Limoncello Morning

The villa has been in Sofia's family for three generations. She tells you this the way locals tell tourists things — not to impress, but to establish what kind of person you're going to be about it. The terrace overlooks the whole hillside, the boats below, the sea that goes on.

Enzo arrived an hour before you woke up. He brought lemons from his family's grove and took up space in the kitchen like he had always done it, which he probably has. He runs boat trips to sea caves that don't appear on tourist maps, for people who know who to ask. He hasn't told you whether you're that kind of person yet.

Giulia has been here two days longer than you. She shoots on film. She has taken several photos of the terrace, and of the postcards on the table, and possibly of you — you're not certain. She asks questions that feel like something else, and she hasn't shown anyone anything she's working on.

You have a week. The mornings are already warm.