She opened her eyes to the sound of music drifting through an open window. The melody was unfamiliar, yet something in her bones recognized it, as if she had been listening to it for centuries. The air was warm and thick with the scent of orange blossoms and dust and the distant promise of a summer that had not yet arrived.
She was in a villa in the south of Italy. The year was 1827. Her name was Caterina.
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