Short-story

You’re on the sofa, in the house your mother left you.
It hasn’t changed since her mother left it to her.
The rooms smell of a faded yet enduring, unbreakable, constant wealth.
In the room you’re in now, the windows look out onto a large, illuminated square.
You stare at it from above without moving.

The glimmers from the nineteenth century street lamps highlight the dark wood paneling, the velvet upholstered armchairs, the cabinets stuffed with ceramic trinkets, and the soft cognac colored leather sofa you’re sitting on.
On the table, the remains of your dinner:
chipped ceramic plates edged with gold, crystal glasses from mismatched sets, tarnished silver cutlery. You always set the table neatly, even though there’s no need.
From a burlwood box, you take out a cigarette.
You use a gold lighter and savor the scent of burning tobacco mingling with the slight mustiness emanating from the moiré wallpaper.
You get up to look outside, the parquet floor creaking under your feet.
You see a figure walking slowly, so far away it’s almost indistinguishable, wearing a long camel colored coat, carrying a bag, the hair glowing in the darkness.

The figure stops abruptly.
It seems to ponder where to go. Then it turns and looks at you.
You can’t make out the features but you know it’s looking at you.
It’s a shadow coming to life and you’re surprised, embarrassed, excited.

You stare back for long seconds, your breath quickening.
You want it to come closer, to discern the lines of the face, the color of the hair, the softness of the hands.
The figure glances around the square, undecided.

After a long moment of hesitation it starts walking again disappearing under one of the arcades, gone from your sight forever.
You remain standing, feeling the light breeze brush your neck.

You close your eyes, breathe in, go back inside.
The taste of persistent happiness lingers on you.