The headlights sliced through the Tuscan night. As the car entered San Gimignano, the clock tower in the square struck eleven-oh-seven.
Elisa watched the medieval stone towers outside her window—their silhouettes against the moonlight like the spines of sleeping giants guarding this hillside town. The car turned into a narrow lane, its wheels rumbling steadily over centuries-old cobblestones, a hypnotic, grinding sound.
"This is it." Lorenzo's voice was soft, almost lost beneath the engine's hum.
The car stopped before a three-story building. The ground floor was a bakery, its display window dark, but the wooden sign was legible in the moonlight: *Costa Bakery · Since 1948*. The whole street was asleep, save for one window on the second floor glowing with a yolk-yellow warmth—as if the night had intentionally left a door ajar.
As Elisa pushed the car door open, the night air rushed in, cool enough to make her shiver. The wind carried scents: the dry, green fragrance of distant olive groves, the soapy smell of laundry hung out to dry somewhere, and… the soft, wheaty sweetness of freshly baked bread cooling.
Her feet hadn't even touched the ground—
The small green door beside the bakery opened without a sound, just a crack. Maria Costa, wrapped in a dark brown shawl, leaned out, a finger pressed firmly to her lips: "Shh—shh—"
She hurried over on tiptoe, her slippers scraping the stone with urgent whispers. First, she pulled Elisa into a hug so tight it threatened to crack ribs. She didn't even glance at Lorenzo, her voice a low, rushed whisper: "Inside, quickly, dear. Quickly."
Elisa's hand was captured—she memorized the feel of those hands instantly: palms rough as sandpaper with thick calluses, knuckles enlarged, yet their grip was unexpectedly gentle, as if cradling a newly hatched bird.
The three slipped inside like spies infiltrating enemy lines. The wooden door closed with an old-hinge groan, followed by the soft click of the bolt sliding home.
The kitchen was lit only by a small wall lamp. In the dim, yellowish glow, Gianluigi stood by the stove where a pot of soup simmered with tiny bubbles. Seeing them, the old man immediately gave a thumbs-up, grinning to reveal a missing tooth.
"Clear outside?" Maria whispered, her eyes darting nervously toward the closed shutters.
"Clear, Ma." Lorenzo answered in a whisper, then caught himself and cleared his throat. "You can speak normally. The whole street's asleep."
Only then did Maria's shoulders relax, though her voice remained hushed. "Can't be too careful! Those reporters… Dio mio, I saw them on TV. They're like sharks that smell blood!"
She led Elisa to sit at the kitchen's wooden table, then cupped her face—the gesture was so sudden Elisa froze. Maria's fingers brushed her cheekbones, and her eyes suddenly welled up. "Look at you, pale as dough. Those damned…"
"Maria." Gianluigi gently chided, shaking his head.
Maria fell silent, but her lips pressed into a tight, downward line. She turned to ladle soup from the pot, the ceramic spoon clinking softly against the rim. Her hands trembled as she passed the bowl over.
"Soup first, child," she said, her voice a little hoarse. "Gianluigi simmered it for five hours, with rosemary like you like."
Elisa took the bowl. The soup was still hot, steam carrying the rich scent of wild mushrooms and rosemary wafting up to her face. She looked down—the broth was a deep amber, a thin layer of golden oil floating on top, a few wild mushroom slices resting at the bottom.
"You waited up?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
"Not waiting," Gianluigi said, rubbing his hands as he sat opposite, his eyes bright behind his reading glasses in the low light. "Just… couldn't sleep. Watched the news a bit."
He didn't finish. Maria kicked him under the table.
"Nothing worth watching on the news," Maria said quickly, shoving a wooden spoon into Elisa's hand. "All nonsense. Eat, while it's hot."
Elisa lifted a spoonful, blew on it, and took a sip. Flavor exploded on her tongue—the earthy taste of wild mushrooms, the piney aroma of rosemary, the deep richness of marrow melted from hours of simmering, and a hint of sweetness she couldn't name, like sun-dried hay.
"Is it good?" Maria watched her eagerly, fingers nervously twisting the edge of her apron.
"It's good," Elisa said, taking another sip. "Really good."
Finally, Maria's shoulders fully relaxed with a long sigh. "Good, that's good."
"Ma," Lorenzo served himself a bowl, "how much news did you watch?"
Maria and Gianluigi exchanged a glance. Gianluigi spoke first, anger simmering beneath his words. "Enough! That guy, what's his name… Carlo Bel…"
"Carlo Bergamo." Lorenzo supplied.
"Yes! Bergamo!" Gianluigi slapped the table, making the soup bowls jump. "I watched the whole thing! That bastard, standing in front of the camera, crying like snot was about to drip into his mouth, talking about his 'crisis of conscience'—"
"Gianluigi," Maria cut him off sharply. "Not now. Elisa needs rest, not to hear that filth again."
