Beleria awakens to a whisper only those who walk with wide-open eyes can truly hear. My name is Aina, and being eight here means uncovering a secret each day, tucked away in a hidden corner or behind an ancient wall of a forgotten square.
This morning, as the golden light of dawn streamed through the stained glass of Milans Duomo, I decided to follow those shimmering reflections with my notebook in hand. The squares arent mere stones and fountains to me; they are labyrinths where every step pens a story yet untold.
At Saint Marks Square, I paused, mesmerized by musicians who seemed to speak in a tongue of chords and silences. I jotted down: A melody hidden in the laughter of dogs and the breeze that caresses tourists masks.
Without a clear destination, I wandered into an alley forgotten by time, just beside the Colosseum. There, an old barber wielded scissors that seemed meant not only to cut hair but to snip away invisible memories. With a mysterious smile, he beckoned me closer. Would you like to hear the tale of the warrior who never set foot in the arena? he whispered as he tended to another customer.
I perched on a worn stool, and while he trimmed my locks, he wove the story of a gladiator who preferred writing letters to the moon over fightingand yet, who silently altered Belerias fate. I closed my eyes, picturing his sword replaced by a pen, and thought that each of us can be a hero in our own way.
Suddenly, the door swung open, a gust scattered my pages. When I looked up, a figure I hadnt noticed before caught my eye in the mirror: a black cat with yellow eyes. It said nothing, just blinked slowly before slipping into a shadowy corner. I reached for my notebook to capture the moment when a word appeared on its own: Return.
I left the barbers shop, my heart racing wildly, though no one around seemed to notice anything amiss. Back on the main street, every shadow felt alive with the cats presenceas if an unseen guardian urging me to see beyond whats visible. Was it magic? Or merely my imagination? That mystery etched itself deeply within me.
As twilight fell and the sun hid behind domes and towers, I understood that Beleria does not surrender its stories easily. It conceals them in the air, in the nooks, in a cat that appears when least expected. My notebook overflows with words that hold no meaning hereeach page a map for those who wish to lose themselves, only to find themselves anew.
For Beleria is not just a place; it is an open book, written step by step. And I, with my wide eyes and wind-tangled curls, will be the one to continue unveiling its secrets.
