EPISODE 3 - THE INVITATION

Enzo
Dec 28, 2025
5 min read

SONG

LYRICS

Your hand was warm, it found my skin,

And something deep began within.

You said you’d never seen my face,

Then time stood still inside that place.

I said, "That house was theirs, you know?

My grandparents, they had to go."

You looked and nodded, calm, aware,

As if their ghosts were standing there.

You’re like a stone that learns to breathe,

Alive and still beneath the leaves.

I touched your shoulder, felt the heat,

A silent pulse, so slow, so sweet.

So sweet… so sweet...

You said, "they both were kind to me."

Your words fell soft, like memory.

The air was thick, the distance small,

You moved so close, I felt it all.

All… all...

You asked me, "What would you prefer?"

I thought you’d kiss me, felt the stir.

But then you smiled, your voice was clear:

"I only have some water here."

You’re like a stone that learns to breathe,

The calm that never wants to leave.

Inside your house, the night was still

and love became a quiet thrill.

(still… still...)

STORY

“I’ve never seen you around here,” Giorgio said. And he placed his hand on my shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Calm.

I felt it as something that had always belonged there and had simply found its place again. How good it felt to be touched by his large, warm hands.

Then he withdrew his hand—so simple, so natural, as though the moment had passed, as though he had already given me everything he could in that instant.

The spot on my shoulder missed his touch immediately. It felt colder than the rest of my body, barer, exposed.

“That house there…” My voice sounded rougher than I intended. I gestured past him toward the house across the street. “It is… uh… it was my grandparents’. They died. First my Nonno, then my Nonna. I came back from New York to work their fields.”

He followed the direction of my hand. For a moment, it was as if he wasn’t just looking at the house, but seeing through its walls into everything that had once lived inside it.

“Yes,” he said softly, placing his hands on his hips. “I knew them. Your grandfather was a good friend of my father. They were always very kind to me. My condolences.”

His words fell softly into the heat, like something that doesn’t need volume to be true. I looked at him and had the absurd feeling that my grandparents stood between us. Invisible, yet present. Beside us, watching, perhaps even smiling.

“Thank you, yes,” I repeated. “They were really very kind.”

It was all I managed to say, afraid that anything more might reveal too much of what I was feeling. But knowing that my grandfather and his father had been friends gave me a quiet sense of safety—a connection I inherited. My Nonno had surrounded himself with few people, and never the wrong ones.

My gaze got stuck on the vein along his upper arm. His arms looked as if they weren’t from this world. I had to touch him, if only to check that he was real.

So I lifted my hand—as casually as I could—and placed it briefly on his arm, as though thanking him for his kind words. Friendly, easy, the way you would touch a man who had helped carry your groceries.

The touch had to be brief. But under my hand, I didn’t feel an ordinary body.

Under my hand was stone. A stone that breathed.

Not dead, not cold—but warm, alive, radiant. Like a diamond that had decided to become a man.

Hard as a statue and yet full of life. Hard, and yet soft enough that I didn’t want to let go.

Heat rushed through me. Not because of the sun, but because of how my body reacted to that touch.

I withdrew my hand faster than I wanted to. His gaze stayed on me. No mockery, no surprise, no question. Only that silent, unshakable calm that made everything I did feel smaller—and at the same time more significant.

“Can I offer you something?” he finally asked.

His voice was soft again, almost tender.

“Sure,” I said, before my mind even understood what he meant. My body answered faster. It wanted everything from this man.

“Come in,” he said, pointing to the door, and I stepped forward as if guided by something outside myself. He walked behind me.

The hallway was cool. Stone floor, thick walls, muted light. The heat outside stayed behind like another world when he closed the door. Suddenly there was only his house, his breath, our quiet steps on the stone.

We entered the kitchen. It was simple, almost austere—a table, two chairs, an old sink, a window letting in the light. Tidy. Nothing unnecessary. Everything seemed to have its place.

He came toward me. “So, what can I offer you, boy?” he asked. His voice wasn’t just soft now—it was close. His face so near mine. Those eyes.

My thoughts tumbled over each other. For a moment, I thought he wanted to kiss me, when his gaze flicked briefly to my lips. My chest tightened, my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I imagined him leaning in, his soft lips finding mine, the warm stone I had felt pouring itself into me.

The moment stretched, grew long, almost painful. I forgot he had even asked a question, forgot he was waiting for my answer.

“I only have water,” he said suddenly.

The words sliced cleanly through my fantasy. Plain. Simple. Real.

A small smile twitched on my lips—half embarrassment, half relief.

“Water is fine,” I managed to say.

He nodded. “Sit down,” he said. He turned and walked to the sink.

But I remained standing—unable to do anything but watch how his shoulders moved, how that sculpted back rose and fell, how the muscles along his arms slid beneath the skin as he lifted the jug and two glasses. Everyday gestures. Ordinary.