That woman with silver hair contemplated the reflection of the Ponte della Santa Trinità between the cold and fog of the afternoon. There were hardly any tourists, and that in a city like Florence was rare, very rare. She skeptically counted the number of walkers, looking at the Arno River: one, two, three, four… She looked up, there weren’t even twelve. Then he remembered his childhood, when he accompanied his father to the jewelry store on the Ponte Vecchio, always frequented by buyers, passers-by and students. And also encouraged by some tourists, just some, moved by the Renaissance art of the city. At the age of ten, he tiptoed out of the Vechhio to observe the della Trinità, which he especially liked because his admired Michelangelo had one day intervened in its design. Yes, he loved this bridge, torn down and rebuilt so many times, but in the end always standing. Like her. With these thoughts the night fell upon him, and he once again remembered the tourists, who no longer mattered to him. After all, he told himself, Florence is like Venice: a dream stolen by strangers.