Page 48 of The Road to You
LENA
Idon’t think I’ve ever been this quiet in my life. Not on purpose, anyway.
I’m standing at the edge of theBelvedere, the wind ruffling my hair, staring at the carved-out honey-colored cliffs in front of me as if I’ve accidentally stepped into the pages of a fantasy novel. The ancient dwellings rise in layers, stacked one above the other like some magical creature took a chisel to the hillside and carved an entire city from stone. The warm light of the late afternoon paints the rooftops in amber, and the shadows stretch long in the crevices of the old streets.
“I…” My mouth opens and closes. “I don’t even know how this is real.”
Michele chuckles beside me, amused. “It’s real. Very real. That’s Matera. Or more precisely,I Sassi di Matera.”
“The Sassi,” I repeat, the word soft and strange in my mouth. “Like…the stones?”
“Exactly. They’re ancient cave dwellings. People have lived here for thousands of years. They say it’s one of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the world.”
I blink at him, then look back at the view, my brain struggling to connect the dots between somethingthisold and the world I come from, where everything gets knocked down and rebuilt every ten years.
“And people actually lived inthose? In the rocks?”
“Still do, in a way. Many of the Sassi have been restored. Some are houses, others are restaurants or hotels now. However, people did live in those caves, generation after generation. Whole families. With their animals, their tools, everything. Until the 1950s, when the government forced evacuations because of poor sanitation and poverty.”
“That’s…insane. And beautiful. And kind of heartbreaking,” I murmur, squinting at the twisting, narrow alleys between the stone homes. “It looks like it belongs in Narnia. Or…Game of Thrones.Did they film here?”
“They did, actually,” he says with a crooked smile. “NotGames of Thrones, butThe Passion of the Christ. Matera has doubled as ancient Jerusalem more than once.”
I let out a breathy laugh, still stunned. “I can see why.”
I step closer to the railing, bracing my hands against the warm iron. “How does this even exist? Why don’t people talk about this more?”
“They do,” he says gently. “Just not in LA.”
That earns him a side-eye glare. “Touché.”
But when I glance at him, he’s not laughing. He’s watching me.
His expression is soft, almost reverent, like I’m the marvel here and not the ancient stone city unfolding before us. His dark hair curls slightly in the breeze, and there’s a hint of sun still lingering on his cheekbones, lighting up the specks of gold in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me like I’ve given him something. Like my wonder is something sacred.
And that’s when I feel the little flip in my chest. The one that doesn’t just flutter but settles, warm and deep.
“You’re staring, Moretti,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment before it gets heavy enough to change everything.
“I like watching you fall in love with Italy,” he says simply.
Oh.
I turn quickly, pretending to examine a rock nearby like it’s the most fascinating geological feature in the world, because if I keep looking at him, I might say something dumb. Or honest. Or both.
We start walking down toward the old part of the city, winding through dusty steps and uneven cobblestones. The buildings are built right into the mountain, with stone archway doors and stone window sills. Even the air feels like it’s tinged with the memory of centuries. It’s like the walls are still holding secrets of past lives.
I keep touching things. The stone walls, the low wooden doors, the plants and flowers growing straight out of the cracks in the walls and roofs. It feels almost forbidden to be here, like I’ve trespassed into a storybook.
“I swear,” I whisper, “this place has put a spell on me.”
Michele grins. “It kind of does. The Sassi were abandoned for years. People thought they were a shameful symbol of poverty. But then they started being restored, repurposed. Now they’re a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”
“So they came back to life.”
He glances at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”
We stop in front of an old stone archway leading to a shaded alley. The temperature drops slightly, the air cool and damp as if the stones themselves breathe. I run my fingers along the wall, feeling the grooves time has etched into it.
