Lilian notes something down on her tablet. We’ve worked together long enough that few words are needed.
“Would you like me to schedule the meeting with the China client?”
“Not yet. I want to see the cut from the lot. Send me the video first.”
She nods and gathers the reports. Before leaving, she turns back.
“You should be proud, Alexander. Santoro Marmo has never grown this fast in such a saturated market.”
I glance at the marble beneath my feet, more than a material, it carries the weight of generations.
“Pride is dangerous,” I say. “I prefer knowing there’s always something left to master.”
She gives a small smile, then the door closes behind her.
I lift one of the samples and tilt it toward the light. The marble catches the sun and gives it back in a muted glow. There are small imperfections in it that could never be replicated by machines, and never with the same quality and endurance. This is what comes to mind whenever people ask what I do. I don’t sell stone; I sell permanence. Something that outlives us and stays to tell many stories.
My phone vibrates on the desk. The moment I see her name, I reach for it.
Cecilia:I can’t believe I had never read this author before! I’m completely fascinated by how he weaves every detail into the story. So rich, so complex. Thank you so much for the recommendation.
Attached is a photo ofThe Island of the Day Before, by Umberto Eco.
The truth is, I don’t read as much as I’d like to. But some books never leave you, and this is one of them. I thought she might like it, which is why I suggested it. I would have sent her the hard copy, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.
Me:Glad it was to your liking. I’ll think about which of the other five books I’ve read in my entire life I can recommend next.
She replies calling metonto[VI], followed by a laughing emoji.
I try to picture her laughing somewhere in her new house, the same way she sometimes bursts into laughter when I tell her about Sam’s mischief or some ridiculous story from my family.
My eyes stay fixed on the screen as I absentmindedly stroke my beard, my thoughts wandering to everything I want to show her.
Everything.
For Cecilia, I’m willing to give more than I ever have.
Chapter 03
Cara mia
Cecily
The door from the garage slams hard, and I rush out of the kitchen just in time to see Ethan passing by, his hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage.
“Ethan.”
He freezes halfway up the stairs. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing, Mom. I’m gonna shower,” he says, already climbing three more steps.
“You’re coming down right now and you’re going to show me your hand.” There’s no arguing with that tone, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to use it on him.
He steps back down, but doesn’t offer his hand. So I take it myself and unwrap the white cloth stained with dried blood.
His knuckles are busted.
“What happened?”
