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Chapter Text

In the vast, serene expanses of Switzerland, Alain Prost had found a haven of peace. His home, an old mansion surrounded by green fields and framed by the imposing silhouette of the Alps, was as silent as his life. Days passed with a calm rhythm, yet every corner of the house seemed to hold an echo of his past. The library, with shelves lined with trophies and memories of his Formula 1 career, was a place he rarely entered; the memories it contained were a weight he preferred to avoid.

In his daily life, Alain was grateful for the quiet moments. He had spent the last few years rebuilding his life alongside Bernadette Cotin, the mother of his youngest daughter, Victoria. Though their bond lacked the love and warmth he once shared with Anne-Marie, it was an arrangement that worked for both, a silent pact, a coexistence born from a mistake, a misstep that changed the course of their lives. And yet, Victoria’s birth had been the best thing that could have happened to them. She gave them a reason to move forward, to stay together, to rebuild something resembling a family from the ashes their brief affair had left in their respective marriages.

They had tried, he had tried, but true love between them never flourished. Alain and Bernadette slept in separate rooms, a decision justified by the ex-driver’s snoring. “Is it my nose?” he would joke occasionally. Yet, they both knew it was something deeper: the acceptance that their hearts had never spoken the same language. And still, Alain was grateful for the stability they had managed to build for Victoria.

Bernadette, with her unwavering elegance, had brought balance to his life, an invaluable companion and friend, while Victoria filled their home with joy and youthful energy.

However, Alain knew there was a void he could not fill. His older children, from his relationship with Anne-Marie, had built their own lives, creating families to which they devoted their time and affection. Alain saw them less than he would have liked, but he understood that the world moved on, even without him at the center of their lives. Deep down, a part of him couldn’t help but feel that he had failed them too.

Yet, the deepest void had no shape or resolution. It was a persistent shadow that lived in his mind and heart, a name that echoed in silence: Ayrton Senna.

Alain had tried to put into words what Ayrton meant to his life, but no term ever seemed quite right. He was a rival, a companion, a source of frustration and admiration. But beyond all they shared, fleeting glances and unexpected gestures—there was something more. Alain knew it, though he had never been able to admit it.

Sometimes, on particularly quiet days, he felt the absence like an open wound. Other times, he managed to ignore it. But it was always there, like an echo in the house, like a breeze brushing against his skin on rainy days. He reflected on those feelings, accepting that what he had shared with Ayrton was more than just a sporting rivalry or professional friendship. It was something so intense he could never define it, and so personal he had never spoken of it to anyone.

That day, however, was a good one. One of those when the stillness of the present seemed enough to keep the ghosts of the past at bay. Alain had woken early, following his routine with the precision of someone who valued the small rituals that shaped his life. He stretched his arms as the soft morning light poured through the tall windows of his room, casting elongated shadows over carefully selected furniture. The crisp air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass, greeted him as he stepped onto the porch, his bicycle waiting like an old friend.

Exercise always brought clarity. The turn of the pedals, the rhythm of his breath, the feeling of the wind against his face—it was therapeutic, a kind of physical meditation. Alain navigated winding paths lined with towering trees, enjoying the view of the Alps stretching across the horizon like perpetual guardians. In these moments, he allowed himself to feel gratitude—for his health, for his family, for the quiet life he led.

Breakfast with Victoria was another moment he cherished deeply. His youngest daughter had a special talent for lighting up any room with her energy and charm. As they shared laughter and small bites of freshly baked bread, Alain set aside the shadows that, though less present that day, still lingered somewhere. Their conversation revolved around Victoria’s plans, her classes, and her friends, filling the space with youthful freshness. Bernadette, away in France for a trip, couldn’t join them, but Alain accepted these moments with serenity.

After bidding farewell to Victoria, who left to meet friends, Alain decided to indulge in a rare luxury, a free morning, relaxed in the comfort of his armchair. With a cup of tea in hand and the remote control resting nearby, he settled in to catch up on European football matches. He no longer followed Formula 1 as he once did; in fact, he preferred to avoid it most of the time.

The day had an almost ethereal quality, the calm of someone at peace with himself. But peace was never eternal.

The shrill ring of the landline phone shattered the morning’s serenity. Alain turned his head toward the device, resting in a corner where the sunlight cast irregular shadows on the floor. The phone, with its greenish hue and retro design, was a relic of the past. He had kept it for years, reluctant to replace something that worked perfectly and, in some way, reminded him of significant times. Yet, that phone rarely rang—it had ceased to be a primary means of communication in a world dominated by video calls and instant messages.

