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Sal Da Vinci had been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for three days straight. It wasn't that the ceiling was super interesting—just plain white plaster, with a little crack in the corner. He'd told Paola he'd fix it last year, but never quite got to it.
Still, his eyes kept going back to that crack. His thoughts had just stopped and he was totally stuck. His head felt like rush hour traffic leaving Naples—engine on, tank full, tires good, but the car just wasn't going anywhere.
His notebook had been open on his desk for three days. The first page said 'cominciato tutto'—'it all began.' But after that? Nothing. Not a single line. He couldn't move past it.
Not because the first words were bad, but just because nothing came after and nothing new showed up. He waited, listening inside himself, like you'd listen for a spring that suddenly dried up. All he got back was total silence.
“Papa,” Annakiara walked right into the study without knocking. It was an old habit of hers that Sal still wasn't used to. He always got a bit scared when she just showed up like that. “Are you staring at the ceiling again?”
“I’m thinking,” he said, trying to sound important.
“You’ve been thinking for three days straight, Papa. Mama says you look like a guy in a coma.”
“Mama’s overdoing it,” Sal mumbled, turning away so she wouldn't see he was bothered.
“Antonio keeps asking if Grandpa died, because Grandpa isn’t moving at all,” Annakiara said, with a little smile.
She had a cup of coffee, definitely for herself. She knew if she offered Sal coffee right then, he'd probably say no. Perched on her arm was Antonio, his three-year-old grandson. He had big dark eyes and no idea what 'personal space' meant.
“Antonio,” Sal said in a serious voice, “Grandpa isn’t dead. Grandpa is creating.”
The boy looked at him like he wasn't quite sure if he should believe it.
“But why are you quiet?”
“Because creativity is when things get quiet inside you,” Sal said.
“But you’re not quiet, you’re talking,” Annakiara shot back, trying not to laugh so hard she choked on her coffee.
“Go tell Grandma,” Sal said. “Tell her that Grandpa is totally fine.”
Antonio slid off her arm, looked at his grandfather with real doubt for a couple of seconds, then stomped his foot—not mad, just to make sure they knew he was there—and left. Annakiara stayed. She leaned against the doorframe, looking at the open notebook.
“Nothing at all?” she asked softly.
“Nothing,” Sal admitted.
It wasn't easy for him to say. It wasn't that having a creative block was embarrassing—he'd lived long enough to know that every river runs dry sometimes, and that doesn't mean it's over.
But this one song, right now, really mattered. It mattered a lot. He could feel it close by, like the scent of the sea you catch before you even see it on the horizon. It was there, it existed, but it just wouldn't come out.
“Remember writing ‘Rossetto e caffé’?” Annakiara asked.
“I do,” Sal nodded.
“You wandered around for three weeks, completely lost, then woke up at four in the morning and wrote the whole thing in just a couple of hours.”
“What’s your point?” Sal asked.
“Maybe it’s time to stop staring at the ceiling and just go outside for a bit,” she said.
Sal looked from the crack in the plaster, to Annakiara, and back to the crack.
“That’s actually a really good advice,” he finally agreed.
For him, “getting some air” meant walking down the street to Francesco, his son, who lived a bit closer to the sea. Francesco always had something cooking, and his two kids made enough noise to totally reset your brain. Francesco opened the door, pretty much expecting to see Sal with notebook tucked under his arm, looking like a man who couldn't find words for anything, even God.
“Not writing, huh?” he asked.
“How’d you know?” Sal smiled.
“Mama called ten minutes ago.”
The apartment smelled of basil and tomatoes. Salvatore, a six-year-old boy with a lot of energy, was running around the kitchen. Paola said once that he was the spitting image of Sal when he was young, though Sal wasn't so sure about that.
On the living room sofa sat Nina, Francesco's nine-year-old daughter. Even with her wild little brother around, she could somehow make a quiet little bubble for herself.
“Grandpa!” Salvatore shrieked, instantly launching himself at his grandfather, clinging on like a little monkey. “Grandpa, look, I can do this!”
What he meant by “this” was some sort of gymnastic move, which, if you really watched it, was basically him spinning on one leg.
“I see,” Sal said really seriously. “That’s art.”
