shortly after the epilog

JOSEPHINE

"Are you ready?" Riccardo asked as he shut the car door and buckled his seatbelt. I nodded silently, my hands gripping my student ID with all the excitement that seemed to rush through me. "You know, you can talk to me, right?" he laughed softly, and once again, I nodded in silence.

"I know," I finally answered, my voice quieter than usual. But somehow, it felt like words weren't enough to say everything I was feeling. It was just a trip to the museum, but it was the first time for me. I couldn't shake the excitement in my stomach.

Riccardo started the engine, and the car rolled slowly out of the garage. The wind from the open window rushed past while we drove towards town, and I stared out, watching the street blur by.

"Rico, why do you think so many people care so much about all this stuff?" I asked suddenly, my voice more than just curious—it was a little desperate, too.

"You mean the museum?" Riccardo glanced at me briefly. "I think it's because we're all looking for meaning. People want to tell their stories, just like we do. They want their lives to mean something, not just vanish into nothing." I mulled over his words, watching the trees along the side of the road whip by. There was a part of me that didn't quite understand it—the idea that objects, ancient artifacts and paintings, could carry so much meaning. But then I thought about the woman in that painting he'd shown me in the brochure, her dark eyes staring, almost waiting for something. Was that how people felt when they left something behind? Like they needed to be remembered?

"Do you think people in the past cared about being remembered?" I asked after a while, my voice softer now, almost as if I was asking myself more than him.

Riccardo didn't answer right away, focusing on the road as he turned the steering wheel. "I think they cared, but maybe not in the way we think. Maybe they just wanted to live, like we do. They just didn't have the same way of doing it, so they left things behind. Things that would still be here long after they were gone." I nodded slowly. It made sense, in a way. They didn't have Instagram or Snapchat to capture their moments. They left things behind—pots, paintings, statues. Things that would last, things that might still tell a story hundreds of years later. "Hey, look," Riccardo said, pointing ahead. "We're almost there."

I looked up to see the large, imposing structure of the museum coming into view. The tall, stone columns stood proudly at the entrance, and the glass doors glimmered under the afternoon sun. My heartbeat quickened, a mix of excitement and nerves.

We parked, and as I stepped out of the car, my legs felt a little shaky. I wasn't sure why, but it felt like stepping into something important, something that might change the way I saw the world, even just a little. I remember how often I'd spend my days watching this buidling and how small it made me feel. As we walked toward the entrance, Riccardo bumped his shoulder into mine, a grin still plastered on his face. "Come on, Josie. This is your first museum. Let's make it count."

I smiled back at him, feeling the excitement finally bubble to the surface. The doors slid open, and a cool rush of air greeted us as we entered. Inside, everything felt grand and quiet—an overwhelming silence that only made the excitement buzz louder in my chest. I could already tell, this wasn't just a place with old things. It was a place where stories lived, waiting to be uncovered. "Where to go first?"

Riccardo glanced around, pointing toward a grand hall in the distance. "Let's start over there," he said, gesturing toward a room with a massive sculpture of a woman draped in flowing robes. "It's the one I've been telling you about—Demeter mourning for Persephone."

We walked toward it, and as we drew closer, I couldn't help but feel the weight of the scene. The marble was so lifelike, it almost seemed to breathe. There was Demeter, her face full of sorrow, one hand clutching her chest, the other reaching toward an empty space as if calling out for her daughter. The grief was so raw, so visible, it made me feel something deep in my chest. I could feel her pain, and it reminded me of my own lost.

A soft voice broke my concentration. "This sculpture represents the moment when Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, learns of her daughter Persephone's abduction to the underworld," a museum guide was saying as she stepped up beside us, her voice calm and clear. She was wearing a navy blue uniform, a names tag introducing her as Mrs. Mase, and she smiled as she noticed us looking at the sculpture. "The myth of Demeter and Persephone was central to ancient Greek religion," She continued with a mild southern accent, her eyes now focused on us. "Demeter's grief was so profound that it caused the earth to stop producing crops, plunging the world into winter. This myth explained the changing seasons—the sorrow of Demeter represented the fall and winter, while the return of Persephone from the underworld brought spring and summer."

I felt my breath catch. The idea of seasons, of life and death, of a mother's grief... it was so much bigger than I imagined. I glanced at Riccardo, who seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the statue. The guide motioned to the details in the sculpture. "If you look closely, you can see the artist's skill in capturing Demeter's expression—how the folds of her drapery seem to move with her sorrow, and how her eyes are cast down, filled with loss. It's a beautiful yet tragic portrayal of a mother in mourning."

I stepped closer to the marble, marveling at how each line and curve seemed to tell a story. The drapery, the way her body was frozen in the midst of movement, it was like the moment had been captured forever. "It's incredible how art can capture so much emotion, don't you think?" Riccardo whispered to me, his voice full of admiration. "It's like the sculptor managed to freeze a feeling in time."

I nodded, my throat tight. "Yeah... I didn't expect to feel so much from just looking at a statue."

