Then I knew I faced a prodigy. The first unmistakable symptom was that the Plaza was unusually empty. Not a soul. Even the air, frozen, seemed absent. The sounds are also gone, magically expanding the space left, the volumes of the buildings that framed the perspective of location and distance between them. In the midst of immense solitude I sat, bewildered and anxious, feeling no spectral be myself but someone who was inside me and I in him, that's what was not sure. Increased uncertainty that strange not being able to see me or have any partner who ask.
Gradually I got used to the stillness of my surroundings, such as unwillingness to that matter and spirit, that as an abandonment of the senses. Ventavia insists that this is the case. The silence began to embodied, almost, almost, to petrify as another element of the Plaza that only dimly, as if some tules inconsistent want to reduce their unfading beauty. There, I got a faint sound burst. I hesitated even to have heard. But he repeated with a strange cadence, even at a distance. I turned around in the geometric center of the square, to see where the noise came increasingly audible. Something was approaching with a faint hum.
At the end I saw him peeking from Piazza Corrillo. His image was unmistakable. So was, and the sound of his walk gusty, as pulses, battling Parkinson's in his later years. There he was, emerging, rather than the neighboring street, the very place of memories, of that vague and impossible place where you live in the soul of the deceased.