I position myself where I can see through the broken window without being seen. She's standing in what used to be Giuseppe's kitchen, hands on her hips, surveying damage that would make a contractor weep. The ceiling has several holes, the plumbing is medieval, and there's a family of bats living in the chimney.
She takes out her phone and starts snapping pictures, talking to herself like she's narrating for an audience.
"Okay, so the kitchen needs some work. But look at these stone walls! This is authentic craftsmanship you can't buy. And the view through this window, once I get the glass replaced will be amazing."
She's cataloging disasters like they're selling points. This is either impressive optimism or complete delusion.
I watch her explore the rest of the house, listening to her cheerful commentary about "original features" and "rustic charm." When she discovers the bathroom situation, she actually laughs.
"Well, I guess I'll be getting very familiar with the village facilities," she announces to the empty house. "Just think of it as forced socialization."
Forced socialization.
As if the villagers' fear-based politeness is the same as friendship.
She settles upstairs in what used to be Giuseppe's bedroom, sitting on the window seat and pulling out her phone again. No signal, of course. This far up the mountain, most cell towers don't reach. I made sure of that years ago.
I'm about to leave and let her settle in for the night when she does something unexpected.
She starts laughing.
Not the hysterical kind that comes from realizing you've made a terrible mistake, but deep, genuine belly laughs that echo through the empty house. The kind of laugh that comes from pure joy.
"I actually did it!" she says, clapping her hands together. "I actually left! I actually bought a house in Sicily!"
Another wave of laughter hits her, and she's practically wheezing now. "They said I'd never take a real risk. Well, joke's on them! I just bought a medieval ruin with grocery money!"
There's definitely a story here.
Someone who underestimated her capacity for reckless decisions. Most people don't uproot their entire lives to prove a point, but Americans are strange about things like that.
She sits up, still grinning like she's just won something instead of inheriting a structural nightmare. "Okay, house. It’s just you and me against the world."
She's talking to the building like it's a partner instead of a problem. Americans really do think they can make friends with anything. Even inanimate objects.
I retreat as she makes her way downstairs, timing my exit so she won't see me when she looks out the windows. She needsto feel safe and unobserved for now. The approach I'm planning requires her to trust me, at least initially.
Back in the village, I stop by a café where the old men are still discussing the arrival of their new American neighbor.
"She seems nice," Paolo is saying. "Very friendly. Very optimistic and smiley."
"Too optimistic," grumbles Matteo, who's lived here long enough to remember what optimism costs. "She doesn't understand."
"Understand what?" I ask, settling into the chair they always keep empty for me.
The conversation stops immediately. It always does when I join them. Not from fear, exactly. These men have known me since I was a boy, but from respect. And awareness of what topics are safe to discuss in my presence.
"The house," Matteo says carefully. "Giuseppe's house. It has complications."
"I'm aware of the complications."
"What will you do?" Paolo asks. He was Giuseppe's friend, knew about the medical bills, the desperation, the choices that led to the debt.
"I'll speak with her. Explain the situation."
"And if she can't pay?"
I sip my espresso and watch the lights come on in the houses around the square. Families settling in for dinner, children being called inside, the comfortable rhythms of a community that's learned to survive by not asking too many questions.
