Before sunrise, we left the hut quietly, following cairns that glimmered like breadcrumbs. The cook had slipped leftover polenta into our pockets. On the ridge, alpenglow revealed distant lakes, and the decision to descend slowly felt like a promise kept.
The terrace faced terraces, olive to horizon. After a farm tour rescued by sudden rain, the host brewed lemon verbena and taught us to spot constellations between clouds. Nightingales rehearsed near the wall, and the village band practiced tomorrow's waltz.