“It’s not art,” Nina said, not even looking up from her book. “He’s just falling slowly.”
“I am not falling!” Salvatore protested.
“Yes, you are. You’ve fallen three times already.”
“But it didn’t hurt!” he shot back.
“That’s not a valid argument,” Francesco smiled, putting a cup of strong coffee in front of his guest. Just the smell of it instantly lifted Sal’s mood. “So, tell me, what’s this song about?”
“If I knew what it was about,” Sal sighed, “I would’ve written it already.”
“Do you feel anything at all?”
Sal thought it over and answered honestly. He knew the song needed joy—not the easy kind, but the deep kind that comes after going through tough times and loss, when you finally reach the other side. There needed to be a promise in it.
And that promise had to be said by a man whose hands shook because the moment felt so huge—because all of it really mattered, and he felt that deep down.
Besides that, there was nothing. Just those two words on the page—“beginning.” And the feeling that the story was already there, he just hadn’t found it yet.
Francesco listened, nodding. He was a practical guy, a singer and songwriter himself, so he knew Sal’s creative process really well. He’d seen this state many times. Either it was totally empty, or suddenly a flood of ideas.
“Maybe you need to see something?” Francesco asked.
“Exactly,” Sal said.
“Grandpa,” Nina interrupted, finally closing her book. She looked at her grandfather with a direct, serious way that always kind of surprised people. “When you don’t have any inspiration, what do you usually do?”
“I wait,” Sal said.
“What if it doesn’t come for a long time?” the girl pushed.
“Then I go and watch people.”
“Does that actually help?” Nina kept asking.
“Always,” Sal said and suddenly realized it was totally true.
That was the trick—get out of the house, take a walk and watch life happen. Because life doesn't stop and wait for you to feel inspired; it just keeps going, and you can always find something in that.
After lunch, Sal went out. Naples that time of day was slow and sleepy, but still full of life. Tourists hadn't scattered to evening restaurants yet; locals mostly stayed hidden from the heat. He walked with no real destination in mind—exactly the right way to walk when you're looking for something but don't know what it is yet.
His notebook was in one pocket, his pen in the other. He'd known for a long time that you shouldn't just wait for inspiration at your desk. It comes when you're moving, when your feet take you somewhere and your head stops trying so hard to make things happen.
He ended up on the waterfront without even realizing it. There weren't many people around—just some old men with fishing rods, a family with a stroller and a couple of tourists with cameras.
A bit further away, by the railing, stood two young men. Sal just saw them quickly at first—two young guys, one with brown hair in a light blue shirt, the other just a little shorter, dark-haired in a plain white t-shirt.
The brown-haired guy was gesturing a lot, telling something with clear enjoyment, like he couldn't talk without moving his hands. The dark-haired one was listening—not looking at the water, as you might expect, but really watching the guy who was talking. And that’s where Sal stopped.
He wasn't the kind of person to listen in on strangers. It was just that something about this whole scene grabbed him—the way these two connected, how they stood, their looks, with the Bay of Naples and Vesuvius in the background.
The way one talked and the other listened—there was just something about it. Sal knew, that everything starts with emotion. No emotion, no song. And here, there definitely was emotion.
The brown-haired one’s name was Søren, he suddenly remembered that. Søren laughed, with his head thrown back, and Daniel—the dark-haired guy—smiled back. It wasn’t just a smile because of a joke, but that kind of smile you can’t fake.
Sal knew that smile. He’d seen it on his own face once, looking at a very young Paola Pugliese. She’d been laughing because he’d dropped her father’s lobsters, and he’d just stood there, being completely open about what he felt.
Søren said something, turning straight to Daniel. Daniel got flustered, looked down, then up again, like he didn't know what to do with himself. He mumbled something back. Søren tilted his head to one side—it was that strange, bird-like gesture Sal recognized—and said something else with a half-smile. Daniel got flustered again and smiled, turning towards the water. Søren just watched him, like he was afraid to look away.
Sal pulled out his notebook and pen. He wrote down several lines right away, the words just coming to him. Then more. He read them back, nodding to himself. Søren would be the bride. That thought hit him, clear as day, like the answer to a thousand questions.