With a hint of curiosity, Alain approached the receiver. It had been a long time since he had heard that distinctive sound, not since Niki’s passing years ago. He recalled that firm, certain voice. How he missed that man, his mentor and his best friend from those turbulent days on the grid.

What he heard, however, left him paralyzed.

—Alain! Alain!

The voice struck like lightning in his mind, illuminating buried memories and repressed emotions. It was impossible, and yet, it was there. The tone, the inflections—everything was unmistakable. It was a voice he had known like no other, one he had heard in countless press conferences, tense moments, and in those fleeting interactions that still occupied a corner of his memory.

—Alain! Please, talk to me!

Alain’s heart began to race, his hands trembled as he held the receiver. He swallowed hard, trying to find words, but nothing came. How could this be real? Ayrton Senna had died decades ago, and with him, he had taken a part of Alain that he had never been able to recover.

—Alain! Help me!

That final plea was enough to overwhelm him. Alain abruptly hung up the phone, his movements quick and sharp, as if trying to escape the words he had just heard. He rushed to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and letting cold water run over his face. His breath was uneven, struggling to calm the chaos raging within him.

It was a scam. It had to be. Or a cruel joke from someone who knew his history too well. Because any other explanation was impossible. Ayrton was dead, and nothing could change that.

But the voice, that voice echoed in his mind with a clarity that undid him. He couldn’t stop thinking about that call for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

The sound of the telephone had returned, relentless, almost ritualistic. Not a day had passed in the last week without its sharp ringing tearing through the tranquility of the house—as if some unseen force knew exactly when Alain’s solitude settled in the rooms and decided to demand his attention.  

But Alain hadn’t answered.  

He hadn’t been able to.  

Since that first call, anguish had lodged itself in his chest like an unwelcome guest. Each time the phone rang, his muscles tensed, the air grew heavy, and his mind screamed at him to ignore it, to resist falling into the trap of the inexplicable. But something else lingered—something that refused to let him sleep: the voice.  

It haunted him in silence, creeping into even the quietest moments. He could be on his terrace, watching the Swiss sky, sipping coffee as the wind stirred the leaves, or talking to Victoria about trivial things. Yet inevitably, the echo returned, and Alain would hear it again with the same clarity as that fateful morning.  

"Alain!..."  

It was impossible. It had to be. And yet, his mind clung to the thought that the voice had been real. Not a distorted memory, not some cruel joke. Real.  

But if he accepted that, if he even entertained the possibility, what remained of his logic? Of his sanity? Of the life he had built upon tangible facts?  

Denial was the only thing he could do. But for how much longer?  

The telephone’s shrill tone filled the air once again that morning—unmistakable, unyielding. Alain caught sight of it from his place at the kitchen table, his rigid posture reflecting the internal battle that had consumed him for days.  

Victoria, idly stirring sugar into her tea, noticed the sudden change in her father’s expression. Lately, something about him was different.  

—Dad, why don’t you answer? —she asked curiously, giving little importance to the unease in his eyes.  

Alain remained silent, his mind torn between fear and absurdity. Telling her the truth was impossible. How could he explain that, for the past week, a ghost, or something pretending to be one, had been tormenting him from the other end of the line?  

Victoria placed her cup down and observed him more closely. She had always seen her father as an unshakable pillar, someone who, no matter how difficult circumstances became, found a way to keep moving forward. But now, the mere sound of a phone call seemed to unravel him. Something in her tensed. She didn’t know what was happening. And, in truth, she didn’t care. All she wanted was to be there for him.  

She stood up and walked over to him, taking his hand firmly, just as she always did when she wanted to remind him that, no matter what happened, she was there.  

—Whatever it is, Dad, you can face it. And if you need help, I’ll be right here with you.  

The silence between them stretched longer than usual. Alain felt the warmth of her hand, the weight of her quiet support, the certainty that she didn’t need an explanation to offer her strength. Victoria wasn’t expecting answers. She wasn’t waiting for justifications. She only wanted to remind him that even the strongest needed to know they weren’t alone. Alain, moved by the simplicity of her words, felt, for the first time in days, that he could breathe.  

That telephone. That impossible echo. That fragment of his past calling him from the unknown… He had to face it.  

