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Rome in August. A strange time in a stranger place ... the Italians themselves up and gone to distant parts for a collective, two-week siesta, leaving the smaller streets to sleep - paint-peeled shutters over dusty panes of uneven glass.
And after a few days, the tourists have quickly learnt, and shy from the shimmering heat, tucked up safe in air-conditioned hotels which squeeze between the rough-plaster town houses lining the pavements.
Only as twilight builds do they venture out into the winding, cobbled streets - sitting in the alley cafés surrounding the Trevi Fountain or walking unhurriedly to the Pantheon to gaze up at the darkening sky, framed perfectly in the unadorned, circular opening in the great dome overhead.
But now, at midday, I am almost alone - the relentless heat pressing me tight to the street.
I stretch out my fingers at my side, hoping somehow to catch another’s hand as we walked. Only the humidity reaches my grasp, and the loneliness inside swells up again, threatening to take me over.
I sigh deeply and seek higher ground, mounting the first steps towards my solitude.
The Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II book-ends the Forum ruins, far mirrored opposite by the Colosseum. Perhaps the Monument casts a diminutive reflective in most people’s eyes - the stonework does not speak of centuries past, it does not crack and flake under the weight of a million memories. But, for me at least, it is a sort of home - a centre of respite, my own personal sanctuary.
The façade slopes sharply up from the street in wide steps and terraces, balconies and the doors to the rooms within. Yet the few tourists brave or foolish enough to venture out have only climbed to the second terrace and, exhausted, lean on the balustrade or against the stones, tight to the meagre shade, irritable under blazing sun and blue-void skies.
I climb on past them all, past the great green-worn statue of the Monument’s namesake - the first king, the unifier of Italy, commemorated by a structure much scorned by his countrymen. He looks out on the city, proud and pleased of his achievements, and I move behind his back, higher still.
The last three flights form a mountain into insufferable heat, as I climb towards the sun and it flares down to graze my brow. The air is thick and still, it sticks in the throat and slows the limbs. But I know, I know, my perfect place awaits, and that simple thought pushes me on.
I find flat, final ground at last, and the wondrous breeze, cool and clear, sweeps through the pillars all around. The sheen of sweat squeezed from stifled pores is cooled to nothing, and my loose clothes snap and dance in the soothing wind.
I am not alone in the square, shaded temple as I would have hoped - a woman stands with her back to me, hair as night flowing free behind her. She has her head titled upwards to catch the full force of the perfect breeze as she looks out over the city, sloping away below. I step further into the deep cool, cast back and ever-held by the soaring marble pillars, and she turns, one arm rested along the stone railing, and she smiles widely with shining eyes, as though she is welcoming an old friend.
I look away, along the long, curved gallery leading to the symmetrical temple on the far side. Usually, the walkway is dotted with ageing patrons, eager to perfect the ancient Italian art of sitting and watching - but today, there are no stoic figures surveying their land, and no silhouettes between the pillars across the way.
The woman has turned back again when I return my abashed gaze to the shaded temple. She is clothed all in the lightest blue, and somehow I can tell she is still smiling. There, for a second at least, seems to be a shimmering - a slight falseness - in the air surrounding her. I blink, and all is normal again.
I move to the viewpoint I always take - in sunshine or showers, dawn or dusk - sitting or standing between the pillars are looking out at the city, taking in the endless streets and buildings twisting together below, or seeing nothing and simply remembering my first visit here, and the reason for my returns.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Somehow, the voice at my shoulder does not shock me, as though the words were already in my head. The woman had moved around to stand beside me - her dark, shining moving across the skyline, noting each of the beautiful domes in turn, rising from the city to greet us.
I silently nod my consent and make sure to be looking straight out at the view before answering. “Yes. Beautiful.”
A memory stirs in me, as it always does, and I can’t help my smile despite my sadness. Of a first meeting, sharing almost the exact same conversation ... of all the times we returned, falling deeper and deeper for each other. And then, the sudden, cruel end to it all.
