We stand on the boundary between the alluvial fans of the Serio and Brembo rivers, which, as they level off here where they meet the Po Valley, have for millennia deposited sediments from the Alpine glaciers. The Verdello area has been inhabited since Neolithic times, when it was a network of streams and rivulets, just like that plateau in the Californian desert where Phil saved the last remaining specimens of the Radiant Cyprinodont. The village was founded after the land was reclaimed. This morning the bells are ringing out in celebration; it’s First Communion day. At dawn, the surrounding fields were fertilised; I love this earthy scent wafting through the alleyways teeming with families dressed in their Sunday best. In the courtyard of the Town Hall, which is reminiscent of the central open space of the old farmsteads, there is an intense scent of curry mingling with that of elderberry, which grows in abundance in the outer garden – a sign of cultural fusion of which the village seems to be proud. A banner hangs above the main door bearing the words of our Article 11: ‘This municipality rejects war.’ We are holding out. The sky is leaden; they say that in neighbouring municipalities, agricultural land is being taken away to build data centres, and that, in order to push this project through, some local politicians have even switched party affiliations, but today, in this council chamber transformed into a theatre – thanks to the many eager eyes that the artists from 𝘘𝘶𝘪 𝘦 𝘖𝘳𝘢 have managed to draw here – a certain brightness remains for the future.