The guide smiled as if she knew exactly what we were thinking. "That's the power of art," she said softly. "It doesn't just show us what things look like. It connects us to the emotions, the stories, the people who came before us. It makes the past feel alive."

We stood there for a while, both of us absorbed in the statue, feeling the weight of Demeter's grief and the timelessness of the story. I wondered if the sculptor had felt the same way when they created it. Had they poured their own emotions into it, too? Or had they simply been trying to capture the beauty and complexity of human feeling? After a few moments, Riccardo gave me a nudge. "Come on, let's go look at the next one."

I glanced back at the statue one last time, feeling a strange pull in my chest. "Yeah," I whispered, "let's go."

As we walked deeper into the exhibit, I noticed that the next section of the museum seemed even more expansive, the atmosphere shifting as we entered a room filled with paintings. The warm golden light from the overhead chandeliers bathed the space, and the air smelled faintly of polished wood and old canvases. It felt almost like walking into another world—a place where time didn't exist, where each piece of art was an invitation to step inside a moment from centuries ago.

A large, vibrant painting caught my eye immediately. It was an oil painting of a woman draped in flowing robes, standing by a river, her arms outstretched as if to embrace the sky. The colors were so rich, so alive. The blue of the water seemed to shimmer, and the golden light surrounding her felt almost like it was pulsing with energy.

"That one's called The Abduction of Persephone," Riccardo said, stepping beside me while he read the small plate next to it. "It's by an artist from the Renaissance period. You can tell because of the way the light falls on the figures—it's all about contrast, making things look almost real."

I stared at the painting, noticing the difference in the way Persephone's face was painted—she looked so full of life, yet her eyes were wide with fear. Hades, the god of the underworld, was reaching for her, his hands outstretched, and the whole scene was bathed in a surreal, otherworldly glow. It almost felt like you could hear the tension in the air, feel the rush of the moment when Persephone is pulled away from her world.

"Look at how she's reaching for the earth," I said, pointing to Persephone's outstretched arm. "It's like she's trying to hold onto something, anything, to keep from being taken." My fingers lightly brushing against the cool glass of the frame. "It's so intense," I murmured, not sure how to put into words what I was feeling. The painting had that same haunting quality, pulling me in, just like the sculpture of Demeter had.

We moved on, our footsteps echoing softly in the hallway as we made our way to the next set of sculptures. The next one was a marble bust of a woman in profile, her face serene but slightly turned as if lost in thought. The lines were smooth, almost ethereal. The artist had captured a certain stillness in her expression, the way light and shadow played on her features, revealing delicate bone structure.

"That's The Philosopher's Wife," another guide explained, noticing our interest. "It's thought to represent a woman of high status, maybe the wife of an intellectual. Her calm demeanor contrasts the storm of thoughts that must have been swirling in her mind. The artist wanted to show the complexity of her character—her public face, as well as the private world she inhabited."

I studied the bust, wondering what it would have been like to live in her world. The serenity in her expression was like a mask, hiding what might have been a more complicated inner life. I felt a strange sense of connection to her—though I didn't share her status or her time, there was something about her calm that made me want to understand her more.

Riccardo's voice broke my thoughts again. "I wonder how they managed to capture these things," he said softly. "I mean, how did they make something so still seem so alive, so full of meaning?"

I shrugged, my eyes still fixed on the bust. "I have no idea."

We continued to wander from sculpture to sculpture, from painting to painting, each one more captivating than the last. With every piece we encountered, I felt as if I was walking through a narrative of human emotion—joy, sorrow, triumph, despair—all frozen in time yet somehow still so present. It was as if, through each work, I was getting a glimpse of the lives and minds of the people who created them, and in turn, a deeper understanding of my own thoughts and feelings.

By the time we reached the final room, the afternoon light was beginning to fade, casting long shadows through the museum. I didn't feel like leaving. I didn't feel like the stories, the emotions, the life in these works of art could ever truly be over.

Riccardo turned to me with a smile. "I think we're done. Wait here, I'll be right back." I nodded, watching as Riccardo walked away toward the corner of the museum. I stood there, still buzzing from everything we'd just seen—the art, the stories, the emotions. The museum had been like stepping into a different world, one where history and myth intertwined, and I glanced around, absorbing the peaceful quiet that lingered in the space. The last rays of afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over everything. It felt surreal—like time had slowed down, and I was still processing it all.

A few minutes later, Riccardo returned, a grin on his face. "Close your eyes," he said with a playful glint in his eye.

I raised an eyebrow, a little confused. "What? Why?"

He shrugged, looking mischievous. "Just trust me." I hesitated for a moment but then closed my eyes, curious about what he was up to. I could hear him moving around, the sound of something soft rustling. "Okay," he said, his voice full of amusement. "You can open them now."

When I did, I found him holding out a small, plush dinosaur—bright green and a little goofy-looking, with big eyes and a friendly grin.

"Is this... for me?" I asked, a little breathless. My fingers tightened around the dinosaur, a lump forming in my throat. I looked at it again, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, remembering how he had told me about it months ago. "I love it," I said quietly, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Riccardo. This... this means a lot to me."

