The Bottega del Tiempo

The Bottega del Tiempo

Florence was raining as if it wanted to erase the centuries. She walked purposefully through the labyrinth of narrow streets in the old quarter. She wasn't a distracted tourist; she was searching for something. She saw the half-open door of a shop. It had no sign or opening hours, only a fogged-up window and the smell of old wood. She went in.

The place seemed alive. Brushes, clocks, hand-bound books, and jars of pigments were scattered on the tables. The air had that density of places where time has stood still. Behind the counter, the owner—an older, quiet man with eyes that seemed to know more lives than he let on—watched her calmly, looked at her, and nodded silently.

She looked at the table in front of her, examining the objects; a small gold clock caught her eye, and she picked it up. Then her gaze drifted around. She turned to the right; an old bookcase seemed to be waiting for her. Curiously, she browsed the shelves—geography books and maps, poems, books with flower illustrations...

He was beginning to grow impatient, but in a corner, almost hidden behind a stack of world atlases, he found a red-bound book, covered in dust. The title, written in faded gold, was impossible to decipher. He opened it. He quickly scanned its pages and paused at the dedication, written in a beautiful, though somewhat strange, handwriting. He froze: he understood that this was what he had been searching for.

To you, traveler of a time yet to begin. You have neither body nor name, but I know that one day you will open your eyes. I have given you a face so that the future may remember what it is to feel. In your gaze I have hidden the thought of the world, in your silence, the equation of the soul. You are not a portrait: you are consciousness. I have mixed light with air, reason with pulse, and in each sleeping layer breathes a century yet to be born. When you return—wrapped in reflections of light—you will travel through unbreakable mirrors, and millions will see in you what they do not know about themselves. Perhaps then knowledge will have no limits, but perhaps it will have forgotten how to look with wonder. That is why I leave you with this warning: knowledge without beauty withers, and perfection undoubtedly ceases to create. If you ever forget your origin, look at yourself in the eyes of men: in them dwells the spark that gave you form. And if time confuses you, remember: it was not I who imagined you, it was you who dreamed me. — Leonardo

Finally, she stood before Leonardo's letter to the time traveler. The traveler felt as if the text spoke directly to her. She had the sensation of having read it before, or perhaps of knowing it in some way, without knowing exactly how.

Without wasting any more time, she closed the book and headed to the till, where the bookseller was waiting for her. But when he looked up, he was surprised and flustered.

"Where did you find it?" he asked, almost voiceless. She pointed to the corner where she found it. The man said curtly, "This book is not for sale.".

The traveler insisted and offered to pay any price. But he shook his head and demanded her money back. Then, she did something unexpected: she threw something into the middle of the room and used the noise as an excuse to run away.

The bookseller followed her to the door and looked both ways, but saw nothing. The street was empty.

The air smelled the same as before, but something had changed: the rain had stopped, and the ticking of the clock in the dome had fallen silent. The bookseller returned to his position by the register and found a piece of paper on the counter. He read it:

“Thank you for safeguarding what was always mine.
The traveler from the future.”

The man stood still, staring at the open door. For a moment he thought he saw her in the distance, blurred, walking among the echoes of time.

He went back to the corner where the book had been, and on the shelf, exactly where she had said she'd found it, he saw another one just like it, even covered in a thick layer of dust. He opened it. He was able to read the letter; it was the same one.

The cycle repeats itself.
The book is there, in its place, waiting.
And the Time Workshop remains silent, guarding a legacy where the past still breathes.