Taking a deep breath, he rose and approached the noisy relic. His fingers hovered over the receiver before gripping it decisively.  

The sound still rang in his ears when Alain lifted the receiver. He had expected the same desperate voice from that first call, but what he heard was different.  

—Buon pomeriggio. È il signor Prost con chi ho il piacere di parlare?  

The voice was firm but carried a serene solemnity. It didn’t sound hurried or forced. It was the kind of voice that, no matter how gentle, carried a weight that couldn’t be ignored.  

Alain frowned. There was something in the man's cadence, in the measured way he spoke, that made Alain sit up straight.  

—Sì, sono io.  

The silence on the other end stretched just a second too long—enough for Alain to sense that this wouldn’t be a conventional conversation.  

—Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lorenzo Moretti, parish priest of the Cathedral of San Cassiano in Imola.  

Imola.  

The name hung in Alain’s mind like an echo.  

Imola.

It was there where he had seen Ayrton for the last time.  

A discomfort settled in his chest like a silent presence, barely perceptible, yet impossible to ignore.  

—I apologize for the unexpected call, Mr. Prost. I know this isn’t the usual type of contact, but there is a matter of great importance that I need to discuss with you in person.  

The words were measured, carefully chosen. There was no exaggeration in his tone, but neither was there doubt.  

Alain felt tension creep up his back.  

A priest. A parish priest from Imola.  

Why would he want to speak with him, of all people?  

—What is this about? —Alain tried to keep his tone neutral, but a slight undertone of unease inevitably slipped through.  

—I would prefer to explain in person, Mr. Prost.  

Another silence.  

The priest allowed his words to settle before continuing.  

—I assure you, this is not something that can be discussed over the phone. It is not a conversation that should be reduced to mere words across a distant line.  

Alain leaned an elbow on the table, closing his eyes for a moment.  

Priests didn’t make calls like this. They didn’t pick up the phone and dial the number of a retired Formula 1 driver over trivial matters.  

Yet here he was.  

—I ask that you consider my request with the gravity it deserves. It is... complex.  

Imola.

The weight of that city still lingered in his mind, almost etched into his skin.  

Something in him told him that, whatever the reason, it might be something he wasn’t ready to hear.  

Alain ran a hand over his face, as if trying to dispel the weight of what he had just heard. The conversation made no sense. No personal interview was arranged through his private number, especially not one where the importance of the meeting was emphasized without any context.  

But there was something in the priest’s insistence that took him back to the first call, to the echo of that voice that had shattered his world a week ago.  

"Alain! I need your help."  

The air in the kitchen seemed to grow heavier. Alain felt Victoria’s gaze on him, waiting for his reaction.  

The image of Ayrton surfaced again, not as the distant figure Alain had relegated to the past, but as the man who, in his final days, had carried an invisible weight on his shoulders. Alain had seen that look, one that spoke of unspoken fears and thoughts that had never become words.

Had there been more he could have done for him back then?

Could he do it now?  

He inhaled deeply and tightened his grip on the receiver.  

—Alright. Tell me where and when.  

—As soon as possible, Mr. Prost. I will personally receive you at the cathedral.

—I’ll make some arrangements, but I believe I can arrive tomorrow afternoon.  

—I will be waiting for your arrival. Che il Signore sia con te, signor Prost. 

Alain swallowed, his nerves steadily growing.  

—Sì, e con te, —he replied before ending the call.  

Silence settled over the kitchen after Alain hung up. The priest’s voice still echoed in his mind, wrapping him in a whirlwind of uncertainty. He had committed to going, to seeking answers, but now that the decision was made, the weight of the unknown felt heavier.  

Victoria watched him from her place at the table, her fingers loosely curled around the rim of her now-cold tea. Though she didn’t fully grasp the depth of her father’s inner turmoil, she could tell something unsettled him more than usual.  

—Was it important? —she finally asked, her tone soft, careful not to press too much.  

Alain exhaled, dragging a hand over his face before nodding slowly.  

—Yes. It’s… complicated.

Victoria wanted to insist. Whatever her father was facing, it went beyond business or political tensions. But she also knew when he needed space. This was one of those moments.  

Alain stood, walking over to the window that overlooked the garden. The breeze stirred the leaves with a calmness that contrasted sharply with the storm twisting in his chest.  

Why had he agreed?  

Perhaps because Ayrton’s voice hadn’t let him go. Perhaps because he had waited too long for an answer that never came.  

