The plane descended slowly, and through the oval window, Parampal Singh saw a land that looked older than memory itself. Sunlight washed over terracotta rooftops, winding roads, and ruins that seemed to breathe history. Italy did not rush to greet him—it waited.
The moment his feet touched the ground in Rome, he felt it. A strange heaviness, not of burden, but of presence. Every stone, every wall, every street whispered stories of emperors, artists, wars, and dreams that had refused to die.
Morning began near the Colosseum, where shadows stretched long across broken arches. Parampal stood silently, imagining the roar of ancient crowds, the clash of steel, the echo of lives once lived fiercely. Time here wasn't gone—it was layered.
He walked slowly, fingers brushing against cold marble, feeling the uneven paths beneath his shoes. Unlike modern cities that hide their scars, Rome wore them openly. Cracks were not flaws; they were proof of survival.
At the Roman Forum, he paused again. Columns stood half-broken, yet proud. The wind moved through them like a soft chant. Power, he realized, does not last forever—but influence does.
By afternoon, he wandered into narrow streets where laundry hung between buildings and cafés spilled laughter onto cobblestones. The smell of coffee and fresh bread followed him. Italy balanced its past with joy, as if saying: *Remember