The fig tree behind the Marino house stood like a silent witness — to seasons, to secrets, to stolen laughter. Its branches held the scent of childhood and the weight of dreams, and beneath it, Enzo and Elena carved their own world.
They were teenagers now. Enzo, lean and tall, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and hunger for something greater. Elena, sharp-tongued and fearless, with sunburned cheeks and a wildness no village could tame. They were no longer children, but they were not yet broken by life — not yet.
Every evening after chores, they met beneath the tree. Enzo would bring scraps of bread or a bruised apple, and Elena would bring stories: about the town's gossip, the priest's sermons, or her father's complaints about taxes and rain. She'd sit cross-legged in the dust, and Enzo would listen — always listening.
Sometimes, she'd fall asleep with her head on his shoulder. Other times, they'd lie on their backs staring up at the stars, making up constellations.
"That one," Elena would say, pointing, "is you. The Wolf Star."
"And that one?" he'd ask.
She'd smile. "The girl who followed him into the fire."
She never laughed at his ambitions. Never once called him foolish for dreaming of Rome, of wealth, of a name that made men stop in their tracks. Instead, she believed. And that belief lit something in Enzo that even his own family had never touched.
But Monteverde was no place for soft things.
The village talked. Whispers spread — that Elena was spending too much time with a Marino boy, that she was too wild, too bold. Her father, a bitter man with failing crops and five children to feed, warned her.
"You're not to see him anymore."
But Elena, like Enzo, had rebellion in her blood.
So they met in secret.
Once, she brought him a gift: a cheap fountain pen, its gold paint chipped, but still beautiful.
"So you can sign your future with something real," she said.
Enzo held it like it was a relic. "One day, I'll sign something with this that changes everything."
But their time under the fig tree was running out.
One afternoon, Enzo overheard his father talking to Antonio in hushed tones. There had been a fight among relatives, something about land and pride — the usual poison. And there was a gun involved.
His mother's voice had risen in protest. "Salvatore, enough. This is madness."
Enzo didn't think much of it. Fights came and went. Guns were waved and then put away. No one ever pulled the trigger.
That evening, he left with friends to fetch supplies from a nearby town. He told Elena he'd be back by morning, and she kissed his cheek under the fig tree.
But that would be the last time Enzo Marino ever saw her smile as a child.
Because while he was away, the bullet was real.
And it found the heart of the only person Enzo had ever truly loved —
his mother.
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