Genoa, Italy – 1951
The train wound down the hills like an old sigh, its wheels grinding against the tracks as the coast unfurled below — a gray sea swallowing the horizon, scattered with the silhouettes of fishing boats. Smoke from the engine mixed with the scent of salt, and Sofia pressed her face against the cold windowpane, tracing the outline of the city as it grew nearer.
Genoa.
Her mother had always called it La Città di Vetro — the City of Glass — because everything beautiful there, she said, could shatter if you weren't careful.
Sofia clutched her worn leather bag close to her chest. Inside were all her belongings: a folded dress, a small rosary, and a photograph of her late father, smiling behind the counter of his modest bakery in San Loreno. The journey had taken a day and a half, but it felt like she had crossed into another lifetime.
When the train hissed to a stop, the platform was alive with sound — whistles, chatter, the clatter of shoes on stone. Men in crisp coats hurried by with newspapers tucked under their arms, women in long skirts balanced baskets of bread and flowers. The city felt alive, like it pulsed with a rhythm her small-town heart wasn't ready for.
She stepped down into the crowd, gripping her bag, trying not to lose herself in the river of people. Above the noise, a church bell struck noon.
---
Sofia rented a room in a narrow alley called Via del Campo, three floors up in a weathered tenement that smelled of soap and seaweed. The landlady, a widow named Signora Bruni, gave her a skeptical look as she handed over the iron key.
"Work hard, keep quiet," the woman said. "This is no place for dreamers."
Sofia only smiled faintly. She had heard that all her life — and yet, here she was, chasing a dream she couldn't quite name.
Her room was small — a narrow bed, a wooden chair, a cracked mirror. From the window, she could see rooftops of red tile stretching toward the harbor, where cranes swayed like skeletal arms over the ships.
That first night, she could not sleep. She watched the rain begin to fall — thin, steady drops tapping the window — and she thought of the boy she had once known in San Loreno.
Marco.
The name came like a prayer she had stopped saying. She hadn't seen him since that summer night when he disappeared after the fire at the docks. Some said he had run off with smugglers. Others said he had died. Sofia refused to believe either.
The next morning, she found work at Caffè Adriano, a small café by the harbor owned by an old man with kind eyes and a bad leg. The pay was little, but the food was warm, and that was enough.
---
Days passed quickly, filled with the hum of the espresso machine and the scent of roasted coffee beans. Sailors came and went, dockworkers argued over cards, and every afternoon, the same group of businessmen in gray suits gathered near the corner table to discuss shipping contracts.
Sofia listened in silence, serving cappuccinos with a polite smile. But every time the doorbell chimed and a new customer entered, she found herself looking up too quickly, her heart leaping for no reason she could explain.
One afternoon, as the rain began to fall again, a man entered — tall, with dark hair and a long coat dampened by the storm. He ordered an espresso and sat near the window, facing the harbor. His voice — smooth, low, almost familiar — caught her breath.
"Un caffè, per favore."
Sofia turned, her hand trembling slightly as she poured. When she glanced up again, he was looking out at the sea, not at her.
She set the cup before him. Their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second — just enough to send a shiver through her.
"Grazie," he said without looking up.
The single word echoed. It was his voice. It had to be.
But when she dared to lift her eyes again, the man was gone.
---
That night, Genoa glowed with rain. Streetlights shimmered on wet cobblestones, and the sound of accordion music drifted from a nearby tavern. Sofia walked home beneath her umbrella, her shoes splashing through puddles, her mind spinning.
She had barely reached the corner of Piazza De Ferrari when she saw him again — or thought she did.
A figure standing across the square, coat collar turned up, watching her through the rain. The distance between them was filled with motion — trams, umbrellas, laughter — but for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
She called out, "Marco?"
The name escaped her lips before she could stop it.
The man didn't answer. He turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
Sofia ran after him, weaving through the market stalls, her heart pounding. She caught only glimpses — a shoulder, a flash of dark hair — until she reached the edge of the harbor, where the city met the sea.
There was no one there.
Only the reflection of gaslights trembling on the water, and the sound of rain striking the waves.
---
Back in her small room, Sofia lit a candle and sat by the window. The city below glittered like broken glass. She could see ships being loaded even at that late hour, cranes moving like shadows. Somewhere out there, she thought, Marco might still exist — not the memory, but the man.
She whispered his name again, softer this time, as if testing whether it still held meaning.
"Marco."
But the only answer was the rain.
---
Weeks passed. Life became a rhythm of work and waiting.
Sofia befriended Bianca, another waitress who was quick to laugh and quicker to gossip.
"Forget this Marco," Bianca said one morning as they cleaned the tables. "Men who leave don't come back. Especially not the rich ones."
Sofia frowned. "Who said he was rich?"
Bianca shrugged. "The way you talk about him — sounds like he was something special."
"He was…" Sofia hesitated, searching for the right words. "Kind. Honest. He saw me for who I was, not what I had."
Bianca smiled wistfully. "Then he was a fool. In Genoa, love and hunger don't mix."
Sofia didn't answer. She looked out the window, watching the rain slide down the glass. She had learned that in this city, everyone wore masks — smiles to hide fear, words to hide need.
But sometimes, when she caught her reflection in the window, she saw the same determination that had brought her here. She had promised herself she would marry for love, not money. Even if love was a ghost she could no longer touch.
---
One night, as she closed the café, a stranger entered — a boy no older than sixteen, breathless and soaked from the rain. He handed her a folded envelope, its seal marked with the faint impression of a lion's head.
"For you," he said. "From a gentleman by the docks."
Before she could ask, he was gone.
Sofia opened the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was a single piece of paper, the ink slightly blurred by moisture.
> "Some things are safer forgotten, Sofia."
No signature. No explanation.
Her breath caught. The handwriting — she recognized it.
Marco's.
She pressed the letter to her chest, tears burning behind her eyes.
Was it a warning? A farewell? Or proof that he was alive?
She didn't know.
All she knew was that her heart, fragile as glass, still beat for him.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep. She sat at her window, watching the city through the rain. Down by the harbor, the lights shimmered like fallen stars. Somewhere beyond them, the sea breathed in and out, patient and eternal.
Sofia whispered a promise into the storm.
"If you're out there, Marco," she said softly, "I'll find you."
A flash of lightning lit the sky, and for an instant, she thought she saw a figure standing on the pier below — coat billowing in the wind, looking up toward her window.
But when she blinked, he was gone.
Only the rain remained, whispering against the glass — the endless, restless rain of love.
___