Chapter 2 — Strings in the Square

Nico

The sunlight fractured against the cobblestones, streaking the Piazza del Fiore with liquid gold. Nico adjusted the strap of his guitar case, his sharp gaze flitting over the rhythms and movements of the square. Locals bustled in and out of cafés, their conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter, while tourists lingered, clutching maps and cameras, their awe written in the tilt of their heads toward the pastel buildings and the fountain at the piazza’s heart.

He didn’t mind the tourists. They were life in motion—more footsteps, more faces, more coins tossed into his case. Coins for rent, for food, for the strings he was always wearing thin.

But today, the noise of the square felt like a cage, too loud to ignore, too chaotic to soothe. A car horn blared in the distance, snapping his focus to a memory he didn’t want: the quick flash of headlights, Matteo’s voice raw with panic, the silence that followed. His chest tightened as the sound echoed in his head. He forced a breath, lowering his gaze to the cobblestones and flexing his fingers to shake free of the tightness.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brushed the cool surface of the silver guitar pick. The engraving pressed against his skin: “Perdono.” Forgiveness. A word that felt like a dream he didn’t dare chase. It grounded him, even as it defied him.

He moved to his usual spot near the fountain, where the acoustics carried his music to every corner of the square. The stone beneath him radiated a familiar warmth as he sat, cradling his guitar like an old friend. A few curious looks flickered his way, their attention fleeting. He welcomed the anticipation before the first note, that small moment where the crowd hadn't yet decided whether to care.

The guitar was cool in his hands. He strummed once, the sound rippling outward, a quiet test of the air. The hum of the crowd shifted, just slightly. His throat tightened—he knew what this meant. They were listening. And so, he played.

The melody started soft, familiar. He had been working on it for weeks, though it never felt finished. It wasn’t meant to be. The notes ebbed and flowed, rising and falling like a restless tide. They carried a thread of aching nostalgia, weaving in echoes of something unsaid. It was his language, the only one he trusted to say what words failed to capture.

As the music built, the square seemed to recalibrate itself. Conversations softened. Pigeons halted mid-strut. Even the fountain’s eternal song seemed to blend into the harmony. The music was a net, gathering fragments of focus and weaving them into something whole.

But one gaze felt heavier than the others.

Nico didn’t need to look up to know she was there—he felt her presence like a held note, suspended and full of something unspeakable.

Still, his eyes betrayed him.

She stood by the fountain’s edge, her auburn hair gathering the sunlight in loose waves like a halo. Petite, with hazel eyes that seemed too wide for her face, she clutched a notebook to her chest as though it might shield her from whatever had brought her here. There was a quiet intensity in the way she watched him, her gaze unrelenting, searching, as if she were trying to decipher the melody he played.

His fingers faltered—a barely perceptible pause—but the silver pick anchored him, guiding him back to the melody before anyone could notice. Anyone except her, perhaps.

She looked like she had stepped out of a different story, misplaced among the tourists and locals. Fragile—no, not fragile. Open, in a way that made him want to turn away and keep looking all at once.

Nico leaned into the music, letting it swell, daring her to stay. The notes sharpened, darker now, like a barrier he hoped to raise between himself and her gaze. But if it was meant to drive her away, it failed. If anything, her focus deepened, as though she was peeling back the layers of his music, reaching for something he hadn’t meant to share.

The applause, when it came, was polite, rippling through the square like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. Nico nodded his thanks, his expression carefully neutral, his ears already attuned to the next set of coins dropping into his case.

But she didn’t move.

As he packed up his guitar with deliberate slowness, his hands steady despite the unease coiled in his chest, he felt her eyes on him still. He slung the case over his shoulder and stood, brushing past her. The faint scent of jasmine reached him, mingling with the fading warmth of the afternoon.

He wanted to ignore her, to pretend she was just another face, but a thread of curiosity tugged at him. He glanced back before turning the corner, and there she was, her notebook still clutched tightly in her hands, her hazel eyes shadowed with something he didn’t understand.

Nico ducked into an alley, the cooler air brushing across his skin as the sounds of the piazza softened behind him. Leaning against the stone wall, he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.

What was it about her?

She wasn’t the first person to linger while he played. He had grown used to the passing glances, the smiles, the occasional tourist snapping a photo like they were capturing a piece of his soul for keepsakes. But this woman, this stranger with her notebook and her searching eyes, had unsettled something deep in his chest.

Music was supposed to be his shield. It was a way to offer a fragment of himself without giving anything away. But she had seen through it—at least, he felt like she had. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

He pulled the silver pick from his pocket, running his thumb over the engraving. “Perdono.” The word felt like an open wound today, raw and unanswered. A fragment of his mother’s voice surfaced, soft and melodic: “Find your song, mio caro.”

The jasmine scent lingered in his mind as he pushed off the wall and adjusted the strap of his guitar case. He could already feel the melody from earlier forming into something new, something restless. The square would be waiting for him tomorrow, just as it always did.

But as he walked deeper into the city’s quiet shadows, her eyes stayed with him, her presence threading itself into the spaces between the notes. And he knew, with a certainty that unnerved him, that she would be waiting too.