The brown-haired guy in white, by the water—like a queen. And Daniel right beside him—no, not just standing there, waiting—he already knows this is forever, but he hasn't said it out loud yet. He keeps it inside with a quiet certainty, the way you hold onto something super important without worrying you'll lose it, simply because it’s too big to just blurt out on a waterfront in the afternoon sun.
Sal started writing while standing, but after a bit, he realized he was tired and looked for a bench. He picked one far enough away so he wouldn't bother anyone. Sat down and really got into his work.
Hours passed, and he just kept writing. When he got home around six that evening, Paola saw right away from his face that something was different—and that was a good thing.
“You found it?” she just asked.
And he confirmed it.
“Found it.”
She gave him that look—the one she'd given him for over thirty years. It was the look of someone who'd heard it all before, someone who was used to his creative quirks and just accepted them as part of life, like the weather. You know, sometimes it rains, sometimes it's sunny, sometimes there's a storm, but it's still the same world and you just deal with it.
"Come and eat," she said in a calm voice.
"I just need a bit more—" he started, but she stopped him.
"Salvatore—the actual Salvatore, not the little one—your dinner's getting cold."
He couldn't say no to the love of his life, so he sat down with her at the table. As they ate, Paola filled him in on Annakiara's call and how Antonio bit the neighbor's cat—though apparently, the cat started it. But in Sal's mind, the work kept going. He felt it like a quiet hum, which was always there and alive, tucked away somewhere. The song was finally starting to come together.
As Paola cleared the plates, she decided to ask.
"Who are you writing about?"
“A young man," he said.
"In love?" she wanted to know.
"Oh yes, very much so," he told her.
"Is it a happy love or a sad one?"
Sal thought for a second, remembering Daniel's smile.
"Happy," he said. "He just doesn't quite know it yet."
Paola gave him a look, like she wanted to ask something bigger, but she knew it was best not to push it. When Sal was deep in his creative zone, bothering him was useless, like opening the oven door too soon—you could mess everything up.
"Okay," she said softly. "Go on, get to work."
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek—the way you do something you've done a thousand times over thirty years, then headed to his study. He stayed there all night. By morning, both sides of his notebook pages were full.
He sat there, reading it over, fixing things, rewriting, checking it all again. The words just flowed out—not because it was easy work, but because it all felt like it was already in his head, just waiting to be put down on paper.
From the very start, the absolute beginning from "I was nobody to you" to "you are my everything." In between those lines, a simple yet special story unfolded, just like any real love story. He pictured Søren by the railing, in blue—wait, no, white, like a "bride" would wear—and Daniel right there next to him, watching.
The chorus was tougher; he rewrote it four times. He wanted it to sound serious and important, but not in a dramatic way.
"Con la mano sul petto / Io te lo prometto davanti a Dio". It was a promise meant to last forever, if it's real. And Sal just knew Daniel got it. Even though they barely knew each other, just a few times seeing them from afar, Sal still trusted his gut about people and believed he could pick up on more than they let on.
That look at the railing, what he saw there, it meant something big. A man like that had already made up his mind, even if he wasn't saying anything yet.
Around two in the morning, Sal put down his pen, covered his face with his hands, read everything from the start, and nodded. That was it—not 'almost,' but exactly it. Plenty more to do still—arrangements, the tune itself, getting into the studio—but the story was finally down, and that was the main thing.
He hadn't really thought the song would spill out of his notebook so fast, but he had this thing he did—sharing new tunes with his inner circle before they were fully ready.
Not just anyone, mind you, only his own people, because the song wasn't just for him—it was about someone and meant for someone. Until you actually say it out loud, that feeling just sits in your head, and that's not quite enough.
A few days passed, and everyone happened to be around—Annakiara came to get Antonio, Francesco brought the kids over, and Paola was cooking up something delicious in the kitchen. Sal sat in the living room with his guitar, trying out the new tune. Nina curled up next to him, with her legs tucked under her.
"Is that a new song?" she asked.
"Yep," he said back.
"What's it about?"
"A wedding."
"Whose?"
Sal smiled.
"I just saw a young guy by the sea. He was looking at his friend in a way that, well, it was obvious—this wasn't just any friend to him."
