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Tonio finally turned, his eyes bright beneath bushy white brows. “That’s when the Lord looks down the clearest, boy. When there’s no noise to get in the way. He looks down at the fishermen with their empty nets, at the old women peeling potatoes in the dark kitchens, and at fools like you carrying crates up a mountain in the middle of a fog.”

“He sees that we’re still here,” Tonio whispered. “Through the snow, through the rain, and through the years when the wine turned sour. He sees that we haven’t stopped climbing.” davide_van_de_sfroos_oh_lord_vaarda_gio_feat_zu...

Tonio didn’t look away from the horizon. “I’m not talking, Marco. I’m listening. There’s a difference.” Tonio finally turned, his eyes bright beneath bushy

The fog didn’t just sit on Lake Como; it lived there. It was a heavy, grey velvet that swallowed the bell towers of the lakeside villages and hid the jagged peaks of the mountains until they were nothing but whispers in the clouds. He looks down at the fishermen with their

He spent most of his days looking up. Up at the Grigna mountain, where the rock was white and unforgiving. Up at the sky, trying to read the wind to see if a storm was brewing in the Valassina. But today, he felt the weight of his years. He felt small.