I have been told, many times, to focus on the good times. And so the Monument became a symbol for all that was good - a way to reach out to that which was lost, a hook to the life which spluttered and fell through my fingertips. I returned endlessly, hoping for something I could never place - just a change, backwards or forwards. A change, and a chance for my heart to mend, or to finally shatter into countless, hopeless fragments.
The woman leans on the rail beside me, so lightly that it seems as though she may not even be there. She runs a hand through her hair and pulls in over her shoulder, idly picking at stray strands with her fingertips.
Then: “She still loves you, you know?”
The words take a good minute to sink in, but in the chilled air between us, it is clear we both know to whom she refers. Against my will, tears form in my eyes, and my mind reels into confusion.
I turn my back on the city now - looking inwards, to this peaceful, soothing spot of peace and shade within the roaring, burning tangle of the buildings spread out below.
“Who - who are you?”
She gives a little shrug, and turns as I did, so we are both looking along the deserted gallery to the temple beyond. “A friend of a friend.”
“But why you? Why not ...”
I smile, confused, and rub at my unshaven face with the heel of my hand.
She reaches across and touches my arm - again, perhaps understandably now, so lightly I’m not sure I even felt it - and my restless fidgeting ceases.
“She is still weak ... it takes a long while to adjust, you know?”
I don’t know, of course, but nod anyway, slowly.
“But she wanted someone to tell you - that she’s okay now, and that she still loves you.”
‘I know ...” And I do - I always have known - that my love is still returned, that my fragile heartstrings are still tethered and safe where they belong.
“She said you would be here - and she told me to tell you something else ... “
“What is it?”
“She said that life is so very precious - and that you both saw how delicate it is. She will be waiting for you, when the time comes - but until then, you should live your life, and live it well. No regrets.”
“I don’t understand ... why-”
“She loves you always, understand that. But I have seen it too many time before ... someone holds on to what cannot be ... they have no life of their own. She does not want that to happen to you.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Never forget, never. But never be afraid, either - never be afraid to be happy. That is all she asks ... for you to be happy.”
“I ... I ...”
But she is gone, and I am alone again. The breeze picks up again, renewed, and I take a few shaking steps further into the centre of the temple - the city around me forgotten, inconsequential.
I turn in circles, looking all around, trying to catch something - anything - that will tell me for sure that I did not imagine it all. I stop and wonder if the climb here under a merciless August sun had affected me more than I realised - but there, as my eye wanders, all doubt vanishes.
Across the gallery - reflected from me, as the whole Monument is onto itself - a figure, a silhouette, black and sharp against the harsh light beyond. Standing framed between the thick pillars, a form I know so well still. A connection forms up between us, and my heart leaps high in my chest, as it did when we first met in this place, on a day much like today.
Then she, too, is gone. But I know now - my heart proclaims - that I will never truly be alone, even in my darkest days. There will always be someone watching, and someone waiting with open arms when, eventually, my time arrives.
Before then, if only for her, I will strive to be happy.
Rome holds many more sights to be wondered at.
And after a few days, the tourists have quickly learnt, and shy from the shimmering heat, tucked up safe in air-conditioned hotels which squeeze between the rough-plaster town houses lining the pavements.
Only as twilight builds do they venture out into the winding, cobbled streets - sitting in the alley cafés surrounding the Trevi Fountain or walking unhurriedly to the Pantheon to gaze up at the darkening sky, framed perfectly in the unadorned, circular opening in the great dome overhead.
But now, at midday, I am almost alone - the relentless heat pressing me tight to the street.
I stretch out my fingers at my side, hoping somehow to catch another’s hand as we walked. Only the humidity reaches my grasp, and the loneliness inside swells up again, threatening to take me over.
I sigh deeply and seek higher ground, mounting the first steps towards my solitude.
The Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II book-ends the Forum ruins, far mirrored opposite by the Colosseum. Perhaps the Monument casts a diminutive reflective in most people’s eyes - the stonework does not speak of centuries past, it does not crack and flake under the weight of a million memories. But, for me at least, it is a sort of home - a centre of respite, my own personal sanctuary.
