They gather at the edge of eternity—outside the Pantheon, where columns taller than memory hold up the sky of Rome like the gods still demand reverence. But the gods are quiet now, and the tourists—tired, sun-drowsy, full of gelato—spread out on the steps like petals fallen from a thousand timelines.
A couple from Toronto leans shoulder to shoulder, consulting a folded map that’s already smudged with espresso.
An old man in cargo shorts and socks up to his calves fans his wife with a brochure that reads “Pantheon: Temple of All Gods.” She sips from a plastic water bottle and stares up—not at the dome, but at the sky, as if trying to decide if it’s still sacred.
A backpacker—young, alone, barefoot in leather sandals—leans against a pillar, eyes closed, head tilted as though listening to the sound of gods arguing just beyond hearing.
Everyone here is resting, not just from walking, but from the weight of history. The marble steps are cool.
The columns cast long shadows. And the air tastes of time and sunscreen. In that hush—between footsteps, between centuries—Rome breathes, and they breathe with her.