No: Romanzo

In a dimly lit kitchen on the outskirts of Bari, the air is heavy with the clatter of water buckets and the low murmur of an evening that seems to linger forever. Ida, a young woman whose thoughts drift between the restless cat curled on her lap and the whispered worries of the house, watches the world outside the cracked window with a mixture of resignation and quiet curiosity. Around her, Ghita shuffles in, burdened by chores and uneasy news about a doctor whose presence stirs fear and hope alike, while the flickering lamplight turns ordinary objects into looming shadows. The scene is painted with the stark details of cracked walls, rusted copper tools, and a garden choked in scrub, setting a tone that feels both intimate and oppressive.

As the night deepens, subtle tensions rise: a cryptic conversation about shields, an unborn child destined for the hospital, and a lingering sense that something essential is about to shift. The narrative invites listeners to linger in this tightly wound moment, feeling the weight of every creak, every sigh, and every hesitant glance, while the ever‑present black cat watches, its red collar a flash of color amid the gloom. The first act leaves the household poised on the edge of change, promising a story that will unfold with the same quiet intensity that fills the present.