He turned back to Victoria, who still watched him with the same unwavering gaze as always. If he had decided to step into this labyrinth of questions, he would go all the way to the end.  

—I have to go to Imola.  

Hours later, the arrangements for his trip were in place. Alain preferred not to ask unnecessary questions. He contacted his assistant, organizing a private flight with the discretion his name still required. Though his days in the spotlight of Formula 1 had long passed, his presence continued to draw attention and inquiries he wasn’t willing to entertain.  

Victoria, watching the process unfold from the other side of the room, crossed her arms with quiet determination.  

—I’m going with you.

Alain closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t surprised by her response. His daughter had always been like this—resolute, unyielding, possessing a conviction that could overcome any obstacle.  

But this time, he couldn’t allow it.  

—Victoria, this is different, —he said softly but firmly.  —This… is personal.  

Victoria frowned.  

—And that’s precisely why I don’t want you to go alone.

Her gaze was the same one he had seen since she was a child, that mix of certainty and stubbornness that never accepted a 'no' without first fighting for a 'yes.'  

Alain exhaled, the weight of the conversation pressing onto his shoulders.  

—I know you want to be there for me. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine.

Victoria studied him carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation, any small gesture that might allow her to insist.  

But she found none.  

—This time, I need to do it alone. 

The silence stretched between them. Victoria bit the inside of her cheek, processing his words. She didn’t like it, she wasn’t convinced, but something in the way Alain had said it, with a gravity she hadn’t heard in a long time, made it clear she couldn’t change his mind.  

—Alright.

It wasn’t surrender. It wasn’t total acceptance. But it was enough.  

Alain placed a hand on her arm gently, conveying something he didn’t voice aloud.  

Thank you.  

Victoria lowered her gaze, suppressing the urge to insist further.  

—But if you need anything… anything at all.  

Alain smiled faintly.  

—I know.

Imola was not unfamiliar to Alain. Over the years, he had returned to this circuit multiple times; for professional engagements, tributes, interviews. And yet, this time, it was different.  

From the moment the private jet began its descent, a tightness settled in his chest. Imola, with its quiet streets and old-town atmosphere, had never felt overwhelming to him. It wasn’t Monaco, nor Suzuka. It didn’t carry the extravagance of Monte Carlo or the historical weight of Silverstone. Yet, despite its relative calm, Imola had always been tied to an irreversible moment in his life.  

Alain couldn’t help but recall that race, that cursed weekend. How he had seen Ayrton walking through the paddock, worry etched into his face, his gaze distant, lost in thoughts he never voiced. Now, returning here for such an unusual purpose, Alain couldn’t help but think, once again, about the signs he had failed to interpret. About the words that should have been spoken before it was too late.  

The plane touched down, and with it, the air around him seemed to grow heavier. He had arrived.  

The flight to Imola had been smooth, yet with each passing mile, Alain felt the weight in his chest grow heavier.  

The city’s narrow streets stretched before him with quiet elegance—lined with warm-toned buildings, small cafés, and the serenity of a place that, despite its ties to motorsport, remained untouched by its chaos. Nothing in his journey seemed different from his previous visits, yet everything felt unfamiliar.  

He continued toward the historic center, where the Cathedral of San Cassiano stood among ancient structures. It was an imposing presence in the heart of the city—a testament to centuries of faith and resilience. Unlike the grandiose cathedrals of Milan or the Vatican, San Cassiano was humbler, its stone walls bearing the weight of countless prayers, its discreet bell tower rising over the square like a silent witness to time.  

The soft chime of bells resonated in the air as Alain crossed the threshold.  

The last mass of the day had begun.  

Tall stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into colored beams that danced upon the marble floors. The air carried the weight of incense and antiquity, as if every corner held secrets only time could decipher.  

The murmurs of the sermon filled the space—solemn echoes drifting among the aged columns. The congregation listened with quiet reverence, some with clasped hands, others staring toward the altar, their minds lost in contemplation.  

Alain moved discreetly among them, seeking an unassuming seat at the back where he could observe without drawing attention. He let the scent of incense and the monotonous cadence of the priest settle into his thoughts.  

Faith had never been his refuge.  

Once, perhaps in his youth, he had believed in fate. Had thought that life followed some invisible logic. But the years had worn down that belief.  

Where was God when his brother died? Where was He when Alain saw Ayrton for the last time, carrying an unspoken weight in his gaze?  

