Sunday early afternoon in the Tuscan countryside, mid-August, 40°C outside. I make the most of it by staying hydrated inside. Just another lazy holiday day, this is as lazy as the year gets. In the large, old living room on the ground floor, it is a few degrees cooler. Time has stopped here. Light is scarce, so I like to open the blinds of the only large window in the room, with a view of the back garden. The house is quiet. The only sound I hear, apart from my breathing, is sporadically some insect-buzz from the garden. All the furniture is from over 70-80 years ago. I look around – every single object in that room bears a piece of family history. The portraits of children, now grown up, older people; the cutlery in the cupboards, with which the big family had eaten and celebrated events together; the liquors, untouched for years, that have greeted important guests; the old-fashioned desk where letters and records were written; the leather sofa, offering me a gentle hug every time I surrender tired on it. The vases with decorative dry flowers standing on various surfaces – finishing touch of the lady of the house; the handmade goblins and the paintings, hanging on the walls – made by the ancient owners of the place. I could smell the layers of dust carrying history in here. But there was something else: the smell of old furniture, air that has not been let out since months, maybe years? A nostalgic snapshot of many years of many people's lives. If only the walls could talk.. I take all the atmosphere in. It inspires me. I came here to write. No phone, no computer, just my notebook, pen, a few books and my imagination. I feel my throat is dry and quickly taste the refreshing, cold water I had brought. I make myself comfortable on the central, big table. As I sit down, the wooden chair feels cold. I lean back and stare at the blank page for a while. I realise the only thing standing in the way of my writing is my doubt, uncertainty to commit to an idea. But somehow, as steady and timeless as this place is, it motivates me to create lives and universes on paper. I can see a character, a woman, in her thirties, she is expecting a baby, happy and smiling, she is resting on a bench in a beautiful, green park. She holds a diary, or no, a sketch book maybe, she is drawing something on the pages. There are bees and butterflies in the air and if I try I can almost hear them and smell the air of that early-summer day. My hand starts to write on the blank paper and I can see the words coming to life: “Dear Mum, The holiday has just begun and it is one of the hottest late May afternoons in years. If only you could sit next to me right now, you would feel my bubbling joy, like I feel the new life through my veins. Any day now can be the D-day. You should know, it is a girl and she is going to be called Hope. Just like the feeling she is bringing with her arrival. I feel I never really knew what love was until expecting. I know now for sure I am changing and there is going to be a new me when she is born. A fears mum protecting her baby. I will not have a peaceful breath until I make sure she is all right. Remember how you used to tell me “Believe in yourself, this is the one true thing in life!”? I have never believed in anything more than I believe in my ability to protect this little life I carry inside me. I used to write a lot, for myself, letter to you, to friends. Then life happened, my writing stopped. I do feel though that if I don't put pen on paper now, I might lose these magical feelings surrounding these moments of my life. Isn't the Present all the moments that happen? But if they are like the corals of sand on the beach, I often feel they slip through my fingers. So I write to you now, because I need a witness to this memory. I look at the picture around me as a whole: beautiful afternoon, hot breeze caressing my skin, the buzz of bees, the beauty of butterflies and the sun on the horizon starting to set, bathing the park in most beautiful shades of colours. The life inside me getting ready to come to this beautiful world and I can not wait to show her all of it. This snapshot of life will not be lost in the sand on life's beach. I just captured it through my writing. Right now everything is hot: the sunset is in hot colours, the breeze, the feelings inside me. This literal and figurative warmth I capture and can always use it when I get cold in the mundane everyday buzz. If the growing baby inside me has taught me anything, it is to slow down, notice if not everything, then at least as much as possible around, use all the senses to “see”, in an almost different dimension, on a different level with different eyes. And the pictures are marvellous, they are mine. They are the most precious captures of life I have, without using a camera. When we read these lines later, we will feel warm. And never alone again. Hope on the way! Much love to you, mum!”

I am fighting, flailing my little arms. A lady and a man I don't know, are stuffing me into this stupid car seat. I look out the fingerprinted window and there she is. Staring, watching, not doing anything at all. A single raindrop wanders its way down the window, lost, nowhere to go. I fight even harder, refusing to stop until I get what I want. The car starts to move, so I twist my body to see if she is still watching. Deepening my twist, so I can get one last glimpse before we turn off the street. I face forward with tears streaking my face. I don't know these people who are taking me away from her. From the lady, I have known all my life— my mother. I am confused, trapped in this strange building. After they took me from my mother, they took me to this horrid place. I feel completely claustrophobic locked in this small room. I hope I can leave this devastating room. I honestly don't know why it seems so devastating, but I guess it just is. The room is bland, boring. The walls are an off-white color. A dissatisfying color. The only toy here is a small kitchen set. The kitchen set looked as if to break at the slightest touch. It has white paint peeling off. The paint being torn from the set, just like me. I miss her terribly, my mother. I feel scared, my anxiety spiking. I am just sitting on this patched up couch looking at the cup of water on the table next to me. Random people keep poking their heads in, trying to encourage me to drink water, but I am not thirsty. I hope they find something better to do than to keep bothering me. The same woman and man that took me from my mother walk through the door and stand in front of me. I stare at them blankly as the woman says, “My name is Ms. Blaster and this is Mr. McDoris.” I nod my head, for my mind is elsewhere. My mind is busy. Busy on all the worries rushing through my head like a tsunami. Ms. Lee gets on both knees and looks directly into my eyes and says gently, “Can you come and follow us, please?” She stands up and walks out of the room, with Mr. McDoris following. I hesitate, then finally give in and run to catch up with them. I walk into a massive lobby. People are sitting in black chairs. It felt airy, unlike the small room I was in. The people were all nicely dressed, they seemed arrogant, even though I have never met them before. Windows cover most of the walls. I continue to follow Mrs. Blaster and Mr. McDoris. They lead me to this woman I remember spending time with a couple of months ago. She would take me to the Kings Dominion and Maymont. The woman is wearing nice clothing just like everyone else, except I could tell that she wasn't like them at all. She's not really tall, but she is definitely much taller than me. Ms. Blaster, Mr. McDoris, and the woman start talking about something that seems like it's important, but I'm not paying attention. I am busy trying to understand the situation. I squeeze onto the woman's hand as if it's my life support. I make our way to the car and she buckles me into my car seat. She walks around the front of the car and gets into the driver's seat. Once again, raindrops hit the window. A single drop wanders all the way to the bottom and disappears. More lead their way into the safety of the frame. Tucked safely together. United. Every insignificant thing belongs somewhere. For some reason, that gives me a sort of clarification that everything is going to be alright. I think this is the first time I truly feel safe in a really long time, I don't have to endure any more pain, physical nor emotional like I have before. I also think that you have to believe it yourself, you have to believe that things are going to get better. You have to have hope. Hope. Hope is a wonderful thing. For the first time, I have hope. I have hope that I will be safe. I have hope that I will be happy. I have hope for my future and hope for now. Even though I have endured tragedy, I have regained hope.