marco pieno always woke up before the city did.
not because he was disciplined, but because silence had a certain kind of music he couldn't find anywhere else. in that hour before dawn, when the cobblestones of florence still smelled faintly of last night's rain, and the arno river whispered in half-asleep ripples, marco sat by his window, holding a lukewarm espresso and staring at the empty stage of his thoughts.
his room was a mixture of poetry and exhaustion walls covered with yellowed scripts, scattered drafts of half-written plays, and a single potted basil that somehow refused to die despite his neglect. everything smelled faintly of ink and regret.
"every morning feels like a rehearsal," he muttered to himself, watching the faint line of sunlight climb the neighboring rooftops.
a rehearsal for what, though? life? love? death?
he didn't know anymore.
at twenty-seven, marco had written seven plays, none of which made him proud. they were clever, yes praised by critics for their structure and wit but soulless. they were mirrors without reflection. audiences clapped, but he always felt they were applauding the mask, not the man.
he often thought: if words are supposed to set people free, why do mine feel like chains?
everyday life in florence had its own theater.
the espresso machine hissed like a sleeping dragon in the café downstairs. the baker next door performed his daily opera of kneading dough, while the church bells sang in predictable rhythm. life was beautiful unbearably, painfully beautiful yet marco felt detached from it, like an actor trapped behind the curtain, watching the audience live instead.
he left his apartment just as the sun broke the edge of the sky, carrying his leather notebook. it was old, frayed, the corners darkened by years of nervous fingers. inside were dialogues that never made it to the stage fragments of conversations with people he'd never met, versions of himself he didn't understand.
as he walked through piazza della signoria, the statues seemed to watch him. david, with his eternal calm. perseus, forever mid-strike. they reminded marco how even marble seemed to live more vividly than he did.
"good morning, maestro!" called gianni, the theater janitor, as marco entered the teatro vecchio his second home, his sanctuary, his cage.
"morning," marco replied softly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
the theater was empty at this hour. he liked it that way. when the lights were off and only the dust shimmered in golden beams through the curtains, it felt honest stripped of performance, naked, real. he sat in the middle row, notebook open, staring at the stage where countless words had lived and died.
"what am i missing?" he whispered to the empty seats. "why can't i feel the way my characters do?"
no answer. only the creak of old wood and the faint hum of the air outside.
he began to write anyway. because that's what he did when he didn't know what else to do.
the pen scratched softly against the paper.
act one, scene one.
a man walks alone in a city that pretends to love him.
he speaks to the air because the air is the only thing that listens.
he stared at the words. simple. sad. true.
but something inside him stirred a strange feeling, like anticipation before a thunderstorm. not quite fear, not quite hope.
he didn't know that at that exact moment, just outside the theater walls, a woman with chestnut hair was setting up her violin near the fountain. her name was rosa grande. her music would soon reach the open window of his rehearsal room like a whisper from another world.
but for now, she was just a note waiting to be played.
marco stood up and walked to the stage. he ran his fingers across the velvet curtain, the one that had seen more heartbreaks than any lover.
"maybe i should quit," he said aloud, his voice echoing. "or maybe i should fall in love just to remember what it feels like to be alive."
he chuckled bitterly.
"as if love ever solves anything."
and then it happened.
a sound drifted in through the open side door: soft, slow, haunting. a violin. playing not for applause, but for the air, the sky, the pigeons, the morning.
the melody was imperfect, raw, alive. every note stumbled slightly, yet carried emotion so honest it made the hairs on his arms rise.
he froze.
the music wasn't just sound it was confession. a voice saying, i exist, i feel, i hurt, but i still play.
marco walked toward the door, almost afraid to disturb the spell. outside, framed by the pale sunlight, stood rosa grande playing with her eyes closed, lips trembling slightly with every shift of the bow.
she wasn't beautiful in the classical sense. no sculptor would have chosen her face for marble. but there was something magnetic about the way she breathed through the music, like her soul was visible.
marco watched for what felt like hours, though it was only a minute.
for the first time in years, he didn't think in metaphors or stage directions. he just felt.
when the melody ended, rosa opened her eyes and caught him watching.
"you're staring," she said, smiling softly.
"i know," he admitted. "i think i forgot how not to."
she laughed, a sound more beautiful than her violin.
"then maybe you need to remember."
and in that instant that fragile, unassuming moment on an ordinary italian morning marco pieno's life shifted. not like thunder, but like the quiet turning of a page.
that night, back in his apartment, he tried to write again. but every line turned into her.
her bow, her hair, her laughter, her fearless imperfection.
for the first time, his script wasn't about tragedy or clever dialogue. it was about feeling seen.
and though he didn't realize it yet, marco pieno had just begun writing the only play that would ever truly matter
the one where he would become romeo,
and she, unknowingly, would teach him what it meant to live.