The thoughts returned to him.  

Ayrton, unwavering in his faith, speaking of God as if it were a certainty beyond question. Alain had never understood it, but sometimes, just sometimes, he envied him for it.  

His hands rested on his knees, relaxed in appearance, though his mind was in turmoil.  

Perhaps, after all, he did need a miracle.  

The last of the congregation began to depart, quiet whispers fading into the air while the echoes of mass still clung to the stone walls. Alain remained seated a moment longer, watching the stillness settle over the now-empty space.  

Finally, he rose.  

He moved toward the altar, his gaze taking in details he had overlooked until now. The flickering candles, the lingering scent of incense, the light playing against the timeworn stained glass.  

Alain Prost walked with measured steps, observing the architecture with a mix of admiration and unease. He was not a religious man, yet something about this place made him feel small, as though standing before a truth he had yet to grasp. His thoughts swirled in uncertainty, and though he willed himself to remain calm, his breathing grew heavier with each step.  

Father Lorenzo Moretti waited by the pulpit, adjusting the book resting on its worn surface. He was a tall, lean man, his presence commanding in its quiet strength. Though his hair was graying, traces of its original color remained, and his sharp features carried a natural authority. He did not falter when Alain approached—there was no surprise in his gaze, only a quiet certainty, as if he had long awaited this moment.  

—Mr. Prost —he said firmly. —I am glad you came.  

Alain studied him carefully. There was something in the way the priest looked at him, a conviction that unsettled him.  

—Are you Father Lorenzo Moretti? —he asked, though he already knew the answer.  

The priest inclined his head in a solemn nod.  

—I am. And you have come here for a reason, whether you fully understand it or not.  

A shiver ran down Alain’s spine. He didn’t know what he had expected from this encounter, but the priest’s certainty made him feel as though he were about to step into something beyond his comprehension.  

—Come with me —Father Moretti turned toward the side corridor. —Before we speak of what concerns us, I want to show you something.  

They walked through the cathedral’s halls, where the echoes of their steps reverberated against ancient stone. The priest spoke calmly, recounting the temple’s history; its origins in the fourth century, its evolution through time. He told Alain of Saint Cassian, the martyr condemned for spreading Christian teachings, and of how his legacy had endured within the community. Alain listened, though his mind wandered elsewhere. Every word seemed to bring him closer to a truth he wasn’t ready to face.  

Finally, they stopped before a heavy wooden door, guarded by a line of silent priests, as though they were protecting something sacred. Alain’s heart pounded against his ribs.  

Father Moretti regarded him patiently.  

—Do you believe in miracles, Mr. Prost?  

Alain swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to answer. He had never been a man of faith, but what was unfolding defied all logic. His gaze flickered to the door, sensing that beyond it lay something that would change his life forever.  

—Show me.  

His voice was low, controlled—but inside, everything was unraveling.  

The priest nodded solemnly and pushed the door open.  

The room was small—humble, yet strangely welcoming. The walls bore the marks of age, the dark wooden floors creaked under time’s weight. Only a few simple furnishings decorated the space: a table with a glass of water and a closed book, an old chair beside the window, a modest wardrobe, and a low bed, its blankets concealing a motionless figure beneath them.  

The air carried the faint scent of incense and wax.  

The last golden rays of sunset spilled through the window, bathing the room in warm amber tones, wrapping everything in a quiet serenity, almost unreal.  

Alain stepped forward carefully, as if afraid of disturbing the fragility of the moment.  

He tried to make sense of it.  

But his mind could only register the silence, the irregular rhythm of his pulse, the suffocating sensation of standing on the edge of something incomprehensible.  

Father Moretti approached the bed, placing a gentle hand over the figure beneath the blankets.  

The gesture was tender, filled with quiet reverence.  

His voice, even more so.  

—Son, wake up. Someone has come to see you.  

Alain watched, uncertain, not knowing what to expect.  

The body shifted slowly, reluctantly. The covers were pushed aside, falling carelessly onto his legs as he sat up, rubbing his face with a tired hand.  

Then, he lifted his gaze.  

The world stopped.  

The same unruly hair.  

The same deep, dark eyes.  

Exactly as he had last seen him, almost thirty years ago.  

—Ayrton...

Chapter Text

Night had fallen over Imola, but Ayrton was not ready to stop. The circuit lights cast a metallic chill over the track, banishing shadows only at the edges of the asphalt. His car slid over the tarmac with a harsh roar, its engine rising and falling in a rhythm that marked his battle against the clock.

