CHAPTER 1 : A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

                 song - Luminary by Joel sunny

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Florence in the evening was a dream—a living canvas painted with golden hues of the setting sun. The sky above the city’s Renaissance architecture blushed in shades of orange and pink, while the Arno River reflected the last light of the day, carrying whispers of centuries past. The streets, lined with gelato shops and cozy cafés, hummed with life as tourists and locals alike enjoyed the beauty of the historic city.

Rafaella Moretti walked slowly through Piazza della Signoria, her leather-bound sketchbook pressed against her chest. She had always loved this part of Florence, where history and art intertwined effortlessly. The grand Palazzo Vecchio stood tall, a silent guardian of the stories woven into these streets.

Unlike most young women from prestigious families, Rafaella had little interest in high-society events or expensive parties. She was the daughter of Antonio Moretti, one of Italy’s wealthiest businessmen, but wealth had never fascinated her. She longed for something deeper—something raw and meaningful. She had grown up surrounded by luxury, yet felt strangely incomplete.

Tonight, as she wandered the piazza, she sought inspiration. Her mind had been clouded for days, and she hoped that Florence, with all its artistic wonders, would help her find clarity.

And then, she heard it.

A melody—soft yet powerful—floating through the air like a whisper from another world. The tune carried a strange familiarity, as if it belonged to a memory she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the usual classical performance meant to entertain tourists. No, this was different. It was raw, soulful, almost ethereal.

Intrigued, Rafaella followed the sound until she reached the Neptune Fountain, where a small crowd had gathered. In the center of the commotion stood a musician, his violin resting against his shoulder as he played with effortless grace.

She caught her breath.

The musician was unlike anyone she had ever seen.

Dressed simply in a black coat, he looked neither rich nor poor—just someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. His dark, wavy curls framed a face that was both youthful and timeless, and his blue eyes held something she couldn’t quite define. He played with a knowing smile, as if the music wasn’t just a melody but a message meant for those who could understand it.

Something inside her stirred, a sense of familiarity she couldn’t explain.

As the final note faded into the cool evening air, the crowd broke into applause. The musician gave a small bow, his expression calm, almost amused. Rafaella hesitated, debating whether to approach him.

And then, as if sensing her thoughts, he looked directly at her.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them disappeared.

“You liked it?” he asked, his voice smooth, laced with quiet confidence.

Rafaella wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt nervous. “It was… beautiful.”

The corners of his lips lifted in a playful smirk. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Or perhaps, in the heart of the listener.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his words.

“You’re an artist, aren’t you?” he continued, gesturing to the sketchbook in her hands.

Rafaella glanced down at it, surprised that he had noticed. “Yes,” she admitted. “How did you know?”

He chuckled softly. “Because you were looking at the music the way an artist looks at a blank canvas—trying to find something hidden within it.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. There was something strange about him, something both familiar and unknown. He spoke as if he understood things most people didn’t.

Before she could say anything else, a voice interrupted them.

“Cristiano! That was incredible, as always.”

A young man approached, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He clapped Cristiano on the back, grinning.

Cristiano.

So that was his name.

The friend noticed Rafaella and raised an eyebrow, clearly interested in the conversation. Cristiano, however, seemed unbothered. He merely turned back to Rafaella, still watching her with those deep brown eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Rafaella.”

He smiled, as if the name confirmed something he already knew. “A pleasure to meet you, Rafaella.”

She wasn’t sure why, but her heart skipped a beat.

Somewhere deep inside her, a strange thought took root.

Had they met before?

The scent of fresh espresso and baked pastries filled the air as Florence awoke to another golden morning. The city, always alive with beauty, seemed to hum with an unspoken energy—a rhythm that only a few could hear.

For Rafaella Moretti, the events of the previous evening had left her restless. She had spent hours staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, replaying the moment when her eyes had met Cristiano DeLuca’s. It was strange, how a single encounter could leave such an impression. She had met countless people in her life—wealthy businessmen, artists, intellectuals—but never someone like him.

The way he spoke, the way he played, the way he looked at her…

It was as if he knew something she didn’t.

Pushing the thought aside, she stepped out of her family’s grand villa, a historic mansion overlooking the Arno River. Today, she was supposed to meet Valentina Ricci, her childhood friend, at their favorite café near Ponte Vecchio.

As she walked through the streets, she noticed something unusual.

A melody.

Soft, haunting, and strangely familiar.

Her feet stopped moving. Her heartbeat quickened.

It was the same tune she had heard last night.

The sound led her down a quieter street, where a small music shop stood tucked between two historic buildings. Inside, beyond the glass window, stood Cristiano, his violin resting against his shoulder as he played with closed eyes.

For a moment, she simply watched.

He wasn’t just playing an instrument—he was speaking through it. The music wasn’t meant to impress or entertain; it was meant to be felt.

She had never seen anyone like him before.

At that moment, Cristiano opened his eyes and met hers through the glass. His lips curled into a slow smile, as if he had expected her to be there.

Rafaella hesitated before finally stepping inside.

The scent of aged wood and sheet music filled the air. Cristiano gently lowered his violin and rested it on the counter. “We meet again,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she admitted.

He chuckled. “Yet, here you are.”

She frowned slightly. “That melody… what is it?”

Cristiano tilted his head. “You tell me.”

Rafaella hesitated. “It feels… familiar. As if I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know where.”