"It's alright." Elisa set down her spoon and looked up. "Really, it's fine."
Maria studied her, worry and hesitation in her eyes. Elisa gave her a slight nod.
Given permission, Gianluigi leaned forward, energized, gesturing with his hands. "Alright then, I'll say it! That Carlo, holding his so-called 'evidence'—paper so fresh you could cut yourself on it! Says it's an internal document from three years ago? Three-year-old paper should be yellowed! The ledger I use in the shop yellows like autumn leaves in six months!"
Maria couldn't help joining in. "And he was reading from a script! Saying 'I can no longer bear the weight on my conscience,' but his eyes kept darting to the upper right corner! My sister's son does that when he lies!"
"And his suit!" Gianluigi grew more animated. "Custom-made, monogrammed on the cuffs! A man having a 'crisis of conscience to expose industry secrets' holds a press conference in a three-thousand-euro suit?"
"Maybe five," Lorenzo added softly.
"Five thousand!" Gianluigi's eyes widened. "You hear that? Can you trust a word from such a man? Dog shit smells sweeter than his words!"
Maria didn't stop him this time; instead, she nodded emphatically. "Exactly! Who in our town doesn't own a piece or two of Rossi jewelry? My pearl necklace, worn for thirty years, never taken off even to shower or sleep, still shines like the day I bought it! Fraud? Fraud, my ass!"
She clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks flushing as she realized her language. Gianluigi laughed heartily, patting his wife's back. "Well said! That's the way to curse!"
Elisa watched them. Maria's face was flushed with excitement and a touch of embarrassment; Gianluigi laughed until tears welled, wiping them with a corner of his apron. The dim kitchen light softened their edges, making their wrinkles, white hair, and rough hands seem… warm.
She suddenly thought of Sophia—her mother, always perfectly made-up, her voice always modulated, who, when angry, at most pressed her lips together. She never blushed, never laughed heartily, never said "my ass."
So this was how ordinary people expressed anger. Direct, rough, vivid.
"Thank you," Elisa said softly, but clearly. "Thank you for believing me."
Maria immediately reached over and grasped her hand. The warmth of that hand was almost scalding.
"Dear," Maria's voice choked up suddenly, "of course we believe you. You're my daughter-in-law, the one Lorenzo chose. Even if the whole world speaks against you, we stand by you."
Gianluigi nodded vigorously, his nose sniffling. "That's what family is."
Elisa looked down at her soup bowl. Steam still rose, forming a twisting column in the lamplight. She felt a warmth behind her eyes and blinked rapidly.
So this was what "being believed unconditionally" felt like—not because she presented evidence, not because she proved her innocence, but simply because she was his son's wife, Lorenzo's wife, their family.
The logic was laughably simple, yet… it weighed on her throat, tightening it.
By the time the soup was finished, it was nearly half past twelve.
Maria led Elisa upstairs, still on tiptoe, as if navigating a minefield. "Giulio and Sofia are asleep; they don't know you're here. I didn't tell them."
"Why?" Elisa followed, the wooden stairs creaking softly underfoot.
"Those two little loudspeakers," Maria glanced back, making a broadcasting gesture with her fingers by her mouth. "Especially Giulio. If he knows something, the whole town knows within three hours. You're here for peace and quiet. Can't have noise."
She pushed open the door at the end of the second-floor hallway, her voice dropping even lower. "This is your room. Bathroom's next door. The water heater's old; let the water run a while. Towels are new, the blue set."
The room was lit by the warm glow of a bedside lamp. Small, but everything was in its perfect place. A double bed nearly filled the space—sheets a bright yellow with a sunflower pattern, looking like spilled sunlight under the lamp. On the windowsill sat three potted plants: mint, basil, and a small tomato seedling. A bookshelf was packed full, yet orderly.
Elisa's gaze settled on the bed. Only one bed.
A double bed that looked soft enough to swallow a person whole.
Maria, completely oblivious, pulled two sets of neatly folded pajamas from the wardrobe—one navy, one light blue, both with tiny embroidered sailboats at the collar.
"Pajamas are new, washed and sun-dried." Her voice was barely a whisper, as if afraid to wake someone through the wall. "Get some rest. I'll wake early for breakfast tomorrow. Come down after Giulio and Sofia are up, so they don't make a fuss."
Lorenzo, standing behind his mother, made a "play along" gesture to Elisa.
"Thanks, Ma." he said. "You should rest too."
Maria nodded, but before leaving, she turned back, whispering, "Don't think about anything. Get a good night's sleep. Nothing is more important than rest."
The door closed gently.
