Chapter Text
The sky above Rome is the same color as a field of cornflowers in full bloom, an intense, almost unreal blue that seems hand-painted. The Roman Octobers have this magic: they feel more like a second summer than the beginning of true autumn, a suspended interlude where time seems to forget to pass. And it was precisely this sunny, warm, and bright day that convinced me to leave earlier than usual this morning. It's not my routine to start the day this early; in fact... I have more freedom than I'd like to admit. But I decide to take advantage of it and treat myself to a walk around the office before starting work.
I walk slowly, breathing in the still-clean morning air, and enter a café with a slightly faded sign, one of those where the aroma of coffee mingles with the scent of freshly baked croissants.
I'm not a big coffee fan, but this morning tastes precisely like cappuccino and croissant, and I can't resist. I order almost instinctively, then go and sit on an emerald green velvet armchair next to the window overlooking the street. I sip my cappuccino slowly, letting the foam touch my lip, while I watch the city awaken. People flow like a raging river on the pavement: tense faces, quick steps, the click of heels on the asphalt, and the tires of scooters whizzing between the cars with a confidence bordering on recklessness. Rome always seems to be in a rush in the morning, even when it shouldn't.
Even in the suburbs.
Then suddenly something catches my eye: across the street, hidden between two anonymous buildings, there's a small garden. Or at least I think it's always been there. What hasn't been there, however, is the antiques market that fills it. Small, discreet, as if it had sprung from nowhere.
Weird.
In the two years I've worked here, I'd never noticed it.
I finish eating, pay my bill at the cashier, and after a quick glance at the time on my phone, I head toward the stalls. My shift still has an hour to go, so I have all the time I need to browse without guilt.
I wander among the stalls filled with leather jackets that smell of musty nostalgia, old furniture from homes that perhaps no longer exist, gilded frames, and tasteless chandeliers swaying gently in the breeze.
An old man with a grey beard and hands marked by time is rummaging through a vinyl box. I approach, driven by sudden curiosity.
A cover peeks out from the side, blackened by time. I carefully pull it out and almost jump.
No image, no elaborate graphics, no label; just white writing on a black background:
Pink Floyd: The Lost Tracks - 1971
I stand still for a moment with the record in my hands.
Never heard of it. And I know everything about Pink Floyd. And by "everything," I really mean everything.
My heart races, as if I've found something that wasn't supposed to be found.
"That's ten euros," the seller says, looking up at me before returning to his boxes of vinyl.
"What is this? A bootleg?" I ask, turning the record over to read the track titles.
I don't recognise a single one.
The man shrugs. "I have no idea. A guy brought it to me a while ago, said it was only for true connoisseurs. Sure… It’s been there for weeks"
I run my thumb over the smooth surface of the cover. Ten euros is a more than fair price for a rare vinyl record. Maybe that's precisely what doesn’t makes me hesitate for a second. So I dig into my backpack, open my wallet, and hand it to him.
I put the vinyl inside, thank him, and continue walking through the stands, occasionally stopping at some '60s-era dress, but without buying anything. My attention has now faded; the desire to go home and listen to this strange record is so strong that I can't think of anything else. I almost forget the time. I check my phone and realise it's time to head for work.
When I enter the office, the smell of burnt coffee greets me. The air is unusually light today: the bosses arrive later, which means I can work with all the peace and quiet in the world.
I work as a translator for Game & Ink, a company that produces board games. A grand name for a place where the coffee machine has been leaking for months and where a decent women's restroom is considered a luxury.
I sit at my desk, setting my backpack down, and turn on my computer. The rules of a fantasy game I've been translating for days flash on the monitor, full of absurd terms and unpronounceable names. Translating these things should be considered a recognised form of self-harm, but for now it pays the bills, so I take a deep breath and get back to work, letting the words flow mechanically across the keyboard.
Time passes without me noticing, until a light knock on my door brings me back to reality.
