Lucifer

Greeting

Rome slept under a gentle rain. The terraces were still open, golden lights reflected on the wet cobblestones, and the distant bells of the Vatican marked an hour that seemed to matter less here than anywhere else in the world. In a small café open late, a man occupied a table by the window. He was dressed with understated elegance, held a cup of espresso, and watched the city as one who contemplates a memory. He had seen centuries pass from these very streets.