The ruling came swiftly: insects were granted rights of settlement, property, and mobility. Every balcony, windowsill, and public space now grew pollen-rich flowers. Pesticides were banned, and planting native blooms earned VIP invitations to seasonal feasts. Public fountains were redesigned with shallow ledges where beetles could drink. Wasp nests hung undisturbed from the cathedral’s gargoyles, their paper cities recognised as sovereign territories. Honeybees claimed the abandoned vaults of banks, their combs expanding through safety deposit boxes like forgotten treasure.
New buildings had tiny gaps in their walls, perfect for solitary bees to nest. Even trash bins were modified, with separate compartments for composting insects. Instead of disposable trinkets, street traders peddled wildflower seeds, dried manure for beetles, and aphid-resistant plants.
The old stock exchange was repurposed as a pollination center. Clerks monitored nectar flow and the movements of wild bees. The city had rewired itself for every living thing that helped it thrive.
There were, of course, some exceptions. A sign above the entrance of the public toilets read:
NO FEMALE AEDES ALBOPICTUS MOSQUITOES—CONTROLLED POPULATION ONLY.
Even the Asian tiger mosquito was tolerated—as long as it knew its limits.
Some people complained about the insect density: the constant clicking of antennae, persistent fluttering shadows in kitchens and tram stops. But within months, they adjusted to their omnipresence as the legacy of extraction—decline, disease, scarcity—reversed.
Barren parks grew heavy with stonefruit. Thick tassels of wheat sprouted along the sidewalks. Urban vines coiled around cladding. Productive gardens on every rooftop formed pollen corridors, which meant that food was free for children and insects travelled freely across the skyline. The air changed—thicker, richer, fragrant—and became highly irritant to some. Milan’s transformation was both miracle and menace.
From March to June golden clouds of Cupressus pollen hung in the air, catching in lashes, throats, and clothing. Pollen counts soared, but unlike the allergy waves of the past, this time, Milan was prepared.
To accommodate those with pollen allergies, masks returned—delicate things, woven from silk and cellulose mesh, infused with honey and lavender to calm irritated sinuses while filtering the air. Some bore embroidered symbols of the pollen syndicates; others were fitted with micro-valves, designed by the cleaners, that adjusted to the ambient pollen levels.
Goggles became essential, their amber-tinted lenses, laminated with beeswax, shielded the eyes while magnifying the movements of nearby pollinators. When pollen density spiked, embedded sensors alerted wearers to take cover or adminster antihistamines.