Cristiano studied her for a moment before speaking. “Some songs don’t belong to time,” he said softly. “They don’t begin or end; they simply… exist. Like echoes of something we’ve forgotten.”

A strange shiver ran down her spine.

Before she could ask what he meant, the shop’s owner, an elderly man with kind eyes, called out, “Cristiano! Will you be playing at the festival this weekend?”

Cristiano smiled. “Of course.”

Rafaella glanced between them. “Festival?”

“The Festa della Musica,” Cristiano explained. “A celebration of music and art across the city. Every street becomes a stage, and every soul finds its melody.”

She had attended the festival before, but this year, it suddenly felt different.

“Come,” Cristiano said, picking up his violin once more. “Let’s see if you can remember the song.”

Before she could protest, he began playing again—this time, slower, softer.

Rafaella closed her eyes.

And for a fleeting second, an image flashed in her mind.

Sunlit fields. Laughter. The sound of bells. A feeling of pure, unbreakable love.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath unsteady.

Cristiano watched her closely. “Did you see something?”

She shook her head quickly. “It was nothing.”

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t nothing.

It was a memory.

A memory she shouldn’t have.

And somehow, Cristiano knew it too.

The warm scent of espresso and freshly baked cornetti filled the air as Rafaella and Valentina sat at a corner table in Caffè Michelangelo, their favorite café near Ponte Vecchio. The lively chatter of tourists and locals blended with the soft hum of classical music playing in the background. The morning sun streamed through the windows, painting golden patterns on the marble floor.

But despite the beauty surrounding her, Rafaella’s mind was elsewhere.

She stirred her cappuccino absentmindedly, her thoughts returning to the moment inside the music shop. The way Cristiano had looked at her, the melody that had stirred something deep within her—it all felt too strange to ignore.

“Rafaella?”

She blinked, realizing Valentina had been speaking to her.

“You’ve been lost in thought since you sat down,” Valentina observed, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Rafaella hesitated. Valentina had been her closest friend since childhood, the one person she could always confide in. But how could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?

“There’s this musician,” she finally said.

Valentina’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Ah, so that’s why you’re so distracted. Tell me, is he devastatingly handsome?”

Rafaella rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “That’s not the point.”

“So there is a point?”

She sighed. “I met him last night in Piazza della Signoria. He was playing the violin, and for some reason… I couldn’t look away. Then today, I heard the same melody and found him again in a music shop.”

Valentina’s playful expression softened. “You think it means something?”

“I don’t know,” Rafaella admitted. “But when he played that melody, I felt something. Like a memory, but… not one I recognize.”

Valentina studied her for a moment. “Do you believe in past lives?”

Rafaella frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Valentina said. “Because from the way you’re describing it, this doesn’t sound like an ordinary meeting.”

Rafaella opened her mouth to argue, but something about Valentina’s words unsettled her.

Could it really be possible?

Before she could dwell on it further, the sound of a phone ringing interrupted them. Rafaella glanced at the screen and sighed. “It’s my mother.”

“You should answer,” Valentina said.

With a reluctant sigh, Rafaella picked up. “Ciao, Mamma.”

“Where are you?” Bianca Moretti’s voice was sharp, as always.

“At the café with Valentina.”

“Well, don’t stay too long. We have guests coming for dinner, and I expect you to be home early.”

“Who’s coming?”

Bianca hesitated. “The Rossis.”

Rafaella’s stomach dropped.

Marcello Rossi.

Her fiancé.

Or rather, the man her parents had chosen for her.

“Rafaella?” her mother prompted when she didn’t respond.

“I’ll be home soon,” she muttered and ended the call.

Valentina sighed. “Marcello again?”

Rafaella nodded. “My mother won’t stop pushing for this marriage.”

“Do you even like him?”

Rafaella hesitated. “He’s… fine. But I don’t love him.”

“Then why are you going through with it?”

“Because it’s what my parents want. And after everything they’ve done for me… how can I say no?”

Valentina frowned but didn’t push further.

Rafaella sighed. “I should go.”

But as she stepped out of the café, a single thought lingered in her mind.

If fate had truly brought Cristiano into her life, then why was she being forced toward someone else?

Later That Evening

The Moretti villa was alive with laughter and conversation as the Rossis arrived. The grand dining hall, with its crystal chandeliers and marble floors, was filled with the clinking of wine glasses and the scent of gourmet Italian dishes.

Rafaella sat beside Marcello, who was discussing business with her father.

Marcello Rossi was everything her parents wanted for her—wealthy, ambitious, and well-mannered. But to Rafaella, he felt like a stranger.

“Rafaella,” Marcello said, turning to her with a charming smile. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

She forced a polite smile. “Just a little tired.”

His gaze lingered on her. “Are you sure? You seem… distracted.”

She looked away. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about a certain violinist with deep brown eyes and a knowing smile.

Meanwhile, Across the City

Cristiano stood on the Ponte Vecchio, gazing at the river below. The city lights reflected on the water, creating a shimmering path that stretched into the unknown.

Leonardo, his closest friend, leaned against the stone railing beside him. “You met her again today, didn’t you?”

Cristiano smirked. “So what if I did?”

Leo sighed. “You know this won’t be easy, right?”

Cristiano’s expression grew serious. “It was never meant to be easy.”

Leo studied him for a moment. “Do you think she remembers?”

Cristiano looked out at the city, his fingers instinctively brushing against his violin case.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

“But she will.”

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