Gone are the shouting vendors, the tinny radios, the laughter of children. What's left is the water, black and endless, breathing in and out against the rocks. Above it, the sky is absolutely crowded with stars. You can see them all out here, far from the neon glow of the Viale Ceccarini.

The beach is empty except for a few stray plastic chairs stacked outside the closed bagni. The air smells like salt and cold sand and someone's far-off cigarette.

Then, a shape. Down by the water's edge where the waves slur against the pebbles, there's a figure. Sitting on a flat rock, shoes off, feet buried in the wet sand. A young man, alone. He's tilted his head back toward the sky, like he's counting something up there.

He's wearing sunglasses. At eleven o'clock at night.

Beside him on the rock, a pair of sneakers and a folded white cane.