Beneath the manicured lawns of Parco Sempione, under the polished floors of the Triennale di Milano, the ground stirred.
It stirred with the deliberation of memory. Plant, prion, soil, microbe—returning to a body long sedated.
The first fissure that appeared in the gallery’s foundation was unnoticed by the authorities. It was as thin as a hairline fracture.
The cleaners saw it first. They didn’t discuss it. They tended to notice what others ignored.Their mops passed over the crack, their brooms skirted its edges, inadvertently feeding it crumbs and spilt coffee. The fracture received these offerings with the slow peristalsis of a gut. Light bent around the fissure, as though it led somewhere deeper than the concrete foundations.
The cleaners were discrete. You don’t share a secret unless forced to do so.