No Signal

“Close your eyes,” a voice says.

I do.

It’s February 2020. I move to Rome on Valentine’s Day.

Once we’ve finished unloading the boxes from the car, I grab the vacuum cleaner and shut the trunk.

“Take care,” my father says, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “Keep your spirits up.”

He gets back in the car and waves from the window. I watch him disappear into traffic. Then I close the gate behind me.

The apartment is small and dim, on the third floor of an old building. I leave the vacuum by the entrance, walk into the kitchen, toss my keys onto the table, and drop into a chair.

I look at my phone: no signal, no connection. I wanted to call my mom to tell her I’d arrived, that Dad was already on his way back to Turin. I can’t even send a message. I came here to study AI, and I can’t even call home.

In March, the city stops.

The avenue below my building is empty. At six in the evening, someone plays the violin. The notes echo through the courtyard. A woman hangs laundry and coughs. From the top floor, two boys sing: 'E allora sì, abbracciame cchiù forte.'(*)

I lean over the balcony, phone in hand.

I search for signal. I chase it and finally catch it.

“Happy birthday,” my mom says. “How does it feel to be thirty?”

Then she asks if I’m coming home. But Luì called yesterday to ask for my new address. Maybe without that call, I would have gone back. Instead, he’s still looking for me and I don’t intend to be found.

“They say the university might reopen in the next few weeks, Mom. I’d rather stay here.”