The façade slopes sharply up from the street in wide steps and terraces, balconies and the doors to the rooms within. Yet the few tourists brave or foolish enough to venture out have only climbed to the second terrace and, exhausted, lean on the balustrade or against the stones, tight to the meagre shade, irritable under blazing sun and blue-void skies.
I climb on past them all, past the great green-worn statue of the Monument’s namesake - the first king, the unifier of Italy, commemorated by a structure much scorned by his countrymen. He looks out on the city, proud and pleased of his achievements, and I move behind his back, higher still.
The last three flights form a mountain into insufferable heat, as I climb towards the sun and it flares down to graze my brow. The air is thick and still, it sticks in the throat and slows the limbs. But I know, I know, my perfect place awaits, and that simple thought pushes me on.
I find flat, final ground at last, and the wondrous breeze, cool and clear, sweeps through the pillars all around. The sheen of sweat squeezed from stifled pores is cooled to nothing, and my loose clothes snap and dance in the soothing wind.
I am not alone in the square, shaded temple as I would have hoped - a woman stands with her back to me, hair as night flowing free behind her. She has her head titled upwards to catch the full force of the perfect breeze as she looks out over the city, sloping away below. I step further into the deep cool, cast back and ever-held by the soaring marble pillars, and she turns, one arm rested along the stone railing, and she smiles widely with shining eyes, as though she is welcoming an old friend.
I look away, along the long, curved gallery leading to the symmetrical temple on the far side. Usually, the walkway is dotted with ageing patrons, eager to perfect the ancient Italian art of sitting and watching - but today, there are no stoic figures surveying their land, and no silhouettes between the pillars across the way.
The woman has turned back again when I return my abashed gaze to the shaded temple. She is clothed all in the lightest blue, and somehow I can tell she is still smiling. There, for a second at least, seems to be a shimmering - a slight falseness - in the air surrounding her. I blink, and all is normal again.
I move to the viewpoint I always take - in sunshine or showers, dawn or dusk - sitting or standing between the pillars are looking out at the city, taking in the endless streets and buildings twisting together below, or seeing nothing and simply remembering my first visit here, and the reason for my returns.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Somehow, the voice at my shoulder does not shock me, as though the words were already in my head. The woman had moved around to stand beside me - her dark, shining moving across the skyline, noting each of the beautiful domes in turn, rising from the city to greet us.
I silently nod my consent and make sure to be looking straight out at the view before answering. “Yes. Beautiful.”
A memory stirs in me, as it always does, and I can’t help my smile despite my sadness. Of a first meeting, sharing almost the exact same conversation ... of all the times we returned, falling deeper and deeper for each other. And then, the sudden, cruel end to it all.
I have been told, many times, to focus on the good times. And so the Monument became a symbol for all that was good - a way to reach out to that which was lost, a hook to the life which spluttered and fell through my fingertips. I returned endlessly, hoping for something I could never place - just a change, backwards or forwards. A change, and a chance for my heart to mend, or to finally shatter into countless, hopeless fragments.
The woman leans on the rail beside me, so lightly that it seems as though she may not even be there. She runs a hand through her hair and pulls in over her shoulder, idly picking at stray strands with her fingertips.
Then: “She still loves you, you know?”
The words take a good minute to sink in, but in the chilled air between us, it is clear we both know to whom she refers. Against my will, tears form in my eyes, and my mind reels into confusion.
I turn my back on the city now - looking inwards, to this peaceful, soothing spot of peace and shade within the roaring, burning tangle of the buildings spread out below.
“Who - who are you?”
She gives a little shrug, and turns as I did, so we are both looking along the deserted gallery to the temple beyond. “A friend of a friend.”
“But why you? Why not ...”
I smile, confused, and rub at my unshaven face with the heel of my hand.
She reaches across and touches my arm - again, perhaps understandably now, so lightly I’m not sure I even felt it - and my restless fidgeting ceases.
“She is still weak ... it takes a long while to adjust, you know?”
I don’t know, of course, but nod anyway, slowly.
