Biba goes across a corner of lawn following something. It's the noise of the dry leaves below the frayed wall, and the blur of white flowers against the green lawn. We chat as we follow her, me and Gisa, until Biba turns around to check on our presence, smiles and goes a bit further. Gisa wants to steer her away from things dirty and rotten, but Biba knows better. There are things she sees in the way little stones are trapped by the brown dirt, and the way flowers crumble between her fingers when she pulls them hard from the ground. There's a mystery in the way green musk layering the bark of the trees pulverizes under her thumb, and the dogs behind the fence are thrilling as they come closer to smell and lick her fingers and she backs away, excited. They are very big and strangely attractive and incontrollable.
There are gray hard stairs in a corner of the garden, that Biba wants to climb up and down over and over again, it might be for the satisfaction of doing it or for the way the landscape changes as she moves. She doesn't really know. They're very high steps for her, she's is so small, it's an adventure. Gisa wants to hold her hand but she doesn't. So she stumbles and hits her forehead against the base of the railing but just like her father, she almost never feels physical pain. The bump doesn't bother her. Cries a little for the shock, gets back on her feet and up and down the stairs again. We follow. Talking out our fears and hopes and the distance in the sunny milanese spring day.