It was a thing you became, slowly, badly, one small refusal of despair at a time.
Spring came. The valley remained healthy. One morning, Piero woke to find Lucia’s child placing a dandelion on his chest. The yellow head was warm from the sun.
He stayed.
The friar laughed—a dry, coughing sound. “Then you’re walking the wrong way. Heaven isn’t south. It isn’t east or west either. I’ve read Augustine, Aquinas, all the maps of the divine. The kingdom is within . Or so they say. But I’ll tell you a secret, boy: I’ve looked inside. There’s just hunger and fear.”
“You’re the first living soul I’ve seen in a week,” the man said. “Where are you going?” the kingdom of heaven
He walked south, away from the frozen fields, following the worn tracks of pilgrims who had once sought indulgence in Rome. The countryside was a gallery of abandoned carts and overgrown turnips. In every village, the question was the same: How many dead? No one answered. Everyone already knew.
They walked together for two days. The friar’s name was Tommaso, and he talked to keep the silence at bay. He spoke of the plague as God’s shears, pruning a rotten garden. He spoke of indulgences as a tax on terror. And then, near a frozen river, Tommaso stopped. It was a thing you became, slowly, badly,
Piero packed bread and left before dawn.