The Gift

Translation Notice

This article is a work of fiction originally written in Italian. It has been automatically translated to English using an AI tool. The rhythmic and narrative qualities may differ from the original.

"The moon certainly looks huge tonight" "Yeah" If anyone in the world had ever wanted to award another human being for the gift of synthesis and brevity, well, that award would have undoubtedly gone to Mr. Fausto: "yeah" was his answer to almost everything. In town, it's said that it was even his answer at the altar, when asked if he would take his wife in marriage. Fausto knew perfectly well how the full moon, close to the horizon, tends to appear larger. He must have read it in some scientific magazine, during one of the long nights guarding the cemetery. As usual, however, he didn't deem it necessary to share the information with his friend.

As they walked, Fausto towered over his friend. The latter had a posture similar to a velociraptor, but the gait of a lame turtle. Fausto, on the contrary, seemed to embody the stereotype of a night watchman at a cemetery: tall, thick curly black hair and thin as a nail. He gave more the impression of being an escaped corpse, really.

With a single snap of his hand, Fausto interrupted his friend's rambling about this year's Christmas decorations. A movement in the distance had caught his attention. He moved beyond the covered corridor to get an overview of the cemetery. His friend joined him after a few seconds.

The intruder was clearly visible, in front of a gravestone: corpulent, with black boots and a huge red coat. In his right hand he held some kind of tool with a long stick: a shovel perhaps, at least that's what Fausto thought, used to dealing with all kinds of intruders and aspiring tomb raiders.

Fausto picked up a stone and threw it at the intruder. He barely missed him. The man turned around for a few seconds: his face white, worn and tired. He turned back to the gravestone, placed the stick on the ground and left, but without hurry.

When the two reached the gravestone they realized: it wasn't a shovel. On that resting place, where a lady who had died at a very old age lay, was a straw broom; brand new, with a beautiful red bow.