4,300 miles Northeast, Wednesday, April 25th, 8:35 a.m. CET — Linate Airport, Segrate, Metropolitan City of Milan, Lombardy, Italy
The glass doors whooshed open, spitting Loconda out into Italy like a fashion-forward fugitive. Crisp spring air slapped her awake, a zesty upgrade from the airport's stale vibes. Her suitcase clattered over the pavement as the morning sun hit her—powder-blue skies streaked with clouds that screamed "paint me." Milan buzzed around her, Italian chatter swirling like a caffeinated opera she couldn't decode but totally vibed with. First step on Italian soil, and she was already hooked.
She flagged a white taxi, and a driver—salt-and-pepper beard, eyes twinkling like he knew all the city's secrets—hopped out. "Buongiorno! Dove vai?" he chirped, grabbing her bag.
Loconda blanked. Italian? Nope. Her brain screeched to a halt.
He clocked her deer-in-headlights look and switched gears. "Where to?" he asked in English, accent thick but smooth.
Relief flooded her—until she realized she hadn't memorized squat. "Uh, hold up," she muttered, dropping to a crouch and clawing through her backpack. Receipts, water bottle, notebook—finally, jackpot: Aunt Acadia's letter, crumpled but gold. She thrust it at him. "Here."
He squinted at the elegant scrawl—Via Madonnina 16, 20121 Milano—and grinned. "Brera," he said, like it was a magic word.
"Brera," she echoed, sliding into the back. The taxi peeled off, and Milan unfurled outside her window—a mash-up of chic streets, graceful architecture, and pure vita. Nerves fizzed into hype. Whatever was awaiting her, she was ready to embrace it.
4.66 miles Northwest, 8:58 a.m. CET — Brera neighborhood, Zone 1
The cab rattled down a cobblestone alley, wedged between towering apartments like a secret handshake from history. Balconies dripped with plants and curly iron railings, shutters whispering tales of stories long passed. The driver pulled up to a weathered stone building, nodding. "Arrivato, Via Madonnina, numero sedici."
"Grazie," Loconda said, fishing out a tip. He hauled her suitcase out, and she stepped onto the street, Milan's breeze kissing her face. Surreal? Check. Dreamy? Double-check. Number 16 loomed—stone-worn but regal, its arched wooden door carved with flair, flanked by skinny windows. A silver nameplate peeked through ivy: A.P.—Aunt Acadia, no doubt.
She yanked the letter from her bag and read aloud, "When you reach the green door, find the silver mailbox. Grab the stone inside, step back, aim for the balcony window, and throw—yes, really. Wait for Renata. Follow her to the hidden entrance. Whatever you do, don't lose sight of her."
Loconda blinked. "A rock? Seriously?" This was some 007 nonsense. "Should've skimmed this before hopping a continent," she muttered, eyeing the mailbox. Absurd, sure, but she was in too deep to bail.
She took a deep breath and approached the mailbox. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed against a few small stones. She fished out a pebble, stepped back, and sized up the balcony. Am I about to get arrested for this? Passersby chatted, oblivious to her inner meltdown. She sighed, aimed, and chucked it. Thunk—the stone clipped the window frame and plopped into a flowerpot. She froze, scanning for witnesses. Nada. The street didn't care.
Minutes dragged. No Renata, whoever that was. "Who is Renata?" she whispered, fidgeting. The name sounded foreign and mysterious, yet she had no memory of her aunt mentioning them before. Another throw? Nah, too sketchy.
Then—the blinds began to shift erratically. Loconda held her breath, expecting a figure to emerge. Instead, a sleek black cat stepped out, its fur shimmering in the soft morning light.
The cat strolled onto the balcony railing with the languid confidence of a queen. It stretched, arching its back, then turned to face Loconda with piercing yellow eyes. It let out a sharp meow, a sound that carried a hint of irritation as if annoyed by the disturbance.
"No way," Loconda gasped. "This can't be Renata… can it?"
Before she could process, the cat darted off, leaping from the balcony to a neighboring ledge with practiced ease. Loconda's jaw dropped as she watched it spring from ledge to store sign to AC unit like a furry ninja.
Loconda yelped, "Wait!" and hauled her suitcase after it, cobblestones be damned. The cat zipped across balconies, scattering pigeons, pawed a bird mid-flight, then scaled an ivy-covered wall and vanished over a roof.
Loconda rounded the corner to keep up, her pulse racing. She found herself on a much busier street—Via Mercato. Unlike the quiet charm of Via Madonnina, this street buzzed with life. Vendors barked, scooters roared, shoppers swarmed.
She craned her neck, trying to spot the cat amid the chaos, but the crowd made it nearly impossible. As she pushed through, her shoulder collided with a man in a tailored suit.
"Attenta!" he snapped, flailing.
"Sorry!" Loconda mumbled though she doubted he understood. She looked up, scanning the rooftops, but the cat was gone.
She growled, stepped aside to avoid blocking foot traffic, and yanked out the letter. Next line: "If you lose Renata—which wouldn't surprise me—don't panic. Go to Via Mercato 14. Look for a wooden door with a golden mailbox. Press the bottom buzzer three times. Wait. Trust me, you'll know what to do next."
