Works of Life and Other Stories

A song from the past. Italian 60s and 70s. Una faccia, una razza and the song Applausi plays in the house.
A shy little girl, about 6 years old, sits in her tepee tent, handmade by her grandmother. In the tent there's a book with illustrations about the life of Native Americans and some feathers she had collected to put on her head like the Natives did in her book. She watches her mother and listens to the Italian songs she loves. She has long, dark, straight hair and an olive complexion. She looks more like a Sioux than a Greek.

Her mother turns to her and asks, “Do you want to learn how to dance the blues?”
The little girl nods.

The record stops. The needle is lifted and placed at the beginning of the album. Applausi starts again.
Her mother opens her arms. The little girl runs to her. In that embrace, she learns how to dance the blues.

In the background, her great-grandmother and grandmother sing the lyrics in perfect Italian.
Four women. Four generations. All bound by fate to Italy.

Little did the girl know that, about a thousand kilometres away, there was a young boy who had already sung these songs. Who also had a tepee tent. Who also read about Native Americans and Crazy Horse, just like her. They shared the same preferences, thought in the same way, and loved with the same intensity.

He was a bit older.
And maybe, in a past life, they shared the same tent. Rode horses together with their long hair flying in the wind. Sat by the same fire at night.

But life had a plan for them.

Yes, maybe you live in different countries. Maybe you come from different nations.
But on his 46th birthday, life will bring you together.

Except—you won’t speak to each other for thirteen years. You’ll know each other’s names, maybe exchange birthday wishes, but never really talk.
Life won’t be easy for either of you.

Until one day.

He’ll be so close to your house that he’ll photograph your local church.
And just as you decide to rebuild your life, you’ll see that photo—and break the silence. You’ll write to him.

But still, nothing will happen for another four months.

Then, on a spring Saturday morning, you’ll meet.

And nothing will ever be the same.

Because you found each other.
Because you recognized what had always been there.
Because you were one—even from the beginning of time.

Fragments of the same star.
Soulmates.
With a bigger story written for you by life itself.