooftops, but the cat was gone.
Frustration bubbled up in her chest. She stepped aside to avoid blocking foot traffic and pulled the letter from her pocket. Maybe her aunt had accounted for this. Loconda unfolded the instructions, her hands trembling slightly, and read the next lines aloud.
"If you lose Renata—which wouldn't surprise me—don't panic. Go to Via Mercato 14. Look for a wooden door with a golden mailbox. Press the bottom buzzer three times. Wait. Trust me, you'll know what to do next."
She made her way down the street, counting the addresses until she reached building 14 and its wooden door. Following her aunt's instructions, she pressed the bottom buzzer three times, but nothing happened.
Frustrated, she reread the letter, mumbling, "Trust me, you'll know what to do next," under her breath. She glanced around the entryway, searching for clues. Nothing stood out—except for a faint engraving etched into the doorknob.
Curious, she pressed her finger against the mark and traced it clockwise. A soft click echoed, and the door creaked open. There, sitting in the dim entrance, was Renata—calm and unbothered, licking her paw as if nothing unusual had happened.
Loconda stepped through the doorway and found herself standing in a shaded colonnade that framed the entrance to a hidden courtyard. The arching columns, carved from weathered stone, rose gracefully to meet the overhead beams.
A sudden, gentle pressure against her leg startled her from her thoughts. Glancing down, Loconda saw Renata brushing her head affectionately against her leg. Loconda crouched, her earlier frustrations dissipating as she reached out to stroke the cat's back. Her gaze shifted to the delicate pearl collar around the cat's neck. Five charms dangled from it, each unique—a crescent moon, a tiny key, a heart shaped emerald, a crown, and an abstract swirl. Loconda ran her fingers over the smooth pearls and intricate charms, marveling at the craftsmanship.
"Aw, so cute!" she cooed, smiling as Renata purred and arched her back under the attention.
Standing back up and grabbing her suitcase, Loconda gave the cat a playful smile. "Alright," she said, "lead the way."
As if understanding, Renata spun around and trotted gracefully into the courtyard, her collar's charms glinting with each step.
The entrance opened to a secluded courtyard hidden within the heart of the apartment complex. Despite its small size, the space exuded charm and intimacy. Chairs with wrought-iron frames and delicate floral cushions were arranged near a central fountain that burbled softly, the water catching sunlight as it cascaded over smooth marble tiers. Around the perimeter, weathered stone statues—nymphs, cherubs, and mythological figures—seemed to guard the space with a watchful air.
Loconda felt a curious tightness in the air, not stifling but distinct, as if the courtyard carried secrets of its own. The apartment buildings surrounding it rose like silent sentinels, their heights pressing in from all sides. Oddly, none of the surrounding structures had windows facing the courtyard, save for the building Renata was now trotting toward. It felt private, intentionally so, as if this pocket of serenity was meant only for those who knew how to find it.
Renata glanced back at Loconda, her yellow eyes expectant, before darting through the courtyard and toward a large iron double door at the far end. One side of the door stood slightly ajar, creaking softly as the cat nudged it further open with her nose. Loconda followed, pushing her suitcase over the cobblestones.
She stepped through the door into a breathtakingly elegant apartment. "Aunt Acadia?" she called, her voice echoing faintly in the silence. There was no response.
The space before her was richly adorned with luxurious antique furniture and items that seemed curated rather than simply collected. Ornate armchairs upholstered in velvet flanked an imposing mahogany coffee table, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. The walls were lined with intricate wooden paneling, interrupted only by grand oil paintings in gilded frames. A crystal chandelier hung above the living room, refracting the morning light into shimmering rainbows. On the mantle of a marble fireplace, an old clock ticked softly next to delicate porcelain figurines and a brass telescope.
Despite the opulence, the room felt warm and lived-in, as if each item had a story to tell. Loconda allowed her fingers to trail over the arm of a chaise lounge as she made her way toward a hallway. The air grew cooler as she approached a staircase that spiraled upward, its carved banister inviting her to ascend.
With suitcase in hand, she climbed the stairs, her curiosity piqued. Each floor revealed a unique layout and style. The first floor housed guest bedrooms, each decorated in timeless, traditional elegance with floral wallpaper, lace curtains, and canopy beds.
The second floor, in stark contrast, was modern and sleek. Minimalist furniture, clean lines, and floor-to-ceiling windows gave the space an airy, futuristic feel. Abstract artwork adorned the walls, and the soft hum of hidden lighting created a calming ambiance.
The third floor was eclectic and bohemian, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. Tapestries hung alongside bookshelves overflowing with mismatched volumes, and the scent of incense lingered in the air. The space felt alive, vibrant, and full of energy.
The fourth floor offered more bedrooms, but these were understated and serene, with neutral tones and large windows that framed the sky.
At last, Loconda reached the fifth floor. The open space was covered in richly colored rugs layered in an almost haphazard fashion. Yoga mats were rolled neatly in one corner, and a rack of free weights stood near a wall adorned with motivational quotes painted in elegant script. Sunlight poured in through skylights, giving the room a radiant, golden glow.
Renata darted ahead, disappearing up a small spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the room. Loconda hesitated briefly before following. The staircase was narrow, and she had to carefully place her hands on the cool metal railing as she climbed.
When she stepped out onto the rooftop, the world seemed to open up. Milan stretched out before her in a stunning panorama—its terracotta rooftops, towering spires, and bustling streets glimmering under the midday sun. A soft breeze brushed her face, carrying the scents of the city below. Loconda closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the sunlight sink into her skin.
Renata approached and leapt gracefully into her lap, curling up with a satisfied purr. Loconda chuckled softly, stroking the cat's silky fur. For a moment, she let herself forget the absurdity of the morning, basking in the tranquility of the view and the feline companionship.
After a while, she scooped Renata into her arms and stood, the cat's purr vibrating against her chest. "Alright," she murmured, "let's find your momma." With one last look at the city, Loconda turned and made her way back inside.