When the Mountain keeps Secrets

The Boy I forgot

The morning after market day began with the clatter of pans and the warm scent of onions softening in oil. From the kitchen, Nonna Maria’s voice carried up the narrow stairs like it had been built to travel.

“Take this to Signora Ferretti,” she called, appearing in my doorway with a bundle wrapped in a faded blue cloth. “Her joints are bad. I’ve made the soup. Don’t dawdle. The walk will warm you.”

The bundle was heavier than I expected, solid in my hands, radiating heat and the earthy scent of lentils, rosemary, and garlic.

I wrapped my shawl tighter and stepped outside. The lane was hushed after yesterday’s bustle, though here and there a door stood open, letting the sounds of sweeping or bread-kneading spill into the cool air. The cobblestones still glistened in patches from the night’s damp, and the pale autumn sun was slow to warm them.

The path to the Ferretti house wound along the village’s outer edge, where the stone walls gave way to hills rolling down in folds of gold and green. I walked quickly, partly because the bundle was heavy, partly because the air had that faint, sharp edge that reminded you winter was near.

Halfway to the Ferretti house, a shadow moved across the path ahead.

“You walk like a thief,” a voice said, light with amusement.

I looked up — and froze.

It was the boy from the lane.

He leaned lazily against a low wall, one foot crossed over the other, the kind of stance that made it seem like he had all the time in the world. His hair was dark and slightly unruly, catching the sun in copper threads. The light sharpened the shadows along his jaw and cheekbones, giving his face a bold, sculpted look that made me stare longer than I meant to.

But it was his eyes that held me still — the colour of the river after the rain. Not quite green, not quite grey, shifting with the light in a way that made you want to keep looking, just to see what they might become next.

A faint white line cut across one eyebrow — an old scar, small but noticeable. His hands, resting lightly on the wall, were tanned and strong-looking, with the faint dust of stone or earth caught in the creases.

“You’re following me,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Following you?” His mouth curved further, a mix of mockery and amusement. “You’re the one who’s wandered into my corner of the village.”

I shifted the bundle in my arms. “I’m running an errand for my Nonna.”

“Ah, Nonna Maria.” He said her name like it belonged to him too, as though it carried a shared history. “I remember when you came here last. You were small then — a scrawny little thing in boots too big for your feet. You tried to feed chestnuts to the goats.”

I blinked, startled that he would know such a thing. A yard, a braying goat, my own laughter — the image rose in my mind but felt like something from a dream.

“You remember that?”

“Some things stick,” he said with a shrug. “I’m Matteo, by the way.”

The name landed softly, but with weight. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it brushed against an old memory that refused to take shape.

⸻

Without asking, he fell into step beside me.

The slope dipped, opening to a view of patchwork fields and olive groves, their silver leaves shivering in the breeze. Matteo gestured to a cluster of flat stones halfway down the hill.

“They call that the Shepherd’s Table,” he said. “Years ago, a shepherd sat there to eat his bread and found a stranger beside him. No one saw the man come or go. But the stranger told him where to find a ewe lost in the snow — and when the shepherd returned, his bag was heavy with gold.”

I glanced at him. “And the lesson?”

He grinned faintly. “Depends who you ask. Some say kindness to strangers is rewarded. Others say gold that comes from nowhere should never be trusted.”

He slowed, glancing toward the hills. “There’s another story,” he added, “about the same spot. They say if you sit there alone at dusk, you’ll hear someone call your name. If you answer, you’re bound to leave something behind — a memory, a dream, maybe even your shadow.”

A chill prickled up my arms despite the sun.

⸻

We passed a cart creaking slowly up the lane, led by a grey donkey with a coat like worn velvet. The man guiding it nodded at Matteo with a look I couldn’t read — part familiarity, part… warning?

The Ferretti house came into view, its low roof weighed down with terracotta tiles darkened by age. Matteo reached for the bundle before I could object.

“It’s fine, I can—”

He was already holding it one-handed. “Consider it penance for startling you yesterday.”

Inside, Signora Ferretti received the soup with a murmur of gratitude and a blessing. Her gaze lingered on Matteo, warm but curious, like she was seeing more than I could.

We didn’t linger. Outside, the air had softened, the sun warming pockets of the lane where the wind couldn’t reach.

⸻

“Your Nonna keeps you busy,” Matteo said as we retraced our steps.

“She has rules,” I said. “Lots of them.”

“That sounds like her.” His smile was brief but touched with affection. “She thinks the world will eat you if you turn your back for a moment. Maybe she’s not wrong.”

It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected in a casual walk, but he said it like it was half-joke, half-warning.

We passed under a fig tree, its bare branches rattling in the breeze. Something dangled from one — a twist of red string with a feather tied to it.

I slowed. “What’s that?”

“A charm,” Matteo said. “To keep away the wrong kind of wind.”

I thought of the old man in the market, pressing lavender on me “for your windows.” “And what’s the wrong kind?”

His glance was quick, unreadable. “The kind that comes when you’re alone.”

Before I could ask more, he moved ahead, leading the way back toward the square.

⸻

The fountain was quiet when we reached it, the water spilling over moss-dark stone in a steady murmur. Matteo set the empty cloth on the wall and turned toward me.

“It’s strange,” he said. “You’ve been gone so long, but you look almost the same.”

“That’s impossible. I was ten the last time I was here.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I’d know you anywhere.”

There was a pause — not awkward, just charged. His gaze held mine, steady and warm, and I had the sense he was waiting for me to say something I didn’t know yet.

Then he stepped closer. His hand brushed my shoulder, warm through the wool of my shawl, and his lips touched my cheek. Light, quick, but enough to set my skin tingling where they’d been.

“Welcome back, Artemisia,” he murmured.

⸻

He stepped back first, but I couldn’t move. His scent — woodsmoke, leather, and something faintly like crushed thyme — lingered in the cool air between us.

By the time I found my voice, he was already walking away, his boots making a soft, steady rhythm on the cobblestones.

I started toward home, but every turn in the lane felt unfamiliar, as if I were seeing it all from the wrong angle. The empty square felt too still, the shadows stretched too far for the time of day.

That was when I heard it.

A breeze slipped through, carrying a low, drawn-out whistle. Three notes, falling like a sigh.

The same as before.

I froze, scanning the alleys, the rooftops, the windows where curtains twitched just enough to catch my eye.

“Matteo?” My voice came out lower than I intended.

No answer.

The whistle came again, softer this time — or maybe farther away.

When I finally turned for home, the sound had gone. But so had the warmth in my skin where his lips had touched it.