Sudden silence filled the room, thick enough to hear her own heartbeat. From downstairs came the muffled sound of Maria and Gianluigi's deliberately hushed conversation, as if filtered through water:
"…asleep?"
"…lights are out."
"…make almond biscotti tomorrow? She likes almonds, right?"
"…did you ask?"
"…no. But what young lady doesn't like almond biscotti?"
The voices faded like a receding tide.
Elisa turned to Lorenzo. He stood in the middle of the room, the light from above casting deep shadows on his face. His gaze was fixed on the bed, his brow slightly furrowed as if studying a complex mathematical proof.
"Your parents," she began, her voice unnervingly clear in the quiet, "think we share this bed."
"Mm." Lorenzo rubbed his temples, a gesture of weariness. "They think married couples should."
"And to protect us," Elisa's eyes swept over the closed door, "they've even kept it from their own children."
Lorenzo was silent. He walked to the wardrobe, opened it, looked at the empty half, closed it. He repeated this three times, as if stalling, waiting for a solution that wouldn't appear.
"I'll sleep on the floor," he finally said, a note of resignation in his voice.
Elisa looked around. The floor was ancient terracotta tiles, likely cool even on a summer night. The room was pitifully small—less than seventy centimeters of space between the bed and the desk, barely enough for a person to lie on their side.
"Your mother will come to tidy up tomorrow morning," she said. "She'll notice the covers untouched, only one pillow used."
Lorenzo's shoulders visibly tightened. Moonlight leaking through the gap in the curtains caught the distinct redness of his ears—conspicuous in the dim light.
"And," Elisa walked to the bed, her fingers brushing the sunflower sheets, the fabric impossibly soft, "if we act too… distant, they'll suspect."
She looked up at him. "They think we married for love, remember?"
Lorenzo turned away, his back to her. He took a deep breath. Once, twice, three times. When he turned back, his usual mask of calm was in place, but something flickered in his eyes.
"The bed is big," he said, each word seeming forced. "We can… draw a line."
Elisa nodded. She picked up the light blue pajamas from the wardrobe. "I'll wash up first."
The bathroom was so small turning around was difficult, but it shone with cleanliness. Everything had its place: two toothbrush sets, blue and pink, the pink one still sealed. Towels were fluffy like freshly baked bread, smelling of sun and fresh air. She turned on the hot water tap—sure enough, the water ran for nearly two minutes before warming up.
Waiting, she studied her face in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, skin dry from days of stress, two faint lines at the corners of her mouth from her habit of pressing her lips tight.
But right now, those corners were relaxed.
It turned out, being protected so clumsily and thoroughly made one unconsciously shed their armor.
When she returned, Lorenzo was already sitting on one side of the bed in his pajamas. Navy blue cotton, buttoned all the way to the top. He held a book, but his eyes stared blankly at the same word on the page, unblinking for a long time.
In the center of the bed lay only one comforter.
A thick down comforter, spread across the entire bed. The duvet cover also had a sunflower pattern, matching the sheets, the bright yellow almost glaring under the light.
Elisa stood by the bed, looking at the comforter spread out like an invitation, and suddenly found the scene absurdly… funny. The heaviness that had pressed on her chest for days cracked open a sliver.
Lorenzo looked up, a question in his eyes.
"Your mother," Elisa said, a smile tugging uncontrollably at her lips, "is very thorough."
"She always is." Lorenzo closed the book, his knuckles white. "When I was eighteen and brought my first girlfriend home—if you could call her that—she also prepared only one comforter. Said, 'Young people run hot, won't feel the cold.'"
"And then?"
"The girl kicked me out of bed at 3 a.m., saying I hogged the covers." The corner of Lorenzo's mouth twitched, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "At breakfast, Mom asked if I slept well. I could only say 'great.'"
Elisa lifted the covers and lay down. The mattress was softer than she imagined; her body sank in, enveloped by clouds. She pulled the comforter up to her chest and looked at Lorenzo.
He still sat there, posture rigid as a museum statue.
"Lorenzo."
"Hm?"
"I'm exhausted," she said, genuine weariness seeping into her voice. "Tomorrow's another mess to deal with."
The words seemed to flip a switch. Lorenzo nodded, turned off the bedside lamp, and lay down—his movements stiff as a rusty automaton, his body hovering almost off the edge of the bed.
Darkness flooded in like a tide, instantly drowning the room. Moonlight through the curtain gap cut a silver line between them, a demarcated boundary.
Elisa lay on her back, staring at a crack on the ceiling. It meandered like a path through the Tuscan hills. She was accustomed to spacious sleeping quarters—in her Milan apartment, her bed was so large she could roll over freely, the surrounding emptiness silent as a tomb.
