Scene: Emidio Describes Singing with His Nieces
Emidio, a man with a voice like weathered velvet and eyes that flicker with old joy, leans back in his chair, cradling a chipped coffee mug. He smiles as he recalls the moment:
“You know, there’s something about singing with your nieces that heals you, even when you didn’t know you were broken. They come running into the living room with these sparkly microphones they got from the dollar store, yelling, ‘Zio Emidio! Let’s sing!’ And who am I to say no?
They always start with that one song from ‘Frozen’—you know the one—and I pretend to groan, but inside I’m flying. I take the low harmonies while they belt the high notes with all the fire in their lungs. One of them, Chiara, she closes her eyes like she’s on stage at Sanremo. The other, little Lucia, watches my mouth to stay in tune—like I’m the maestro and she’s my student.
And when we finish, they collapse in a pile of giggles on the couch, like the concert of the century just ended. They don’t know it, but in those minutes, I’m not thinking about the rent, or the war, or how tired I feel. I’m just there—singing with two little stars who think I hung the moon.”
