Alexander Santoro
P.S. I hope this isn’t intrusive. Please feel free to refuse the present if I’ve crossed any lines.
I exhale in relief and sink into the armchair, one hand pressed gently to my chest, the other still holding the card. I’m smiling.
Alexander.
For a moment, I thought this would be yet another secret from the past that would bring more pain to my family. But it’s only... a kind gesture.
I reach for the diary once more, running my fingertips over the grain of the leather and the cream-colored pages. When I lift it closer to my face, there’s a subtle scent of lemongrass that makes me smile.
Still, I set it aside, because the wooden box it came in draws my attention again.
Every inch of it is carved with intricate details. Across the lid, I can clearly make out lilies and zinnias etched into the wood... and a third flower, equally beautiful. It reminds me of a rose, but with more layers, more petals. Unfamiliar yet mesmerizing.
When I turn it in my hands, I notice a phrase engraved along the lower edge:
“Ogni stella può essere una guida: per chi naviga, per chi cammina ma anche per chi cresce.”
I open my phone and search for the translation. The moment I read it, my heart stills.
“Every star can be a guide: for those who sail, for those who walk, and also for those who grow.” — Miranda Ranalli.
I press my hand to my chest again. I can’t quite explain why, but the words move me.
Carefully, I set the box back on the desk, as if it were made of glass instead of wood. I look at it—at both the wooden box andthe diary resting beside it—and feel a quiet warmth bloom in my chest.
I reach for my phone, thinking I should send him a text, a simple thank-you. But it feels too impersonal after the care he put into such a thoughtful gift.
The call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail. I sigh, surprised by the sting of disappointment, and open the messaging app instead.
Hi, Alexander—
I’ve barely finished typing when the phone vibrates in my hand. I draw in a deep breath, wait a few seconds, and answer.
“Hello.”
“Sorry I missed your call… I was in a meeting,” he says. Then, his voice softens. “Hello, Cecily.”
I can’t help but smile. Now that I know where that faint accent comes from, it’s impossible not to notice it, especially when he says my name.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting,” he says, his tone patient. “They can continue without me. If you called, I assume there’s a reason.”
I close my eyes for a second, suddenly shy. “Now I feel a little silly. It’s nothing urgent. I just... wanted to thank you. The gift is beautiful. I probably should’ve just sent a text.”
“You liked it, then?” There’s a smile in his voice now.
I stretch my hand across the desk, my fingertips brushing over the carved flowers on the lid.
“Very much. I can’t decide what I love more. The pen, the diary, or the box they came in. But if I’m honest, it’s the box that has me mesmerized. The details, the engraving about the stars... I had to Google the quote. It’s stunning.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad you liked it enough to call. The diary is an artisanal piece, crafted by the shop owner’s grandfather. I can get you more if you’ve gone back to journaling.”
His kindness moves me, but I can’t let him do that. “Thank you, Alexander, but that’s not necessary. If you could just share the name of the shop—especially where you found the box—I’d love that. It’s exquisite work.”
There’s a pause on the line, the kind that makes me wonder if I’ve said too much.
