Florence It was dawning with a clear light. Miles had reached the Laurenzian Medicean Library, It had just reopened after weeks of maintenance. He climbed Michelangelo's staircase with the feeling of walking on a stage from another time, where the stone seemed to flow and breathe.

In the reading room, the silence held an ancient purpose. Among glass cases and desks, the manuscripts slept a dust-free sleep. Then he heard a soft voice:

—Scusi… come if it says “soul”?
(“Excuse me… how do you say 'soul'?‘)

Miles turned. A light-haired woman was holding a guidebook and a notebook full of cross-outs.
—Anima -said- si parla di un'anima.
(“Anima. It is said a soul.”)

—Beautiful word.
(Beautiful word.)

They smiled with that relief that comes when someone translates the world for you. She introduced herself as Betsy, An Englishwoman from London, she was in Florence to research the humanists. She spoke English with a few brave forays into Italian.

They walked slowly. She pointed to a display case:
—Would you read something aloud? Just in line…
(Could you read something aloud? Just one line…)

Miles read from the Virgil Laurentian, in a low voice:

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit…
(Perhaps one day we will even remember this with joy.)

—That's comforting.
(It's comforting.)
—Or dangerous.
(Or dangerous.)

They laughed. It was a small laugh, but precise, like a well-placed note. They continued to the Amiatina BibleBetsy bowed slightly, almost in reverence.

—It feels alive.
(She feels alive.)

Miles thought—and did not say—: like you.

The bell announced the closing of the monumental section. The two looked at each other with that "already?" gesture that halts what's just beginning.

—They close early here.
(They close early here.)
—Even the silence keeps office hours.
(Even silence has office hours.)

In the courtyard, the light of Florence It was getting darker towards evening. Betsy buttoned up her coat:
—Would you help me order a coffee tomorrow? My Italian collapses at “macchiato.”
(Would you help me order a coffee tomorrow? My Italian is falling apart at “macchiato.”)

Miles nodded with a brief smile.
—It would be my scientific duty.
(It would be my scientific duty.)

Near the exit, they made it clear, without drama:
—See you tomorrow? Same place, after ten?
(See you tomorrow? Right here, after ten?)
—Tomorrow, —he said— after ten.
(Tomorrow, after ten.)

Florence breathed; the stone remained behind her with its orderly silence. In his pocket, Miles slipped a phrase that needed no translation: morning, coffeeAnd for the first time in a long time, he was in no hurry to flee the future.