"One more lap."

Fatigue was already burning through his body. His arms were tight, his muscles exhausted from the repeated strain of steering. Sweat soaked his racing suit, his helmet pressing like an added weight against his head. Yet, the need to keep going was stronger than the fatigue.

He knew what everyone thought—that he was losing his edge, that the FW16 wasn’t worthy of his talent, that Williams wasn’t giving him what he needed. That the world was ready to witness his fall, or celebrate his victory with a hypocrisy that only made him feel more isolated.

There was no room for error.

"Another lap."

Ayrton accelerated down the main straight, his hands gripping the wheel with near-desperate force. The lights above the track blurred into a hazy strip, and for an instant, he remembered Monaco. That time, years ago, when he entered the tunnel and everything dissolved around him. His car tore through the corner with aggressive precision. His heart pounded, the same sensation of crossing an unknown threshold expanding in his chest.

The mechanics had already left. They had abandoned him there, knowing that sooner or later, his body would force him to stop.

But Ayrton couldn’t stop.

"Another lap."

The tunnel yawned open before him like a dark mouth.

The engine roared.

The pressure in his chest grew.

And suddenly, everything went black.

Ayrton felt his body loosen, his hands losing their grip on the wheel. His breath turned erratic, the sensation of emptiness consuming his chest.

"Am I dying?"

A flicker.

A fathomless void.

And then, the sound of the wind.

When Ayrton opened his eyes, he was standing alone on the deserted Imola track.

His car was no longer there.

His mind reeled, struggling to grasp the impossible.

The circuit looked the same, but the absence of sound, the lack of movement, the eerie sense that something had irreversibly changed, it was all wrong.

The ground beneath his feet felt cold, rough, unmoving. The first thing he noticed upon opening his eyes was emptiness—not the kind that comes with exhaustion, nor even the disappointment of loss. It was something deeper, more unsettling, as if the world he knew had slipped out of reach while he wasn’t looking.

He rose slowly, the weight of his body still dense, heavy.

He wasn’t in the car. He wasn’t in the garage.

He was alone.

The Imola track stretched before him, silent. No engine noise, no shouts from engineers, not even the distant hum of a worker in the paddock. Ayrton frowned, confused.

"How long have I been here?"

The last thing he remembered was accelerating down the straight, feeling exhaustion press him to his limit. For an instant, he had felt something else—a distant echo of that time in Monaco, when the tunnel became a boundary between the tangible and the impossible.

He shook his head.

"Maybe I just pushed myself too far."

The silence was overwhelming. Ayrton felt the weight of his own breath in the dense air, his chest rising and falling with an irregularity he couldn’t control.

His feet moved over the asphalt in slow, deliberate steps, each motion feeling more unreal than the last.

Then, he looked around. Something wasn’t right.

The circuit was the same, yet different. The barriers looked altered, the advertising banners weren’t the ones he remembered.

"I drove until I collapsed."

That had to be it. Extreme fatigue must have disoriented him. Perhaps at some point, he had lost consciousness, collapsed, and someone had pulled him from the car. But why had they left him here, alone, in the middle of the empty track? The most logical explanation was that an engineer had returned for the car, assuming Ayrton had left or was no longer capable of continuing.

The thought infuriated him.

If someone had taken his car, if someone had dared to decide for him when he should stop…

He clenched his teeth, but something still didn’t add up.

Tamburello.

Ayrton stopped, narrowing his eyes as he studied the altered curve, as if focusing harder might bring back the shape he knew. But the wall, the layout—everything was different.

"When did they change this?"

He shook his head. The air grew heavier as he walked forward, every step on the track feeling like a struggle against the weight of his own uncertainty. The asphalt stretched endlessly before him.

The Imola circuit spanned nearly five kilometers—five kilometers of history, five kilometers of memories, five kilometers that now seemed unrecognizable. The path was too long to walk, and he was too exhausted.

A sudden impulse urged him to reach for his radio, though he knew he didn’t have it. His hands clenched in an automatic gesture, the need for certainty burning beneath his skin.

If only he had a phone, he could call Alain and…

He pressed his lips together.

He had thought of Alain more times than he was willing to admit. In the past few weeks, amid the pressure, the uncertainty, there had been moments when his first instinct had been to call him. But the truth was, of all those moments, only a few times had he actually dared to dial. And yet, even that was too many—more than he could allow himself to accept.

