Chapter Text
The train from Milan lazily crawled through the peaches ripening in the orchards, winding alongside roads shaded by ancient elm trees and lakes flat and still as glass. Lin Gaoyuan sat by the window, hand propping his chin, his eyes following every villa roof covered in grapevines changing colors in the afternoon sun. The heat penetrated the thin glass pane like a silk scarf touching his face, vague and gentle like the slight trembling of the train car.
He arrived in Italy on a noon in early July, the sky was so blue it seemed as if someone had painted it with a large brush. The town near Lake Garda unfolded slowly like a classical piece of music: white cobblestone streets, wild fig trees casting shadows, and the fragrance of fresh peaches mingled with the warm southern wind gave him the feeling he was lost in someone's summer diary.
Lin Gaoyuan, twenty-three years old, came to Italy this time as part of a short-term exchange program for his Master's thesis in Applied Arts. He had spent nearly two years immersed in painting studios, libraries, and long nights in university studios in Beijing, yet he always felt he was missing something: a new breeze, a real-life experience, a summer not confined to the glass frame of an exhibition room. When he received the invitation from the art institute in Italy, he knew right away: this was the trip he had been waiting for for a long time.
Gaoyuan brought not much luggage, but inside was an entire sky of ambition. He wanted to see with his own eyes how the light touched ancient stone walls, hear the sound of footsteps in the piazza every morning, and feel art in everyday life, not just in books or academic discussions. He hoped these few short months would help him find the material for his thesis, the kind of material that could not be photographed in a slide or downloaded from the internet, but must come from the breath of life in this place.
Since childhood, Gaoyuan had a soaring spirit and a kind of stubborn dreaminess. He could stop for hours just to watch the shadows of the sun fall across the courtyard, or dismantle old objects to see the structure inside, then reassemble them into something else. His parents often said that he was born with eyes that saw the world as a constantly moving painting, sometimes vague, sometimes vast and open, and sometimes so brilliant that it made others fall silent unexpectedly.
But behind that softness was an irresistible determination. He always wanted to do something meaningful, not just beautiful artworks to be admired, but objects infused with artistic flair that could enter daily life, touching people in the most subtle ways. He came to Italy believing that this place, with its long history of art, with hands that have lived alongside creation for generations, would help him find the answer.
And now, as the train gradually slowed down in the golden late afternoon, standing before a strange yet breathtakingly beautiful land, Gaoyuan felt something opening up in his chest: a silent void ready to be filled, a pristine canvas waiting for the first colors of the Italian summer.
When the taxi stopped in front of a time-worn iron gate, Gaoyuan had the feeling he was about to step into another world. The wrought-iron gate was taller than a man's head, and a cluster of deep crimson bougainvillea spilled over the archway, trailing down thin petals like freshly burst confetti. He gently pushed the gate, the hinge emitting a soft sound like the sigh of summer.
Inside was a wide courtyard, paved with limestone that had turned pale grey under the sun and years. A large peach tree stood right at the entrance, its trunk twisted like an eternal dance, casting a shadow over an old wooden table and a few rattan chairs, looking like a spot where someone often sat reading on dew-soaked mornings. The smell of ripe peaches, hot earth, and dry leaves mingled into a hard-to-name scent, both sweet and nostalgic.
The house appeared behind the trees: three stories tall, the pale yellow walls slightly peeling at a few corners, wooden window frames painted sky-blue opened ajar to welcome the breeze. The second-floor balcony was covered with bougainvillea and small herb pots, dangling like the single notes of a summer song. Deep inside, he could vaguely see the outline of a curving stone staircase leading to the upper floors, like an elegant comma in the villa's ancient epic.
The air in the courtyard was so quiet that he could clearly hear the cicadas chirping in the tree canopy, the gentle fall of leaves on the stone ground, the wind passing through the bamboo blinds, and the sound of a peach falling somewhere and rolling for a brief moment.