“But she wanted someone to tell you - that she’s okay now, and that she still loves you.”
‘I know ...” And I do - I always have known - that my love is still returned, that my fragile heartstrings are still tethered and safe where they belong.
“She said you would be here - and she told me to tell you something else ... “
“What is it?”
“She said that life is so very precious - and that you both saw how delicate it is. She will be waiting for you, when the time comes - but until then, you should live your life, and live it well. No regrets.”
“I don’t understand ... why-”
“She loves you always, understand that. But I have seen it too many time before ... someone holds on to what cannot be ... they have no life of their own. She does not want that to happen to you.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Never forget, never. But never be afraid, either - never be afraid to be happy. That is all she asks ... for you to be happy.”
“I ... I ...”
But she is gone, and I am alone again. The breeze picks up again, renewed, and I take a few shaking steps further into the centre of the temple - the city around me forgotten, inconsequential.
I turn in circles, looking all around, trying to catch something - anything - that will tell me for sure that I did not imagine it all. I stop and wonder if the climb here under a merciless August sun had affected me more than I realised - but there, as my eye wanders, all doubt vanishes.
Across the gallery - reflected from me, as the whole Monument is onto itself - a figure, a silhouette, black and sharp against the harsh light beyond. Standing framed between the thick pillars, a form I know so well still. A connection forms up between us, and my heart leaps high in my chest, as it did when we first met in this place, on a day much like today.
Then she, too, is gone. But I know now - my heart proclaims - that I will never truly be alone, even in my darkest days. There will always be someone watching, and someone waiting with open arms when, eventually, my time arrives.
Before then, if only for her, I will strive to be happy.
Rome holds many more sights to be wondered at.
Thanks again, much appriciated.
My first 'real world' story with proper places. Wasn't sure if I overdid it there or not, but whatever.
My first 'real world' story with proper places. Wasn't sure if I overdid it there or not, but whatever.
Yes, absolutely fantastic. A little more normal than your usual FFF entry, but great all the same.
<3
<3
It's still getting counted. Excellent, FFF.
"Rome in August. A strange time in a stranger place ..."
Reminds me of the intro to Broken Sword. 'Paris in the fall..'
"Rome in August. A strange time in a stranger place ..."
Reminds me of the intro to Broken Sword. 'Paris in the fall..'
I'm afraid this entry was 33 minutes late.
I ... I ...
Rome in August. A strange time in a stranger place ... the Italians themselves up and gone to distant parts for a collective, two-week siesta, leaving the smaller streets to sleep - paint-peeled shutters over dusty panes of uneven glass.
And after a few days, the tourists have quickly learnt, and shy from the shimmering heat, tucked up safe in air-conditioned hotels which squeeze between the rough-plaster town houses lining the pavements.
Only as twilight builds do they venture out into the winding, cobbled streets - sitting in the alley cafés surrounding the Trevi Fountain or walking unhurriedly to the Pantheon to gaze up at the darkening sky, framed perfectly in the unadorned, circular opening in the great dome overhead.
But now, at midday, I am almost alone - the relentless heat pressing me tight to the street.
I stretch out my fingers at my side, hoping somehow to catch another’s hand as we walked. Only the humidity reaches my grasp, and the loneliness inside swells up again, threatening to take me over.
I sigh deeply and seek higher ground, mounting the first steps towards my solitude.
The Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II book-ends the Forum ruins, far mirrored opposite by the Colosseum. Perhaps the Monument casts a diminutive reflective in most people’s eyes - the stonework does not speak of centuries past, it does not crack and flake under the weight of a million memories. But, for me at least, it is a sort of home - a centre of respite, my own personal sanctuary.
The façade slopes sharply up from the street in wide steps and terraces, balconies and the doors to the rooms within. Yet the few tourists brave or foolish enough to venture out have only climbed to the second terrace and, exhausted, lean on the balustrade or against the stones, tight to the meagre shade, irritable under blazing sun and blue-void skies.
