I am following the traces of a loved one, someone who is probably hiding here, hiding even from me. Two newsagent kiosks, under the statue of one of those king soldiers, Carlo Felice, look at him, dressed like a Roman general. They somehow perversely built this statue to celebrate those who invaded and defeated them, the ancient Romans first, and later the Piedmontese. Funny thing, the statue was supposed to point to the northern road, build by that butcher king and named after him. But for some unknown reason, his martial pointed finger points to the south instead. The people from Cagliari ignore the statue if not because they have celebrated here their only joy in two millennia of slavery: winning the soccer championship, and the statue of the butcher king was covered by the red and blue city flag. Anonymous bars welcome me, the faces are sombre, but friendly. Locals here don’t like to rush, they seem to stay late to enjoy the light and those sunsets they are so proud about. My target, on the other end, doesn’t like light or open spaces. But that’s not something I want to dwell about. I’m here to collect his note. And the trace of his passage is intact, and the message is clear, it’s the sketch of a façade with two uneven columns. That's where I go.