Matteo sang softly, a little unsure of himself. There were no sheet music pages, only memory. Every song was different, changing with whoever intoned it, with forgotten words, with improvisations that slowly became new traditions.
The families of Palù waited with anticipation. Some offered biscuits, others mulled wine, others still a few coins. It wasn’t just hospitality: those offerings also helped support the church and keep the community alive.
House after house, lantern after lantern, the Stéla’s round lit up the night of Saint Sylvester’s Eve. The more experienced Stelari guided the singing with confidence. The elders spoke nostalgically of past Cante and of the young men who had carried the star over the years. Matteo listened, spellbound.
When the last lantern went out at the end of the round, he felt a mix of pride, gratitude, and serenity. He had been afraid of not being good enough, and instead he discovered that the Stéla values presence over perfection.
And that light which at the beginning had refused to turn on seemed almost like a sign to him: even when tradition appears to fade, all it takes is a moment for it to shine again. That Saint Sylvester’s night in Palù, Matteo felt he had lit his own light and found his place in the valley.