I climb on past them all, past the great green-worn statue of the Monument’s namesake - the first king, the unifier of Italy, commemorated by a structure much scorned by his countrymen. He looks out on the city, proud and pleased of his achievements, and I move behind his back, higher still.
The last three flights form a mountain into insufferable heat, as I climb towards the sun and it flares down to graze my brow. The air is thick and still, it sticks in the throat and slows the limbs. But I know, I know, my perfect place awaits, and that simple thought pushes me on.
I find flat, final ground at last, and the wondrous breeze, cool and clear, sweeps through the pillars all around. The sheen of sweat squeezed from stifled pores is cooled to nothing, and my loose clothes snap and dance in the soothing wind.
I am not alone in the square, shaded temple as I would have hoped - a woman stands with her back to me, hair as night flowing free behind her. She has her head titled upwards to catch the full force of the perfect breeze as she looks out over the city, sloping away below. I step further into the deep cool, cast back and ever-held by the soaring marble pillars, and she turns, one arm rested along the stone railing, and she smiles widely with shining eyes, as though she is welcoming an old friend.
I look away, along the long, curved gallery leading to the symmetrical temple on the far side. Usually, the walkway is dotted with ageing patrons, eager to perfect the ancient Italian art of sitting and watching - but today, there are no stoic figures surveying their land, and no silhouettes between the pillars across the way.
The woman has turned back again when I return my abashed gaze to the shaded temple. She is clothed all in the lightest blue, and somehow I can tell she is still smiling. There, for a second at least, seems to be a shimmering - a slight falseness - in the air surrounding her. I blink, and all is normal again.
I move to the viewpoint I always take - in sunshine or showers, dawn or dusk - sitting or standing between the pillars are looking out at the city, taking in the endless streets and buildings twisting together below, or seeing nothing and simply remembering my first visit here, and the reason for my returns.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Somehow, the voice at my shoulder does not shock me, as though the words were already in my head. The woman had moved around to stand beside me - her dark, shining moving across the skyline, noting each of the beautiful domes in turn, rising from the city to greet us.
I silently nod my consent and make sure to be looking straight out at the view before answering. “Yes. Beautiful.”
A memory stirs in me, as it always does, and I can’t help my smile despite my sadness. Of a first meeting, sharing almost the exact same conversation ... of all the times we returned, falling deeper and deeper for each other. And then, the sudden, cruel end to it all.
I have been told, many times, to focus on the good times. And so the Monument became a symbol for all that was good - a way to reach out to that which was lost, a hook to the life which spluttered and fell through my fingertips. I returned endlessly, hoping for something I could never place - just a change, backwards or forwards. A change, and a chance for my heart to mend, or to finally shatter into countless, hopeless fragments.
The woman leans on the rail beside me, so lightly that it seems as though she may not even be there. She runs a hand through her hair and pulls in over her shoulder, idly picking at stray strands with her fingertips.
Then: “She still loves you, you know?”
The words take a good minute to sink in, but in the chilled air between us, it is clear we both know to whom she refers. Against my will, tears form in my eyes, and my mind reels into confusion.
I turn my back on the city now - looking inwards, to this peaceful, soothing spot of peace and shade within the roaring, burning tangle of the buildings spread out below.
“Who - who are you?”
She gives a little shrug, and turns as I did, so we are both looking along the deserted gallery to the temple beyond. “A friend of a friend.”
“But why you? Why not ...”
I smile, confused, and rub at my unshaven face with the heel of my hand.
She reaches across and touches my arm - again, perhaps understandably now, so lightly I’m not sure I even felt it - and my restless fidgeting ceases.
“She is still weak ... it takes a long while to adjust, you know?”
I don’t know, of course, but nod anyway, slowly.
“But she wanted someone to tell you - that she’s okay now, and that she still loves you.”
‘I know ...” And I do - I always have known - that my love is still returned, that my fragile heartstrings are still tethered and safe where they belong.
“She said you would be here - and she told me to tell you something else ... “
“What is it?”
“She said that life is so very precious - and that you both saw how delicate it is. She will be waiting for you, when the time comes - but until then, you should live your life, and live it well. No regrets.”