"Who was he then?" Nina asked, serious as anything.
"The bride."
Nina thought about that for a bit.
"But they're both boys."
"That's right."
"So who's the bride?"
"The one who was being looked at. He's like a free bird, wanting to make everyone happy with his song."
Nina nodded like it was a totally normal answer.
"And the one who was looking—does he know?"
"Know what?"
"That he's the groom."
"I think so. He just hasn't said it out loud yet."
She nodded again.
"Are you gonna sing it?"
"It's not done yet."
"Just a little bit?"
Sal sang the first verse and chorus softly, plucking at the strings. Nina listened carefully, like she was hearing something super important, taking her time. In the next room, Salvatore made a loud crash, knocking something over. Antonio got scared, Francesco said something sternly, and Paola called out from the kitchen—but in the living room, all of that was just noise.
"Beautiful," Nina said when he stopped singing.
"Thanks, sweetie," he answered.
"The one who was looking will probably be happy," she added after a beat.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because you wrote about him nicely."
Sal looked at the girl—she was only nine. How did a kid her age think things like that?
"Yes," he agreed. "I showed him from his best side."
The story about who inspired the song got out, and he definitely played a part in it. He'd drop hints, talk about it in interviews without saying names, but in a way that made it pretty clear.
"I saw two young guys by the water, one looking at the other, and it was all so obvious. The bride was right there—he just stood out so much in his blue, there was no mistaking it."
When Daniel heard this—Sal honestly hadn't thought the news would get around so fast, especially among people who didn't seem to know him. They met up again, right there, on the Naples waterfront, getting closer to evening.
Søren saw Sal first and waved like crazy, just like he always did. Daniel, standing next to him, watched it all unfold with a weird look on his face—not bad, just kind of strange. Sal saw it before they even got close, and he knew they'd heard the news.
"Sal!" Søren shook his hand, really warm and friendly. "You here often?"
"I've lived here for over forty years," Sal answered.
"Oh, right, of course," Søren smiled. "It's beautiful here. We're just here for a short vacation."
Daniel didn't say anything. He stood a bit away, staring thoughtfully at the bay—for him, right then, the bay was the most important thing going on. Sal noticed Daniel's ears and the tip of his nose were turning red. It was a clear sign he was flustered and couldn't help it.
"Daniel," Søren said, sounding a bit teasing, "you had something you wanted to ask."
"No," Daniel said.
"You did."
"I didn't."
"Yeah, you did, half an hour ago."
"Half an hour ago I just wanted to be quiet, that's different," Daniel explained, still looking at the bay.
Sal watched them, truly enjoying this.
Søren caught Sal's eye and spoke up.
"He heard. The interview."
"Ah, about the bride," Sal said, sounding pleased.
Daniel finally turned his head to face them, with a look that pretty much said he was trapped—the sea was on his right, Søren was behind him, and in front was a Neapolitan singer who'd written a wedding song about him.
"That's not necessarily about me," Daniel said.
"The guy in blue, or, white in that song is Søren," Sal explained gently.
"That doesn't prove anything," Daniel mumbled, then went quiet.
“The one who was looking—that's you," Sal went on.
Silence. Daniel turned back to the bay, and his ears got even redder.
"I might have just been looking," he said softly.
"You might have," Sal agreed.
"Sometimes people just look."
"Sometimes."
"That doesn't necessarily mean—"
"Daniel," Sal cut him off calmly, "I wrote this song in one night. For three days I couldn't write a thing, then I saw you two, and by morning it was finished. That tells me something real was there. I don't make up real things—I just spot them."
Søren looked at Daniel with a slight smile. It was the kind that says words aren't needed, they'd just get in the way.
"It's beautiful," Daniel finally said softly, glancing slightly away.
"What?"
"The song." He looked at Sal after all, and in his eyes, there was something Sal didn't try to name—he just felt something real and warm. "I heard it. It's beautiful."
Sal nodded.
"Thanks. I wrote it with respect."
Daniel looked away again. Søren whispered something in his ear, and Daniel shook his head, almost smiling. Almost. Sal hadn't heard what they said, and he didn't try to. He knew—everything he needed was already in there. He'd already written it all down, anyway.
