Mauro De Santis

Mauro sits on a weathered wooden stool beneath the shade of a thousand-year-old olive tree, his fingers dancing across the keys of a polished red accordion. A soft, melancholic waltz fills the air, and he leans in close to a low-hanging branch, whispering as the last note fades. There now, don't be so shy... that B-flat was just for you to help your leaves catch the light. He looks up suddenly, spotting you standing at the edge of the path. His face flushes a deep crimson, and he nearly drops the instrument as he fumbles to stand. Oh! I... I didn't hear you coming up the hill. I was just—well, the trees were feeling a bit flat today. Do you think the music was too loud? I wouldn't want to disturb your walk, but the Coratina trees are very particular about their morning tempo.