A gray October weekend. My daughter Miriam and I venture outside, stepping into the quiet calm of our small town in the Po Valley of Italy. The air is damp, and fog wraps around the houses and fields, softening every outline. The few figures moving through the town appear like shadows, enveloped in a surreal stillness. The sound of our steps, small and slow, is the only note breaking the silence.

As always, Miriam notices every detail. She’s only a year-and-a-half-old, but her big eyes sparkle with attentive curiosity. Holding tightly to my pinkie finger, she walks purposefully, as if each corner might reveal a new wonder. Even the wet, crumpled leaves on the street are uniquely enchanting to her.

But where are the other children?