Chapter: Where Did You Hide, My Love

Florence had a nostalgic air even without personal memories. But for Olivia, every cobblestone street and every old façade seemed to whisper something about Tom.

She had been living there for a month. She was starting to get to know the neighborhood bakeries, reading in the park in front of her apartment, saying "ciao" with ease. And writing. A lot.

One afternoon, while wandering aimlessly through a less touristy area, she spotted a bookstore hidden between two stone buildings. The sign read "Parole perdute" — Lost Words. She entered as if the place had called her by name.

Inside, it smelled of old paper and wood. Tall shelves reached up to the ceiling, warm light, silence. An older woman, with white hair tied in a bun, looked up from behind the counter.

"Olivia?" she said softly, with a gentle accent.

Olivia stopped dead in her tracks.

"How do you know my name?"

The woman smiled tenderly. She opened a drawer behind the counter and pulled out an ivory-colored envelope, sealed with blue wax.

"This arrived a year ago. A young man named Tom left it for you. He told me you would come one day... to give it to you only if I saw you smile upon entering."

Olivia couldn't breathe. Tom. Always Tom. Always a step ahead.

She took the envelope with trembling hands. She sat in a corner of the bookstore and opened it. Inside, another letter. And an old key.

"Liv,
I knew you would enter this bookstore. Because you always looked for words that others couldn't see. Because you loved places with history. And because this was the first spot I found when I came on exchange before meeting you. It's where I knew I wanted to bring you one day.
The key is to a small art studio I rented for a year. It was used by an old friend of mine who lives nearby. He's waiting for you. I told him everything about you. I told him you'd arrive with a half-written story and many things left to write.
Go. The place is yours while you're in Italy. For you to write. For you to breathe. For you to feel free.
And if you find gardenias along the way... you know, it was me.
With love, always,
Tom."*

That night, Olivia went to the studio. It was on the third floor, with a large window overlooking the rooftops of Florence. A wooden table, an antique armchair, an empty bookshelf, and in one corner...

A vase.

With a single fresh gardenia.

And on the window, a piece of paper taped:

"Welcome to your story, Olivia."