Alain was his rival. His friend. His enemy. His confidant. Too many things at once to simply call him and say he felt lost.

But now…

What would Alain say if he heard him like this?

What would he tell him if he admitted to feeling lost in every possible way?

A shiver ran down his spine.

His footsteps echoed against the asphalt in a monotonous rhythm, each movement feeling heavier.

The air turned cold, a harsh breeze sweeping through the circuit, hitting his skin as if trying to wake him from something he still didn’t understand.

He kept walking.

The track stretched ahead, the gravel bordering his path.

The wind howled with a hollow sound, carrying an echo that had no place in a racing circuit.

Something was wrong.

Chapter Text

The streets blurred as his steps carried him further away. The pressure in his chest remained, suffocating, as if he were still trapped in that crowd, in those gazes that recognized him without truly knowing him.

Ayrton moved forward without a clear direction, his legs still driven by the inertia of fear. Only when he turned a corner and entered a narrow alley did his body finally give in. His knees nearly touched the ground as he leaned his back against the cold wall.

The air was heavy. The city vibrated beyond the walls surrounding him—the sound of engines, voices, and the life he did not belong to. But here, between the aged stone and the shadows, he could at least do something he still controlled: breathe.

Ayrton closed his eyes. His earliest years in Europe surfaced in his memory, like an instinct returning from the depths of his being.

The first time he left Brazil, he faced a new, unfamiliar world. A world where faces were foreign, languages strange, rules different. But there, he learned to survive.

He couldn’t control what happened around him. But he could control himself.

He took a deep breath.

The only thing that had ever truly protected him was his helmet. The object that separated his face from the world. The only safe place he had ever known.

His fingers tightened around it, securing it firmly on his head. He wasn’t going to remove it. Not here.

The alley became his refuge. There was no real security, but at least he could hide a little, let time pass, let his body rest.

The sounds of the city gradually faded. Hours passed without him noticing. Exhaustion took its toll, and although he couldn’t truly sleep, he managed to lose himself for a few moments in the void of his mind.

Without thinking.

Without feeling.

Just surviving.

The sun was no longer at its highest point when Ayrton emerged from the alley, his body still aching from fatigue, but his mind focused.

The helmet remained in place, his shield against reality.

The street ahead buzzed with activity—tourists with cameras hanging from their necks, groups of fans wearing caps of current Formula 1 teams, murals and banners with his name, his image, his memory. That last detail forced him to look away. He wouldn’t face it. Not now.

But the opportunity presented itself on its own. A couple stopped a few meters away, watching him with excited eyes.

—Oh my God, look at his costume! —the woman whispered enthusiastically.  

Ayrton didn’t react.  

—It’s perfect. Do you think he charges for photos?  

The man pulled a black rectangle from his pocket, manipulating it with a fluency that still seemed surreal to Ayrton. The device’s light flashed for a second, and then the couple smiled even more.  

Ayrton understood instantly.  

The photos.  

The nostalgia.  

The chance to make money.  

His fingers tightened around the helmet as his mind worked quickly, adjusting his survival role.  

If they wanted to believe he was just a man dressed as Ayrton Senna, then so be it.  

He straightened his posture, adopting the calm he always displayed before a race.  

The man approached cautiously.  

—How much for a photo?  

Ayrton pretended to consider it. His mind moved fast, calculating.  

—Twenty…  

Twenty what?  

Instinctively, he reached for a number.  

—Twenty thousand lire.  

The couple exchanged glances.  

—Lira? You mean euros, right?  

Ayrton tensed his fingers slightly around the helmet, but he didn’t let his confusion show.  

Euros.  

The word didn’t sound familiar, but he caught enough in the man’s tone to understand that the lira no longer existed.  

A quick adjustment. Instant adaptation.  

—Right. Twenty euros.  

Ayrton processed the new information while posing for the photos. The world had changed in even the most basic ways. Even the money he once understood no longer existed.  

The couple nodded, accepting without hesitation. The first photo was taken. Then more followed.

The tourists recognized him—or at least thought they did—and Ayrton allowed his image to become entertainment, a business.

Bills passed from hand to hand. Voices blended around him. The people’s excitement grew.

Ayrton Senna lived on in their memories. And now, he was right there.

But he wasn’t truly there.

He was only surviving.

