The train doors sighed open. Erika stepped onto the narrow street and pulled out her crumpled map. Behind her, a doorbell jingled. Fresh bread drifted from the bakery door. She folded the map away and started walking.
She followed the winding street past a stone fountain and reached a fork. Two paths split ahead. The ink on her map had smudged into gray swirls. 'Which way?' she muttered, and chose the narrower one.
The narrow path opened into a square. A street artist painted on a huge canvas. He turned and pointed. The painting showed this very square—and a little girl in red shoes in the corner. Erika looked down and gasped.
She hurried toward the wider path, but the streets twisted and looped. Then she rounded a corner—and stopped. The great Duomo rose before her, its marble glowing gold in the setting sun. The bells began to toll.
She threw her arms wide. The bells rolled over the city like thunder. Erika stood beneath the greatest architecture she had ever seen, and for the first time all day, she smiled.
Evening settled over the piazza. Erika sat on a low stone wall, her crumpled map spread flat beside her. She traced each street with her fingertip, remembering every turn, every alley, every surprise.
From her bag she took out a sketchbook and began to draw. Street by street, she captured the fountain, the fork, the square, the artist's painting, and the cathedral's golden face. Her pencil moved fast.
She closed the book and looked up. Above the cathedral towers, the first stars had appeared—tiny silver pinpricks in the darkening blue. Tomorrow, she thought, we explore again.