"Emily, shall we have lunch together?"
It's Emma, a dear friend of mine for I don't know how many years, one of the few people who make this place a little more bearable.
I turn to her and smile, nodding.
The day outside is so beautiful that it's a waste to spend it cooped up in the office, so we decide to take our lunch break in a quiet place not far from here.
We sit at the outdoor tables, surrounded by the neighbourhood chatter. We talk about everything and nothing, but mostly we gossip about our bosses and colleagues, with tears in our eyes, and for a while I completely forget about the vinyl in my backpack.
And it's Emma who notices it when I open it to get my wallet.
"What do you have in there?" she asks, curious.
"Oh, a rare Pink Floyd record that I don't know."
“How strange of you," she comments, amused.
"I found it this morning. Right at that market over there..." I turn to point it out to her, but the sentence dies on my lips. The stalls that brightened the street this morning are now gone. In their place is the usual old, ramshackle little garden.
"There was an antiques market there this morning."
Emma looks at me perplexed. "Maybe they've already dismantled it."
"Yes... maybe.”
My words flow easily, but a small knot lingers inside me, a doubt I can't explain.
We return to the office in time to begin the second half of the day, which passes peacefully.
When the sky begins to darken, I finally turn off my computer and run a hand over my face, tired but relieved. A few colleagues appear at my door to say goodbye.
"See you tomorrow!" I reply with a smile, putting on my coat and slinging my backpack over my shoulders.
I nod goodbye to Emma and walk toward the car.
When I get home, I set my backpack on the floor and slowly take off my coat.
Floyd, my big white and grey cat, greets me by rubbing against my ankles and sits up; he looks at me, waiting for something.
"You're hungry, huh?" I ask him, giving him a light scratch on the head, just above his ears. "Well, you could have cooked something while you were at it."
I like living alone, but sometimes I'd love to open the door and smell the aroma of dinner already cooked.
I open the fridge and find some leftover tuna pasta from last night: I'm so in no mood to cook that I just make do. I pop it in the microwave, open a can of wet food for Floyd, who dives into the bowl, devouring the contents, and while I wait for my dinner to heat up, I grab my phone to reply to a few WhatsApp messages.
I open a chat with Iris, another old friend and the only one I know who's as obsessed with Pink Floyd as I am.
I type: "You can't imagine what I found today."
I grab the record from my backpack, snap a quick photo of the cover, and send it to her, a mischievous smile on my lips.
Her reply doesn't take long to arrive: "What is that? Where did you find it?"
I keep smiling to myself, with a hint of satisfaction. “At a flea market this morning. Never seen it before.”
I can almost see her face as she types: “Okay, I absolutely have to listen to this. Can I borrow it as soon as I can?”
I reply: "I'm listening to it tonight, but come over whenever you want and we'll listen to it together. Or we can organise another Pink Floyd Retreat in Nemi and listen to it there."
Nemi is a small town in the Roman Castles area overlooking a beautiful, mirror-like lake: my mother inherited a house there and occasionally leaves me the keys so I can treat myself to a peaceful weekend. Iris and I often spend entire days there just listening to Pink Floyd on an old record player that belonged to my mother when she was a girl.
The sound of the microwave, meanwhile, brings me back to reality.
I quickly eat dinner, then leave the dirty plate in the sink and walk over to the record player.
I remove the vinyl from its sleeve and carefully place it on the turntable.
I lower the needle.
Then comes a subtle but dense rustle, like the wind whistling through the shutters, then a deep sound, low vibrations that travel through the floor. The lamp on the cabinet begins to shake.
I hear a dull thud, I see the walls begin to crack. The floor moves beneath me, like an earthquake; a painting falls, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces.
"What the hell…”
My voice dies in my throat. The air thickens. The noise becomes deafening.
A white flash crosses the room, then the sound of a roar.
A second later, everything collapses.
Then silence.
And darkness.