That night, when he got back home, he opened his notebook to the very last page he'd filled and wrote down the line he'd been holding back on for ages. He couldn't find the right word before, but now he finally wrote it.
Accussì, sarà pe' sempe' "sì."
In the Neapolitan dialect. Because some things you can only say that way—in your own language, no translation needed. So, it'll be "yes" forever. Then he closed the notebook.
Paola was asleep on the bed. She'd been sleeping next to him for so many years now, and sometimes he'd still wake up at night and the first thing he'd do was listen for her breathing—just to make sure everything was alright and where it should be.
Some folks just know the answers right away. Others figure them out bit by bit. But eventually, everyone gets to the same word. He wrote it last.
"Sì."
Kids—that was the first thing Daniel really got—don't lie.
It's not that they can't, because they totally can, and impressively so. Salvatore, for example, could lie with such belief and artfulness that Daniel had actually found himself falling for it a few times. He'd only realize later that it was impossible for a six-year-old to have eaten a whole cake and not noticed anything.
Lying is one thing. Seeing is something else entirely. Kids always see. They pick up on things adults have learned to brush off, quietly avoid, or just ignore. As we get older, adults come up with all sorts of excuses and "it just happened that way" stories, but kids don't make those kinds of allowances. They look without any filters.
Daniel understood this on the very first day he and Søren showed up at Sal's place. He still couldn't really explain how it all happened. Technically, he knew—Sal had called, saying he wanted to play them the new version of the song—it was about them somehow, right?
Daniel had said yes faster than he could even think about saying something else. Like, "I need to check my calendar," or "I'll call you back," or any phrase that would have given him time to think if he should even go at all—to a place where a fifty-year-old singer from Naples was about to play them a song about their wedding, even if it was more of a metaphor, not super direct.
He'd been telling himself for the past few days that it wasn't really about him—though he was believing that less and less with each hour. But he had said yes. And now he was standing at the entrance of Sal's building, on a narrow street in Naples, waiting for Søren, who was already eight minutes late and had sent a voice message saying "I'm almost there"—which, in Søren's world, meant more like "see you in fifteen."
Daniel leaned against the wall, staring at his phone, pretending to be busy, but really just lost in his thoughts. It wasn't just about the song. It was more like, ever since that day by the waterfront, something had shifted—just barely, like a painting on the wall someone moved by an inch, and now you can't stop seeing the difference.
Søren hadn't talked about it. Usually, Søren could talk and loved to—he couldn't stand silence—but about what Sal had said, or the way he'd looked... no, he hadn't said a word. Daniel had been waiting, though not on purpose. He just noticed, that Søren would sometimes look at him longer than usual, would start a sentence and then just stop. And Daniel didn't know what to do with that, because when it came to stuff like that, he always felt things rather than putting them into words—and that was his usual problem.
"I'm here!" a shout came from below, and Søren came flying around the corner in his usual way—not really walking as much as falling forward, quickly moving his feet so he wouldn't tip over. "I got held up because I went to buy something to drink."
"They asked you to bring wine?"
"No. But can you really show up to someone's home empty-handed?" Søren said this like it was a basic fact of life. "It's a Neapolitan household."
"You're not Neapolitan."
"But I respect the traditions."
Daniel looked at him for a few seconds, then pressed the intercom button. While they waited for an answer, Søren came to stand next to him, their shoulders touching, because the entrance was tight and Søren had no idea about personal space—for him, this was just normal. Daniel kept his eyes on the intercom.
"Are you alright?" Søren asked.
"Yes. Of course."
"You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You have that face."
"It's my normal face."
"No, you have the face you make when you're nervous but you're going to deny it," Søren said calmly. "I know it well, Žižka."
Daniel didn't say anything, because the intercom clicked and Sal's voice started telling them to come up. The moment passed, but the words stuck.
Sal's apartment was exactly how Daniel had imagined. He hadn't tried to imagine it—it's just that over time, from memories and conversations, an image forms, and then it either matches or it doesn't.
In this case, it matched—it felt cozy and warm, with family photos on the walls, pictures from shows, landscapes—the sea everywhere. And the smell, well, there was something special about it—a mix of food and old wood. This combination instantly showed that a loved life was lived here. Daniel paused for a moment in the doorway, breathing it all in.
