Massanzago, Veneto 35010

That summer afternoon, my grandmother took my hand and we went to visit my aunt at the old house, the one you say has a hundred eyes. When we passed through the gate, beneath the towering trees, I saw it: an imposing structure with honey-colored walls and windows that glittered in the sun. It was always like that; those windows seemed like kind eyes watching over me. As the adults settled in the shade with their tea and biscuits, chatting softly, I asked if I could go inside. Auntie smiled warmly and said, Go on, but remember: this house has a memory. The entrance opened into an atrium that seemed to invite quiet reflection, or perhaps to spot mythological creatures in its old Palladian motifs. I felt compelled to explore! All around, slightly ajar doors beckoned me to discover room after room: the living room with its silent, fragrant wooden floor; a large eat-in kitchen that still held the scent of Sunday soups; and a dining room converted into a cozy sitting area for the aunt who prefers to avoid the stairs. I discovered a taverna with dark beams and shelves crowded with ancient objects; from there, a door led to the garage, but to me, it felt like a secret passage. Then I saw the staircase with its wrought-iron railing, fit for a castle. Climbing it felt like ascending into a different era. The first floor was bathed in light and smelled of old wood: four spacious rooms with antique floors, and a second bathroom adorned with light blue tiles and a shell-shaped faucet. A fifth door but there are only four rooms; I had always missed it. Come on, lets open it. Behind it was another, smaller staircase leading up to the attic. There, under the sloped roof, light streamed through the windows overlooking the garden. The old plank floor creaked under my weight. I sat down, watching the leaves dance outside, and thought: This is where I could build my fort! When I came back down, Grandma asked me, So, did you see everything? And I smiled back, No, everything is still left to be imagined.