“I don’t understand ... why-”
“She loves you always, understand that. But I have seen it too many time before ... someone holds on to what cannot be ... they have no life of their own. She does not want that to happen to you.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Never forget, never. But never be afraid, either - never be afraid to be happy. That is all she asks ... for you to be happy.”
“I ... I ...”
But she is gone, and I am alone again. The breeze picks up again, renewed, and I take a few shaking steps further into the centre of the temple - the city around me forgotten, inconsequential.
I turn in circles, looking all around, trying to catch something - anything - that will tell me for sure that I did not imagine it all. I stop and wonder if the climb here under a merciless August sun had affected me more than I realised - but there, as my eye wanders, all doubt vanishes.
Across the gallery - reflected from me, as the whole Monument is onto itself - a figure, a silhouette, black and sharp against the harsh light beyond. Standing framed between the thick pillars, a form I know so well still. A connection forms up between us, and my heart leaps high in my chest, as it did when we first met in this place, on a day much like today.
Then she, too, is gone. But I know now - my heart proclaims - that I will never truly be alone, even in my darkest days. There will always be someone watching, and someone waiting with open arms when, eventually, my time arrives.
Before then, if only for her, I will strive to be happy.
Rome holds many more sights to be wondered at.
And after a few days, the tourists have quickly learnt, and shy from the shimmering heat, tucked up safe in air-conditioned hotels which squeeze between the rough-plaster town houses lining the pavements.
Only as twilight builds do they venture out into the winding, cobbled streets - sitting in the alley cafés surrounding the Trevi Fountain or walking unhurriedly to the Pantheon to gaze up at the darkening sky, framed perfectly in the unadorned, circular opening in the great dome overhead.
But now, at midday, I am almost alone - the relentless heat pressing me tight to the street.
I stretch out my fingers at my side, hoping somehow to catch another’s hand as we walked. Only the humidity reaches my grasp, and the loneliness inside swells up again, threatening to take me over.
I sigh deeply and seek higher ground, mounting the first steps towards my solitude.
The Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II book-ends the Forum ruins, far mirrored opposite by the Colosseum. Perhaps the Monument casts a diminutive reflective in most people’s eyes - the stonework does not speak of centuries past, it does not crack and flake under the weight of a million memories. But, for me at least, it is a sort of home - a centre of respite, my own personal sanctuary.
The façade slopes sharply up from the street in wide steps and terraces, balconies and the doors to the rooms within. Yet the few tourists brave or foolish enough to venture out have only climbed to the second terrace and, exhausted, lean on the balustrade or against the stones, tight to the meagre shade, irritable under blazing sun and blue-void skies.
I climb on past them all, past the great green-worn statue of the Monument’s namesake - the first king, the unifier of Italy, commemorated by a structure much scorned by his countrymen. He looks out on the city, proud and pleased of his achievements, and I move behind his back, higher still.
The last three flights form a mountain into insufferable heat, as I climb towards the sun and it flares down to graze my brow. The air is thick and still, it sticks in the throat and slows the limbs. But I know, I know, my perfect place awaits, and that simple thought pushes me on.
I find flat, final ground at last, and the wondrous breeze, cool and clear, sweeps through the pillars all around. The sheen of sweat squeezed from stifled pores is cooled to nothing, and my loose clothes snap and dance in the soothing wind.
I am not alone in the square, shaded temple as I would have hoped - a woman stands with her back to me, hair as night flowing free behind her. She has her head titled upwards to catch the full force of the perfect breeze as she looks out over the city, sloping away below. I step further into the deep cool, cast back and ever-held by the soaring marble pillars, and she turns, one arm rested along the stone railing, and she smiles widely with shining eyes, as though she is welcoming an old friend.
I look away, along the long, curved gallery leading to the symmetrical temple on the far side. Usually, the walkway is dotted with ageing patrons, eager to perfect the ancient Italian art of sitting and watching - but today, there are no stoic figures surveying their land, and no silhouettes between the pillars across the way.