This bed was so small she could hear every breath from the person beside her, feel the mattress shift with his slightest movement, smell his unique scent—a complex mix of old paper, sandalwood soap, and a hint of sweat.
So this was how close people could be.
"Elisa." Lorenzo spoke suddenly, his voice amplified in the dark, low and resonant from his chest.
"Hm?"
"What my parents said," he paused for a long time, "don't feel pressured. They just… want to be good to you. In their own way."
Elisa turned her head. Moonlight outlined his profile: the straight bridge of his nose, tightly pressed lips, the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
"I like their way," she said softly.
Faint rustling sounds came from downstairs. Maria surely wasn't asleep yet—perhaps kneading tomorrow's dough in the kitchen, or just sitting at the table, guarding the quiet upstairs.
Then, Elisa heard it.
Very, very faint, requiring focus to catch. An old Tuscan lullaby, simple melody, repeating. Maria was humming, humming under her breath, afraid to wake them upstairs, yet unable to help it—an instinctive comfort.
Elisa closed her eyes.
In her memory, her mother had never hummed. Sophia's world was defined by precise measures: what time to rise, what brand to wear, what words were proper, how many teeth to show when smiling. Everything had a standard, like a jewelry design blueprint, each facet with strict parameters and angles.
But this world here—had parents who simmered soup for five hours and waited until past midnight, the careful secrecy even from their own children to grant peace, a mother humming a lullaby in a whisper deep into the night.
So "being loved" could be this concrete: a bowl of scalding soup, a set of new pajamas, a slightly ridiculous comforter, a barely audible song.
"Lorenzo." She called again.
"Hm?"
"When you were little," she asked, her voice softening in the dark, "did you fall asleep to songs like this?"
Lorenzo was silent for a long time. So long she thought he'd fallen asleep. Then came his reply:
"Mm. But back then she sang loudly. The whole street could hear. I'd always bury my head under the pillow."
He paused, something cracking in his voice:
"But once… when I was eight, I had a fever, delirious. All I remember is her humming in the kitchen. That sound… let me know I was still alive."
Elisa didn't respond. She just turned onto her side, facing the window. The night breeze carried the cool fragrance of mint from the windowsill, mingling with Lorenzo's unique, calming scent.
Outside, the moon had climbed to the tip of the stone tower, its light turning cold and bright. A distant night bird called, one long, lonely note, followed by profound silence.
In this silence, in this small room above the bakery, under the single sunflower-patterned comforter, Elisa Rossi felt something luxurious, something that almost warmed her eyes—
Not the jewels in the safe, not the numbers in the bank account, not the praise in the media.
But knowing someone was humming downstairs.
But knowing the person lying beside her wouldn't harm her.
But knowing there would be almond biscotti in the morning.
But knowing someone believed her, without needing proof.
So "home" wasn't a house, a contract, a marriage.
Home was a scent, an off-key song, a ridiculous comforter, and a pair of eyes waiting for your return in the deep of night.
"Goodnight," she said softly.
"Goodnight," he replied.
Then, in the deep night of San Gimignano, on the second floor of the Costa family bakery, Elisa Rossi fell into a steady sleep—without pills, without tossing and turning, without jolting awake at 3 a.m. to stare at the ceiling until dawn.
She slept deeply, soundly.
Downstairs, Maria finally finished kneading the dough for tomorrow's breakfast, covered it with a damp cloth, and turned off the last light in the kitchen. She tiptoed upstairs, paused for a full minute outside her son's door, pressed her ear to the wood, and upon hearing the steady breathing inside, finally let out a long sigh of relief.
She returned to the bedroom. Sliding under the covers, Gianluigi mumbled sleepily, "Asleep?"
"Asleep." Maria smiled in the dark, tears suddenly welling up. She quickly wiped them away. "Both of them."
"Good." Gianluigi turned over, murmuring.
"Elisa," Maria whispered, fingers unconsciously twisting the quilt corner, "she really is a good girl."
Outside, the moon slid past the tower's spire, beginning its westward tilt. The olive groves rustled continuously in the night wind, like the earth breathing.
Tomorrow, Giulio and Sofia would be shocked to find an extra person in the house.
Tomorrow, the crisis in Milan would still unfold.
Tomorrow, reporters might find this town.
But tonight, on the second floor of the Costa bakery, in a room with only one comforter, to the almost inaudible hum of a mother's lullaby, Elisa Rossi had her first full, good night's sleep in a week.
In her sleep, her fingers unclenched—the hand she habitually made into a fist when tense.
And on the other side of the bed, Lorenzo lay awake, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling until the moonlight completely vanished from the floor, until the first hint of dawn tinged the edges of the mint leaves on the windowsill.
He didn't sleep all night.
But the steady breathing beside him was something he'd pay any price for.