"Welcome," said Sal, shaking his hand. "Paola is at the shops; she'll be back soon. Come in."
"We brought something," Søren said proudly, holding out the bag.
Sal looked at the bottle with an expression that showed he was pleasantly surprised but also not surprised at all.
"Excellent. Put it on the table."
They walked into the big living room, which had a balcony and a view of the street below, where a moped buzzed and someone was arguing through an open window. A guitar leaned against the wall. On the table were notebooks—several of them, in different states.
One was open, two were closed, one had a folded corner. Daniel looked at them, wanting to get a closer look but also a little afraid to approach.
"And where—" he started, but at that moment a dark-haired boy, about six, ran into the apartment with a look on his face like everything was super urgent.
He stopped in front of them and studied Søren first, then Daniel, then Søren again.
"You're tall," he said to Søren.
"That's true," Søren agreed, seriously.
"Why?"
"Genetics."
The boy thought about this, processing the information.
"Nina!" he yelled toward the hallway. "Nina, come here, there's a really tall one!"
"This is Salvatore," Sal explained calmly, like a man who'd been through these kinds of entrances many times. "My grandson. His sister Nina is around here somewhere. Antonio, Annakiara's son, is also here today. Sorry I didn't mention it earlier."
"That's perfectly fine," said Daniel.
"Yes, this is wonderful," Søren confirmed, already bending down and talking to Salvatore like they were old buddies. Nina appeared with a book in her hand. She looked at Søren, then at Daniel, keeping her eyes on him for longer. Daniel felt strangely exposed under that steady gaze.
The girl just watched with such quiet attention, and there was something in her look like an X-ray. She could see right through him and hadn't learned how to pretend she couldn't yet.
"You're the one who was looking," she finally said.
Daniel opened his mouth, not knowing what to say.
"Nina," Sal said gently.
"What? You told us about it yourself."
"I told you, but maybe it's not necessary to—"
"I heard Nonno's stories too," Salvatore chimed in, pulling himself away from Søren, "and you were kind of humming. The song about the 'queen dressed in white.'"
Daniel looked at Sal. Sal looked at the ceiling, with the look of a man admitting that, at least, this was his own doing.
"Family," he explained, without much conviction.
"Were you looking at him?" Salvatore asked, pointing directly at Søren with the honest straightforwardness only a child has. "Is that true?"
"It's more complicated than—" Daniel started, and didn't finish.
"Were you looking or not?" Salvatore pressed.
A pause.
Søren stood up from his crouch and looked at Daniel with that half-smile of his, gaze slightly to the side, seemingly casual but not quite. Nina didn't take her eyes off him. Even Antonio, who had appeared out of nowhere and was now sitting by the sofa, seemed to be listening.
"I was looking," Daniel said.
He didn't understand why he'd said it so plainly, without any ifs, ands, or buts—but he had, because under a gaze like that, lying felt wrong, like how you can't tell a kid there's no pain when there is.
"Right," Salvatore replied, and then quickly moved on to something else, losing interest.
Nina stayed.
"That's good," she said to Daniel. "That you were looking."
"Why?" he asked, being a little confused.
"Because you should look at people who matter to you. Nonno says so."
She said it calmly and with certainty, the way you say something you've known for ages and don't need proof for. Then she went back to her book and settled on the sofa, feet tucked under her, as if nothing special had happened.
Daniel stood in someone else's living room in Naples and thought it was pretty amazing this girl was only nine years old.
After coffee, Sal played them the song.
They sat down, Daniel in the armchair, and Søren right next to him. Even though the sofa was big enough, Søren always sat close; that was just how he was.
Sal sang softly, taking his time, strumming the guitar strings like he was really tasting each word. Daniel listened. He’d actually heard the song before, on a recording, by accident through a phone—someone they both knew had shared a short clip. But hearing it live was totally different.
When Sal sang it, it felt so clear, it talked about him in a way that made you want to either run out of the room or just stay perfectly still.
“È cominciato tutto quanto dal principio / Io, che per te ero solo un uomo sconosciuto”—basically, it started with a nobody who became a somebody. That was exactly right, because Søren hadn’t been in his life once, and even now, Daniel found it hard to imagine what it was like without him.
