Gea runs. She seems to have a strength I’ve never felt in her before. It’s as if she’s transformed, or maybe she simply feels at home here: a snowy field on the outskirts of Seregno, in Brianza, dotted with a few bare shrubs. Perhaps this landscape reminds her of the Hungarian steppes, where she’s never been, but her ancestors likely roamed long ago, being a Hungarian pointer.
Suddenly, birds take flight, and Gea chases after them without hesitation. Everything is blanketed in snow, but certain details stand out sharply: Gea’s silhouette, the birds overhead, twigs poking through the white. She runs so fast that at times her shape blurs, becoming almost a dark shadow, like the spirit of her ancestors guiding her. Gea keeps running.