The woman has turned back again when I return my abashed gaze to the shaded temple. She is clothed all in the lightest blue, and somehow I can tell she is still smiling. There, for a second at least, seems to be a shimmering - a slight falseness - in the air surrounding her. I blink, and all is normal again.
I move to the viewpoint I always take - in sunshine or showers, dawn or dusk - sitting or standing between the pillars are looking out at the city, taking in the endless streets and buildings twisting together below, or seeing nothing and simply remembering my first visit here, and the reason for my returns.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Somehow, the voice at my shoulder does not shock me, as though the words were already in my head. The woman had moved around to stand beside me - her dark, shining moving across the skyline, noting each of the beautiful domes in turn, rising from the city to greet us.
I silently nod my consent and make sure to be looking straight out at the view before answering. “Yes. Beautiful.”
A memory stirs in me, as it always does, and I can’t help my smile despite my sadness. Of a first meeting, sharing almost the exact same conversation ... of all the times we returned, falling deeper and deeper for each other. And then, the sudden, cruel end to it all.
I have been told, many times, to focus on the good times. And so the Monument became a symbol for all that was good - a way to reach out to that which was lost, a hook to the life which spluttered and fell through my fingertips. I returned endlessly, hoping for something I could never place - just a change, backwards or forwards. A change, and a chance for my heart to mend, or to finally shatter into countless, hopeless fragments.
The woman leans on the rail beside me, so lightly that it seems as though she may not even be there. She runs a hand through her hair and pulls in over her shoulder, idly picking at stray strands with her fingertips.
Then: “She still loves you, you know?”
The words take a good minute to sink in, but in the chilled air between us, it is clear we both know to whom she refers. Against my will, tears form in my eyes, and my mind reels into confusion.
I turn my back on the city now - looking inwards, to this peaceful, soothing spot of peace and shade within the roaring, burning tangle of the buildings spread out below.
“Who - who are you?”
She gives a little shrug, and turns as I did, so we are both looking along the deserted gallery to the temple beyond. “A friend of a friend.”
“But why you? Why not ...”
I smile, confused, and rub at my unshaven face with the heel of my hand.
She reaches across and touches my arm - again, perhaps understandably now, so lightly I’m not sure I even felt it - and my restless fidgeting ceases.
“She is still weak ... it takes a long while to adjust, you know?”
I don’t know, of course, but nod anyway, slowly.
“But she wanted someone to tell you - that she’s okay now, and that she still loves you.”
‘I know ...” And I do - I always have known - that my love is still returned, that my fragile heartstrings are still tethered and safe where they belong.
“She said you would be here - and she told me to tell you something else ... “
“What is it?”
“She said that life is so very precious - and that you both saw how delicate it is. She will be waiting for you, when the time comes - but until then, you should live your life, and live it well. No regrets.”
“I don’t understand ... why-”
“She loves you always, understand that. But I have seen it too many time before ... someone holds on to what cannot be ... they have no life of their own. She does not want that to happen to you.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Never forget, never. But never be afraid, either - never be afraid to be happy. That is all she asks ... for you to be happy.”
“I ... I ...”
But she is gone, and I am alone again. The breeze picks up again, renewed, and I take a few shaking steps further into the centre of the temple - the city around me forgotten, inconsequential.
I turn in circles, looking all around, trying to catch something - anything - that will tell me for sure that I did not imagine it all. I stop and wonder if the climb here under a merciless August sun had affected me more than I realised - but there, as my eye wanders, all doubt vanishes.
Across the gallery - reflected from me, as the whole Monument is onto itself - a figure, a silhouette, black and sharp against the harsh light beyond. Standing framed between the thick pillars, a form I know so well still. A connection forms up between us, and my heart leaps high in my chest, as it did when we first met in this place, on a day much like today.
Then she, too, is gone. But I know now - my heart proclaims - that I will never truly be alone, even in my darkest days. There will always be someone watching, and someone waiting with open arms when, eventually, my time arrives.
Before then, if only for her, I will strive to be happy.
Rome holds many more sights to be wondered at.