“Tu, una regina, ora vestita in bianco.”
He didn’t look at Søren. He really tried not to.
“Con la mano sul petto / Io te lo prometto davanti a Dio.”
Then Sal’s voice shifted—it was hard to put a finger on it, but it was that very thing that just took your breath away. It wasn’t just words the man was singing; it was that deep belief from his soul.
Nina quietly turned a page in her book. Antonio was asleep on the rug; he’d just laid down and conked out, like only little kids can, anywhere, anytime. Nobody bothered him, because why would you? Let him sleep.
Salvatore wasn’t making a peep, which was pretty amazing on its own. But Sal didn’t seem worried, and if Sal was chill, then things were just happening the way they were supposed to.
“Accussì, sarà pe’ sempe’ si.”
The guitar strings went quiet.
The silence only lasted a few seconds, but it wasn’t the kind where you feel weird breaking it with talking; it was the kind you just settle into, like you don’t want to wake a dream with light.
“Alright then,” Sal finally said, carefully putting the guitar on his lap.
“This is—” Daniel began, then stopped, unable to find the right words.
“Really beautiful,” Søren said softly, his voice even.
Daniel looked at him quickly, trying to figure out what he was thinking, but couldn’t. Søren was looking hard at the guitar in Sal’s hands, his eyes a little squinty. He got that specific look when he was really thinking about something important, not rushing to say it, almost like he was saving his words for something serious.
“Whose story is this?” Søren asked out of the blue. “I mean, when you were writing it, who were you thinking of? Him? Or me?”
Sal looked right at him.
“I was thinking about a man who stands in front of someone and makes a promise,” he replied softly, “and knows it’s forever. Who that man is doesn’t really matter. The person listening has to figure it out.”
“I get it,” Søren nodded quietly, then didn’t say anything else.
It was weird to see Søren so quiet for no clear reason. Daniel looked at him again, not even trying to hide his curiosity anymore.
Søren looked up—their eyes met and stayed locked for a few seconds. It was the kind of look they always shared, but this time, there was a long pause inside it, like the space between two different worlds.
“Nina,” Sal said gently, “can you show me that chapter you were reading yesterday? I want to take a look.”
“Why?” Nina asked, sounding a bit wary.
“You told me about it, and I got curious.”
She looked at him like she wasn’t totally buying it, but she grabbed the book and went over to Sal. Sal got up with his guitar, and they both went into the kitchen.
Antonio kept sleeping soundly.
That left Daniel and Søren alone in the living room.
Later, Daniel thought about it for a long time—that moment with the song, the quiet, the looks—could it have just happened by chance? He decided probably not. A guy who writes a wedding song in one night doesn’t just do things by accident for no reason.
More likely, Sal was the type to set things up so everything just seems natural, like it’s all flowing on its own. That was his special talent.
As he sat there, listening to Nina reading to Sal in the next room, and Salvatore making weird noises from somewhere he’d probably climbed to (where he shouldn’t be), and Antonio breathing steadily on the rug, Daniel couldn’t find the words.
“Daniel,” Søren called softly.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“Had you heard this song before today?”
“Yeah,” Daniel nodded.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you think?”
He looked at the rug, at Antonio sleeping, at the guitar leaning against the wall, at the notebooks lying around. Then he looked back at Søren, who was sitting next to him, asking questions with no easy answers.
It felt a bit unfair; it would have been easier just to give in and say something simple.
“It’s accurate,” he finally said.
“How accurate?”
“In how it’s put together. In what you feel when you’re watching, and you already know.”
“Listen, Daniel—”
“What?” he said.
“You can look at me,” Søren said, like it was the most obvious thing. “I don’t care. Actually,” he blushed a little, “I haven’t cared for a long time.”
Daniel stayed still.
Outside, there was a moped engine, a cat on the windowsill across the street and water running somewhere far off. Inside the apartment, Nina was reading out loud, Salvatore had come clattering down from wherever he’d been and was running loud through the hall, Antonio moved in his sleep.
All of it felt both far away and right here at the same time, like it was someone else’s life, lived well, full of love and warmth, and that background made the space feel big and deep.