Riccardo gave a small shrug, brushing off the moment like it was nothing. "No problem," he said casually, his usual playful grin back on his face. "I figured it would be a nice little reminder of today. Nothing too big." I hugged the dinosaur to my chest, still feeling a warmth spread through me. The gesture, simple as it was, meant more than I expected. Riccardo had always been there, even when things felt new or uncertain, and this felt like a small piece of that comfort—his way of making me feel seen. "Alright, let's get out of here," he said, motioning toward the door. "We've done the culture thing. Now it's time for some food."

We walked out of the museum, the cool evening air wrapping around us. As we stepped onto the sidewalk, I looked around, seeing another familiar building. "Hey, can we stop by that bakery on the corner?" I asked, my voice hesitant.

Riccardo raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. "A bakery? Now? After all that art and history, you want to go grab a pastry?"

I nodded eagerly, eventhough I wasn't that hungry anymore, clutching the plush dinosaur in one hand, feeling like it was the most comforting thing in the world right now. Without waiting for him, I crossed the street, getting closer and closer until I reached the door. Then I stopped.

"Hey, wait for me!" Riccardo reached my side. "Whats wrong?"

"Nothing.", I replied, blinking away some tears. "Nothing."

"Josie? Talk to me.", he pleaded, but I already walked into the bakery, the familiar warmth instantly wrapping around me like a blanket. The air smelled of sugar, butter, and fresh bread—a scent I hadn't realized I missed so much until now. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in, my heart pounding in my chest. It felt like stepping into another world, one that was kinder than the streets I'd walked, the ones that had felt like home in a way I never wanted them to be.

The baker behind the counter, an young woman with soft blond hair and kind eyes, looked up from the pastry she was arranging on the shelf. As soon as she saw me, her face softened, and she smiled warmly, the kind of smile that felt like it could melt the coldest of days.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite customer," she said, her voice gentle but full of life. "I haven't seen you in a while Joseph. I was worried about you."

I felt a tightness in my throat at her words. The leftover treats. The kindness she'd shown me when I was on the streets, hungry and desperate, with nowhere else to turn. She'd let me come in when the bakery was closing, offered me the pastries that hadn't sold, never asking for anything in return. It was small, so small, but it had meant the world to me back then.

I nodded, trying to keep my emotions in check, but the memories were overwhelming. How many times had I stood in this very spot, unsure if I'd make it through the next day? How many nights had I gone to sleep with an empty stomach, not knowing if there was someone out there who cared?

"Thank you, Tali" I whispered, barely above a breath, my eyes flickering to the counter where she'd wrapped up some of the leftover pastries. I didn't even realise how my voice changed again.

She smiled again, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "No need to thank me. You've always got a place here." She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small bag, already filled with some of the day's leftovers—croissants, a few half-eaten cakes, and some little cookies. "Are you okay love? You look a bit pale." She handed me the bag.

I reached for the bag, my fingers trembling slightly, my throat tight with unspoken gratitude. "I don't know what to say," I muttered, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. "But I'm good. I am really good."

She placed a hand gently on mine, her voice warm but firm. "You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that. Who's that guy outside?"

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, still holding onto the dinosaur Riccardo had given me earlier. Somehow, in this small gesture, I felt like I was being given more than just leftover pastries. I felt like I was being given a reminder that I wasn't invisible, that even in the dark times, there was still love, still kindness. "He's my brother, I found a family."

Tali's smile softened even further as she looked from me to Riccardo outside, a knowing glint in her eyes. "A family, huh?" she repeated, her voice gentle but filled with a certain understanding. "That's the best gift anyone can get." I nodded, my chest tight, but a warmth spreading through me that I wasn't sure how to describe. The small bag of pastries in my hand suddenly felt heavier, not with the weight of the food, but with the weight of everything it represented. It was more than just leftovers. It was a reminder of the kindness I'd been shown, the small gestures that had made me feel like I was worth something, even when I hadn't felt that way. The baker's hand still rested lightly on mine, and she squeezed it once before letting go. "Take care of yourself," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "And don't forget to reach out when you need it, okay? You're always welcome here."

I swallowed hard, feeling the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes once again. I wanted to say something, something that would convey the depth of my gratitude, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I just nodded, my throat tight as I forced a smile. "Thank you," was all I managed to say, though I knew it would never be enough.

She smiled back, her eyes kind. "Go on now. Take your brother home and enjoy those pastries."

With one last glance at her, I turned to the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool air. Riccardo was waiting for me, looking both curious and concerned. The streetlights had just begun to flicker on, casting long shadows on the pavement. I handed him the bag, my heart still a little overwhelmed from the exchange inside. "I—she gave us some leftovers. For us to take home."

Riccardo didn't say anything at first. He just looked at me for a moment, as if trying to read me, and then he nodded, the corners of his lips turning upward. "That's kind of her. You okay?"

I looked at the stuffed dinosaur in my arms, the pastries in the bag, and the weight of the day's emotions pressing against me. "Yeah," I said, my voice quiet but steady now. "I'm okay."