She made her way down the street, counting the addresses until she reached building 14 and its wooden door. Following her aunt's instructions, she pressed the bottom buzzer three times, but nothing happened.
Frustrated, she reread the letter, mumbling, "Trust me, you'll know what to do next," under her breath. She glanced around the entryway, searching for clues. Nothing stood out—except for a faint engraving etched into the doorknob.
Curious, she pressed her finger against the mark and traced it clockwise. A soft click echoed, and the door creaked open. There, sitting in the dim entrance, was Renata—calm and unbothered, licking its paw like, "Took you long enough."
Loconda stepped through the doorway and found herself standing in a shaded colonnade. The arching columns, carved from weathered stone, rose gracefully to meet the overhead beams.
A sudden, gentle pressure against her leg startled her from her thoughts. Glancing down, Loconda saw Renata brushing her head affectionately against her leg. Loconda crouched, her earlier frustrations dissipating as she reached out to stroke the cat's back. Her gaze shifted to the delicate pearl collar around its neck. Five charms were embedded in it, each unique—a crescent moon, a tiny key, a heart shaped emerald, a crown, and an abstract swirl. Loconda ran her fingers over the collar, marveling at the craftsmanship.
"Fancy kitty," she cooed, as Renata purred and arched her back under the attention. Loconda stood, grabbed her suitcase, and gave the cat a playful smile. "Alright, lead the way."
As if understanding, Renata spun around and trotted off, her collar glinting with each step.
The entrance opened to a secluded courtyard hidden within the heart of the apartment complex. Despite its small size, the space exuded charm and intimacy. Chairs with wrought-iron frames and delicate floral cushions were arranged near a central fountain that burbled softly, the water catching sunlight as it cascaded over smooth marble tiers. Around the perimeter, weathered stone statues—nymphs, cherubs, and mythological figures—seemed to guard the space with a watchful air.
Loconda felt a curious tightness in the air, not stifling but distinct, as if the courtyard carried secrets of its own. The apartment buildings surrounding it rose like silent sentinels, their heights pressing in from all sides. Oddly, none of the surrounding structures had windows facing the courtyard. It felt private, intentionally so, as if this pocket of serenity was meant only for those who knew how to find it.
Renata glanced back at Loconda, her yellow eyes expectant, before darting toward a large iron double door at the far end. One side of the door stood slightly ajar, creaking softly as the cat nudged it further open with her nose. Loconda followed, pushing her suitcase over the cobblestones.
She stepped through the door into a breathtakingly elegant apartment. "Aunt Acadia?" she called, her voice echoing faintly in the silence. But there was no response.
The space before her was richly adorned with luxurious antique furniture and items that seemed curated rather than simply collected. Ornate armchairs upholstered in velvet flanked an imposing mahogany coffee table, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. The walls were lined with intricate wooden paneling, interrupted only by grand oil paintings in gilded frames. A crystal chandelier hung above the living room, refracting the morning light into shimmering rainbows. On the mantle of a marble fireplace, an old clock ticked softly next to delicate porcelain figurines and a brass telescope.
Despite the opulence, the room felt warm and lived-in, as if each item had a story to tell. Loconda allowed her fingers to trail over the arm of a chaise lounge as she made her way toward a hallway. The air grew cooler as she approached a staircase that spiraled upward, its carved banister inviting her to ascend.
With suitcase in hand, she climbed the stairs, her curiosity piqued. Each floor revealed a unique layout and style. The first floor housed guest bedrooms, each decorated in timeless, traditional elegance with floral wallpaper, lace curtains, and canopy beds.
The second floor, in stark contrast, was modern and sleek. Minimalist furniture, clean lines, and floor-to-ceiling windows gave the space an airy, futuristic feel. Abstract artwork adorned the walls, and the soft hum of hidden lighting created a calming ambiance.
The third floor was eclectic and bohemian, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. Tapestries hung alongside bookshelves overflowing with mismatched volumes, and the scent of incense lingered in the air. The space felt alive, vibrant, and full of energy.
The fourth floor offered more bedrooms, but these were understated and serene, with neutral tones and large windows that framed the sky.
At last, Loconda reached the fifth floor. The open space was covered in richly colored rugs layered in an almost haphazard fashion. Yoga mats were rolled neatly in one corner, and a rack of free weights stood near a wall adorned with motivational quotes painted in elegant script. Sunlight poured in through skylights, giving the room a radiant, golden glow.
Renata darted ahead, disappearing up a small spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the room. Loconda hesitated briefly before following. The staircase was narrow, and she had to carefully place her hands on the cool metal railing as she climbed.
When she stepped out onto the rooftop, the world seemed to open up. Milan stretched out before her in a stunning panorama—its terracotta rooftops, towering spires, and bustling streets glimmering under the midday sun. A soft breeze brushed her face, carrying the scents of the city below. Loconda closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the sunlight sink into her skin.
Renata approached and leapt gracefully into her lap, curling up with a satisfied purr. Loconda chuckled softly, stroking the cat's silky fur. For a moment, she let herself forget the absurdity of the morning, basking in the tranquility of the view and the feline companionship.
After a while, she scooped Renata into her arms and stood, the cat's purr vibrating against her chest. "Alright," she murmured, "let's find your momma." With one last look at the city, Loconda turned and made her way back inside.