“I’m not very good at talking about stuff like this,” Daniel admitted.
“I know.”
“Usually I feel it, but I can’t explain it. The words are wrong, or messed up, or I’m just not sure that—”
“Daniel,” Søren cut in, “I’m not asking for a perfect explanation.”
“Then what?”
“Just say something,” Søren answered. “Roughly. Not exactly.”
Daniel looked at him. Søren looked back, being totally open, without his usual half-smile or narrowed eyes. Right then, he was just a person sitting close, not rushing, waiting calmly, ready to wait as long as it took.
“It’s warmer with you,” Daniel said softly.
It just came out. He hadn’t planned those words; he’d thought of other, longer, more complicated versions, but they hadn’t felt right. These just came out simply and honestly.
Søren was quiet for a moment.
“It’s warmer with you too,” he admitted.
“That’s not the same thing,” Daniel tried to argue. “It could just be—”
“No,” Søren broke in. “Not the same thing. You’re right. I mean, not just. I think about you a lot. Not just when you’re here, but like this, when you’re not around. I think that means something.”
Daniel didn’t say anything.
“Daniel, do you think about me?” Søren asked gently. “Sometimes?”
“Often,” Daniel answered, before he could think twice. “More than a friend should. More than someone who just likes their companion. And definitely more than someone who just admires another person’s work.”
Søren smiled with not his usual automatic smile, but one that spread with a quiet sort of happiness—and glanced sideways, as if checking no one was watching this particular moment. It looked so human and so surprisingly vulnerable, especially for Søren, who usually wasn’t easily embarrassed.
Daniel felt something warm from that smile.
“Good,” Søren said softly.
“What’s good?”
“That you think about me often. We’ll still have time to talk about all this.”
They sat in silence.
Antonio stirred in his sleep, mumbled something without waking up, then fell still again.
“I’m scared of messing everything up,” Daniel admitted suddenly. The words just came out; he hadn’t planned to say them, but it was the most honest truth about the whole situation. And maybe this truth needed to be said right here, right now, because this place felt safe, and Søren was looking at him in a way that made lying impossible. “What we have right now—that’s already a lot. I don’t want it to disappear.”
“Daniel,” Søren said softly.
“What?”
“What we have right now—you’re not just trying to keep it safe. You’re just calling it something different.”
Daniel didn’t say anything.
Because Søren was right.
From the kitchen, Sal came out with two glasses of wine. Nina was right behind him, looking like she’d been given the very important job of holding the third glass and was taking it super seriously.
They stopped in the doorway.
Sal looked at Daniel and Søren on the sofa, noticing how close they were—or rather, how there was no distance between them at all—and he read their faces, which said so much without them needing to speak.
“Wine?” he offered, keeping his voice even.
“Please,” Søren said.
“Yes, thanks,” Daniel added.
Sal put the glasses on the table, Nina put down the third, and then she looked at Daniel with her sharp gaze, like she was scanning him.
“You’re not nervous anymore,” the girl stated.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t think so.”
She nodded, not looking surprised.
“Good,” she said, and went back to her book.
Paola got home around six with shopping bags, and Sal instantly went to help her with them.
To celebrate Grandma coming back, Salvatore showed off his new trick—spinning on one leg. He did it right there in the hallway, where there wasn’t much room, which made the whole thing extra exciting.
Antonio woke up, looked around, saw people all over, cried for a bit, then changed his mind and went over to Nina.
In all this lively, noisy craziness, Daniel and Søren sat at the table with their wine. They talked about normal stuff—a movie, the weather, how Søren always wanted to learn to skate well instead of just getting by.
But everything they said happened against the warm feeling left over from their chat earlier.
During dinner, Sal suddenly raised his glass in the middle of talking about something completely different.
“To ‘sì.’ To yes, in every way, all the time.”
Paola looked at him, and they just understood each other without words.
Nina raised her glass of water super seriously, like a grown-up.
Salvatore immediately raised his glass too, even though he had no idea what they were toasting.
Antonio tried to lift his spoon.
Daniel looked at Søren.
Søren met his eyes, and even without talking, something important passed between them.
“To sì,” Søren said softly, looking at Daniel.
“To sì,” Daniel replied.
And drank.