Turin - The Black and White City

It was his first time flying. The airplane buzzed through the hollow space between clouds, and he clutched his backpack like he was holding onto everything that still made sense. Maybe he was. Inside it: a hoodie, two worn-out shirts, a faded photo of his mother, and an old pair of football boots. Not much, but it was all that was left of "home." Turin. A city he’d only heard about in football stories—Del Piero, Buffon, Zidane. Names spoken in reverence by TV commentators on Champions League nights. To many, it was glory. To him, it was just a dot on a map. A destination. Or maybe a restart. Or maybe... an escape. He was 19. He’d left home without looking back. He promised his mother it would be okay. He didn’t say anything to his father. He couldn’t even remember what his voice sounded like. Not because it hurt, but because silence had taught him to keep going. Looking out the window, his thoughts spun like smoke: > “Does life really change when you get somewhere new? Or do you just change the walls that trap you?” Below him, Italy looked like a warm-toned painting. And somewhere beneath those clouds, between the hills, a city waited. Turin.