As soon as I cross the threshold, the sound of my footsteps on the ancient wood resonates like a call. There is something in the air — not just dust from past stories, but rhythm. The light coming in through the large windows sculpts the air, cuts the shadows into soft lines, as if just waiting for someone to dance. And I can't resist. One heartbeat, then another. And my body already responds, almost without me. I came in out of curiosity, sincerely attracted by the price, but this is not a simple apartment. It's a hidden stage. A forgotten ballroom, enclosed in the heart of an old factory in Casale Monferrato. Here, between Turin and Milan, where the hills draw the profile of time and silence can tell better than words, it is as if the soul of the place still lives. In the large living room, once the beating heart of the workers' after-work club, I see with my imagination those tired bodies, freed from uniforms and shifts. I hear the gramophone music, the stolen smiles, the hands touching each other with modesty and desire. Those floors —these very under my feet — have known love, hope, rebirth. And it's as if every step I take is a continuation of that story. The eat-in kitchen, with its tidy pantry, seems made to prepare shared dinners, evening laughter, improvised toasts. The dining room next door seems to be waiting for stories to listen to, slow conversations. The two rooms, intimate and welcoming, still have the right silence to dream. The bathroom invites you to take care of yourself, calmly, with respect. But it is the living room that captures me, that holds me back. This is where I go back to dancing. Not to perform, but to pay homage to those who, before me, found freedom in this place. And it's clear by now: this is not just a house. It is a choreography suspended in time. A living memory that still seeks steps, music, emotions. And I... I’d leave my heart there.
