I came here to get away from the world—yet these three animals insist on keeping me company.
No WiFi, no neighbors, no sound of cars—just the wind, the dust, and the endless stretch of the Mediterranean. That was my idea: completely off the grid, off the map, out of sight.
But then, they came. First, the donkey—scruffy, stubborn, as if this was his land. Then, the dog—a speckled mutt with a tail wagging like he’d just found his place in the world.
He followed the donkey in and wouldn’t leave. Finally, there was the cat—small, wild-eyed, with a bit of a feral streak. I gave them names: Minx, Zito, and Tiberius.
I didn’t ask for them, but they acted like I was the one who had been chosen.
Today, I took a hike to the ridge, the three of them tagging along, and stumbled upon something unexpected: a weathered stone marker with initials I knew too well.
Underneath it was an envelope, unmistakably in my grandmother’s handwriting. She’d passed away five years ago, leaving behind tales that I never quite believed.
She often spoke of this place, calling it a “hidden gem,” but I thought it was just another one of her stories. Inside the envelope was a note, in her familiar cursive:
“Arlo, I always hoped you’d find this. Not many do. This land holds ancient secrets, older than any of us. I swore to keep them hidden until someone proved themselves worthy.
It seems you’ve done that, whether you knew it or not. If you’re reading this, then the animals have chosen you. They know things we can’t. Trust them—they will lead you to what you need to know.”
My heart pounded. Chosen? How did she know about the animals? Minx nudged my hand, Zito barked, and Tiberius gave his signature bray.
It felt wild, but something deep inside told me to follow. I tucked the note into my pocket and let the animals guide me.
We walked for hours until we reached a clearing, where an ancient olive tree stood, its branches heavy with fruit. Beneath it, another marker—smaller, but this time, it bore just a symbol: a spiral inside a circle.
Zito sniffed excitedly at the tree, while Minx darted off and returned with a key in her mouth. I found myself asking, «What is it?» but the animals stayed silent.
Tiberius lowered his body, allowing me to dismount, and together we examined the key. It was old, rusted, yet solid, its surface etched with intricate designs.
As I turned it over, I realized it could only unlock one thing: the chest I had discovered weeks earlier in my attic. Back at the cottage, the animals gathered around as I retrieved the chest.
It had the same symbols as the marker. I inserted the key and opened it, revealing a worn photo of my grandmother by the olive tree, a journal filled with her handwritten notes, and a small vial of shimmering, golden liquid.
The journal explained the sacred nature of the land and how my grandmother had been its keeper, passing the duty to someone worthy—someone like me.
The liquid, called Lumina, had the power to bring clarity, but only to those with pure intentions. I didn’t drink it right away. I spent several days reflecting, letting the land’s energy seep into me.
Slowly, the solitude I had longed for didn’t feel isolating—it felt liberating. One evening, I sat beneath the olive tree with the animals and made my choice.
I drank the Lumina. Immediately, a warm sensation washed over me, and memories—both my own and of others who had found refuge here—flooded my mind.
I understood then why my grandmother had entrusted me with this place. It wasn’t about running away—it was about connecting.
Months passed, and soon strangers started to find their way to the land, searching for answers, for peace.
Word spread, and I welcomed each one, guiding them just as I had been guided.
Tiberius, Zito, and Minx stayed by my side, reminding me that sometimes, the most unexpected companions bring the greatest joys.
I realized that true solitude isn’t about shutting others out—it’s about having the courage to let them in.
