H50 Bingo

Here it is *smirk* I was on vacation this past week. Sadly, not in Florence, but it was someplace just as, and seeing the colors of the shops in the Bahamas gave me some ideas for this prompt. Also, hearing people talk about wanting to go on a cruise to Italy contributed to the story's location. Then, when I got home Sunday night, which is when I was able to start working on this.

I used Google Translate, so...y'know, *shrug*

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Title: Ecco il Cuore (Here is the Heart)

Summary: A young American artist living in Florence stumbles upon an old bookshop and an even older mystery involving a series of paintings signed only with the word Ecco. As she uncovers the story behind the signature, she finds herself entangled in love, legacy, and the question of what it truly means to be seen.

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It started with the bell, an old, cracked chime that sang out above the door like it hadn’t been touched in years.

"Ecco," said the man behind the counter, with a flick of his hand, as if the very sight of her had completed something.

The word hung in the air like perfume, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Juliette blinked, pushing up the sleeve of her linen shirt, the one now smudged with charcoal and city grime. She had ducked into the narrow bookshop not for any philosophical reason, but because the Florentine sun had become unbearable and her sketchpad was threatening to melt.

She glanced around. The shop was a maze of crooked wood and dust, with old shelves leaning like conspirators. There was no air conditioning, but the thick stone walls offered enough relief to make her linger.

The man behind the counter was older, perhaps in his late sixties, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to have seen wars or, worse, the boredom of students.

He nodded again. “Ecco. I was wondering when you’d come.”

Juliette half-laughed. “Excuse me?”

He waved her over, and when she hesitated, he simply said, “Non ti preoccupare. Vieni. (Don't worry. Come.)”

She stepped forward, wary but curious, the way a stray cat might approach a friendly hand. He slid a book across the counter to her. It was a slim volume, bound in wine-red leather. No title on the cover.

Juliette opened it, and the scent of ancient ink hit her like a song she hadn’t heard in years. Inside were sketches, some rough, some detailed, some like half-formed dreams. She recognized the hand immediately.

“Who did these?” she asked.

The man gave her a small, knowing smile. “That is the question.”

Each sketch was signed the same way: Ecco.

Juliette traced the name with her fingertip. “Here is...what, exactly?”

“Ecco can mean many things,” he said. “Here it is. Look. This is it. A presentation, a revelation. Or perhaps just presence. The artist signed not with their name, but with a gesture...an offering.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, then finally asked, “Do you know who they are?”

The man tilted his head. “Some say a student of Botticelli. Others, a nun who painted in secret. One theory insists it was a young man who disguised his identity to escape scandal. But the truth?” He tapped the cover. “Perhaps the answer is inside you.”

Juliette looked at him, uncertain if she was being played or recruited into something. “Why give this to me?”

“You came in from the sun, sì? Uninvited. And yet, Ecco. Here you are.”

That word again.

He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to her. An address, an alley not far from the Arno.

“Go there,” he said. “Bring the book.”

She should have walked away. She should have thanked him, put the book down, and left the shop as if nothing had happened.

Instead, she tucked the book into her satchel and walked out the door without another word.

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The address led her to a decaying palazzo wedged between modern cafés and careless traffic. The courtyard was made of cracked marble, but still beautiful, with ivy curling around its columns like whispered secrets.

Inside, the rooms were empty except for one. A small gallery faded but intact. A light filtered through stained glass, washing everything in the colors of melted gelato.

And there, along the walls, were more works. Sketches. Oils. Frescoes barely holding on.

All signed: Ecco.

She moved from piece to piece, breath catching in her throat. There was a woman holding a broken compass. A child lighting a candle against the wind. A mirror turned toward the sea.

Each one felt like a sentence from a language she once knew and had nearly forgotten.

And then she saw it. Her face.

Or someone who could have been her. Same jawline. Same mole beneath the left eye. The same look of stubborn longing. She stumbled back, heart hammering.

Ecco.

Here it is.

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She returned to the shop that evening. The man was locking up.

“You knew,” she accused.

He smiled gently. “I suspected.”

“Who painted that?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “The artist used what they saw. That doesn’t mean they knew you. Or maybe they did.”

Juliette’s mind reeled. “Are you saying I’ve been...reincarnated?”

“I’m saying ecco is not just a word,” he replied. “It is a mirror. Some people run from it. Some people chase it. And some people live it.”

He handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper. Inside: new sketchbooks, brushes, and a single note: The past is not only behind you. Sometimes it waits to be remembered. Ecco.

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Juliette never did learn the name of the artist. But she spent the rest of the summer sketching by the river, in cafes, in shadowed alleys and sunlit courtyards. She started signing her work differently. Not with her name.

Just one word.

Ecco.

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(833 words)