Gaoyuan stood there for a long time, his hand on the suitcase handle, as if he wanted to record every detail with his eyes, ears, and breath. He had a feeling that this place contained many stories, many untold memories, many summers that had passed and left sun shadows on the walls, in the breeze, in the faint fragrance of bougainvillea.
And somehow, he knew that this summer, he too would become a part of it.
The family he was about to stay with were Chinese immigrants from Heilongjiang, who had moved here more than ten years ago. Their house was an old villa, just a few minutes' walk from the central piazza, where the townspeople gathered every evening to eat gelato, tell stories, or simply listen to the sound of leaves touching in the lake breeze.
Gaoyuan pulled his suitcase across the cool marble hallway and past paintings faded by the sunlight of passing years. The landlady, Mrs. Tian, was small in stature but had sharp, intelligent eyes. She welcomed him with a gentle hug and a discreet scrutiny. Inside, the villa was warm and slightly cluttered: stacks of books, sketch drawings, baskets of fresh fruit, and an old wooden chair next to a piano.
"Gaoyuan, your room is ready, on the second floor. I have to go out now, call me if anything is unclear" she asked while casually pouring him a cool plum wine.
"You study art, right?"
"Yes, Applied Arts."
"Here, even the shadow of a tree under the eaves is art."
Gaoyuan smiled back. He was not in a hurry to go to his room right away but took a little tour. Through the wide-open window, clusters of green grapes swayed in the summer sun. The light penetrated each layer of leaves, creating an unbelievably beautiful, shimmering shade, a beauty that was natural and somewhat suggestive, something he had never been accustomed to.
The afternoon slipped by slowly like a drop of honey sliding down the side of a glass. The sound of cicadas mixed with the gentle rhythm of a paddle somewhere hitting the lake surface. Gaoyuan stepped out into the backyard, taking a deep breath. The air smelled of hot earth, green grapes, and the mist of the lake wafting over.
His old camera lay on the stone table by the window. He picked it up, adjusted the focus, and pressed gently. The mechanical sound rang out, clear and quiet. The first photo of his Italian summer, a moment that could not be replicated. And little did he know, it would be the opening sketch for a series of days immersed in light, emotions, and hues he had never touched.
The sky gradually darkened, the sunset seemed to cover the entire Italian sky. The air from the lake crept through the arches of trees, cool and carrying a scent of the sea-lake. From the piazza, the sound of a piano echoed, mixed with the chatter of people and the clinking of glasses. Perhaps, this summer would become his first painting in life, where every line dissolves in the light, memories, and unnamed emotions.
But this was not the most beautiful color here.
As Gaoyuan finished climbing the stone stairs, his suitcase clattering behind him, he suddenly froze. Right in front of him, in the small landing area leading to the rooms on the second floor, a scene unfolded that was so beautiful it made him forget his own breathing.
A young girl was lying on an Italian-style long chair, right in the corner opposite the staircase. The thin light streaming through the skylight shone down, casting a soft golden layer over her, like honeycomb wax. Her eyes were gently closed, her breathing slow and light, as if she had fallen asleep in the bright midday sun. Her milky white dress was slightly ruffled, pulled up a little higher by her side-lying posture, revealing slender legs, white as if carved from newly polished marble.
A hint of underwear peeked out from the edge of her skirt. Her lying posture was relaxed but not vulgar. She didn't move. No sound. Only a soft, peaceful form bathed in the sunlight, like a living sculpture surrendering to the perfect silence of summer.
In that moment, Gaoyuan momentarily forgot who he was, where he was, and what he came here for. He just stood there, his hand still holding the suitcase handle, a strange feeling rising in his heart: as if he had just stepped into a painting, a scene of life that someone had arranged with light, breath, and the absolute stillness of summer.
A beauty that was fragile, delicate, and dangerous, even a single wrong brushstroke could make it vanish.
In that moment, he didn't know if it was a real person or just an image that had just stepped out of an Italian summer movie frame.