<p class="ql-block">Last night, I dove headfirst into a dream that felt like a wild rollercoaster ride. I was with my wife, ready to hop on a train for an adventure. The station? A madhouse. People were everywhere, pushing, shoving, a human hurricane. We squeezed through the crowd, got on the train, and just like that—I turned around, and she was gone.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">My heart dropped like a rock. I called her, and her voice on the other end? It was small, trembling, like a leaf in a storm. "It's pitch black, freezing cold, and all I've got on is this flimsy dress," she said, and I could almost feel her fear seeping through the phone. I told her, "Hang tight, honey. I'm jumping off at the next stop and hightailing it back to you in a taxi. You're not alone."</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">When I finally reached that station, my legs were like jelly. There she was, pacing back and forth, worry written all over her face. It was like watching a scared rabbit in the headlights. But then, in the wacky way dreams do, we were suddenly at my father-in-law's farmland.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">The old electric tricycle stood there, a trusty steed waiting for its riders. I thought, "We'll use this to get home," but my mind started racing. How the heck were we gonna keep it charged? What if it conked out in the middle of nowhere? And then it hit me—this might be the last time we'd see this place. My father-in-law was retiring, and this land, filled with so many memories, was about to become a thing of the past. As the saying goes, "All good things must come to an end."</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">With my wife beside me, we climbed onto the tricycle. The night air whipped around us as we set off. Yeah, the futuro ([ˈfuːturo], Italian, meaning "future" in English) was uncertain, but as long as we were together, we could weather any storm that came our way.</p>