The alarm pierced the darkness of Riccardo's room.
6:30.
He turned off his phone with a sluggish motion, then sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his mind still lingering on what had happened the previous day.
He exhaled slowly.
That last conversation…
—
It had happened just as he was about to leave the school.
"Aliberti, a moment."
Riccardo turned.The vice principal approached with that same mild smile he never knew how to interpret.
"What is it?"
"Well," the man said, hands behind his back, "have you already chosen a club? You know… you can always reconsider."
Riccardo narrowed his eyes.
"Yes. I'm sure. I've practiced that sport since I was a kid. I'll start tomorrow."
"Oh? Confident, I see."The vice principal's smile widened."So you don't know anything."
Riccardo's steps froze mid-stride.
"…What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing you need to worry about. If you're that confident, advice is unnecessary. Have a good evening."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving Riccardo staring after him, a knot forming in his stomach.
—
Back in the present, Riccardo ran a hand through his hair.
"What did he mean…?"
He stood, tapped the switch, and the automatic shutter slid upward, flooding the room with early morning light. Through the window, he saw the park below: people in crisp suits walking briskly to work, the sky a perfect clear blue.
"At least the weather reminds me of home…"
He left his room and walked into the open-space kitchen and living room.The cream walls, the red sofa, the black kitchen… a modern aesthetic that felt nothing like Naples.
He paused, looking around.
"…Yeah. Definitely not home."
"Buongiorno!"
He turned toward the balcony.His mother walked in, wiping her hands on a small towel.
"Buongiorno, mamma," he replied in Italian.
She was about 1.65 meters tall, dark hair to her shoulders, fit and sharp-movements—someone who took care of herself.
Riccardo moved toward the kitchen island.
"Have you made breakfast?"
"Yes. Get the plates."
"Okay."
He opened a cabinet, took out two plates, and set them down. His mother was finishing a stack of pancakes.
"Cecilia?" he asked.
"No, your sister has already eaten."
Riccardo raised an eyebrow.
"She woke up early…"
"She said she wanted to come down early to see if you remembered the way to her school."
Riccardo let out a small breath through his nose.He and his mother sat on the stools.
"So," she asked softly, "how was your first day?"
"It couldn't have been worse…"
Her eyes softened."They didn't take well to the fact that you entered with a recommendation?"
"P' nient'," Riccardo muttered in Neapolitan.Not at all.
"Your father told you yesterday. He doesn't even know how he pulled it off. He spoke to the principal because of your passion…" She poured some syrup over her pancake. "And after three days, you were already asked to take the written test."
Riccardo finished eating in silence.Then he stood, placed his plate and cutlery in the sink, and let out a quiet sigh.
"It doesn't matter. I'll handle it somehow… like always."
He walked toward the hallway.
"I'm going to get ready."
The door closed behind him, leaving his mother to watch the empty space he'd just walked through—worried, but knowing he wouldn't want her help even if she offered it.