The abandoned villetta, once full of roses and golden German heads, now left in brambles. The village’s church, where they each had their funeral. Thunder clapping outside in November. The cemetery’s stillness broken only by the reddish gravel grinding under footsteps and the occasional gush of water from the stone sink. Tombs drink in abundance when visitors salute.
One day my name will end there too. Engraved on a granite slab. Pursuing the family’s story, in perpetuum.