Ayrton walked to the commercial area, where small street food stalls lured visitors with warm, spiced aromas.

The crowd still moved with energy, but he had learned to navigate around them, to keep his distance, to play his role without exposing himself too much.

The bills he had earned were firmly held in his hand.

He wasn’t hungry.

Or thirsty.

But he needed to eat.

The survival instinct in his mind wouldn’t let him ignore that necessity.

He stopped at one of the more modest stalls, his expression unreadable as he scanned the price list and options.

—What’ll it be, mio amico?

The vendor’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Ayrton didn’t respond immediately. His eyes wandered over the products, searching for the simplest, easiest option to consume.

—Panini and water.

The man nodded and began preparing his order.

Ayrton slid a bill onto the counter, watching as the vendor took it without a second thought. The transaction was natural, automatic. He had managed to integrate into the system without anyone questioning him.

When he received his food, he walked to a nearby bench, where the city’s noise wasn’t as suffocating.

Under the glow of the streetlights, his hands separated the bread.

He wasn’t hungry. But he needed to eat.

He lifted his helmet just enough to uncover his lips. He started chewing slowly, ignoring his body’s resistance, forcing himself to swallow each bite with the measured calm of someone who knows they have no choice.

The water went down easily. Maybe he was thirsty after all.

When he finished, exhaustion hit him with full force. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, the pressure in his chest lingered in the background, but it was still there.

Unable to resist, his body settled onto the bench, arms crossed, helmet still in place. The sounds of the city began to fade. Sleep overtook him.

When a new dawn filtered its light through the city, tinting the buildings in soft hues, dissolving the darkness of the night, Ayrton stirred slowly, feeling the weight of sleep still heavy on his muscles.

The bench beneath him was hard, uncomfortable, but he had managed to sleep. For an instant, caught between drowsiness and the haze of waking, his mind toyed with an idea:

Maybe it had all been a nightmare. Maybe he would open his eyes, and everything would be where it was supposed to be.

Familiar voices. The roar of the engines. The air of the decade that belonged to him.

But when his eyes finally took in the world around him, the illusion crumbled.

The muted colors of people's clothing. The black rectangles held by almost everyone. The blinking lights of digital advertisements. The constant flow of cars he didn’t recognize.

The future was still there.

The pain in his chest was immediate, brutal, relentless.

—Hey, you. —The voice cut through the air.

Ayrton blinked and turned his head slowly. A uniformed man watched him with crossed arms, his posture showing more fatigue than authority.

—Come on, get up. —Ayrton didn’t react immediately. The policeman sighed.

—You can't sleep in a public place. What do you think this is? Some kind of costume exhibit?

The words struck Ayrton like a cruel joke from reality.

Costume. Again. Always the same.

But if that meant he could keep hiding, that no one would truly see him for who he was, then so be it.

Without a word, Ayrton stood up. His muscles protested, stiff, exhausted.

The policeman looked him over and let out a low chuckle.

—I don’t know if it’s brilliant or a disaster, but you sure put in the effort.

Ayrton didn’t respond. The helmet remained in place. His refuge.

Without another word, he walked away, returning to the role of a man dressed as Ayrton Senna.

The day pressed forward. And he had to survive.

The hours passed in a routine that, though suffocating, allowed him to stay busy, focused, alive.

Ayrton learned quickly.

The crowd still sought him out, the tourists still wanted a picture with "the best Ayrton Senna impersonator they had ever seen," and he allowed himself to keep acting.

Coins and bills passed easily from his hands to others.

His body still rejected the world around him, but his mind—methodical, disciplined—adapted.

He learned to identify technology through pure observational instinct; the black rectangles no longer seemed like objects out of a science fiction movie. Now he knew they were called "smartphones." He knew they were essential, as much as anything else people carried with them.

He knew they could do anything: take photographs; record videos; search for information; talk to someone without wires, without buttons, without anything he recognized as a phone.

Yet, he still didn’t fully understand them. It was a language he didn’t speak. A concept his mind still refused to process. The screens displayed images, videos, news. Ayrton forced himself not to look too closely.

He couldn't face his own name displayed on posters, on banners, in the city's decorations.

He clung to the only thought he could tolerate: Keep going. Make money. Don't think. Don't feel.

Don't face reality.

By the third day, the city still pulsed with anniversary preparations, people still wandered through the stalls and murals, tourists still gathered in the plaza, seeking a piece of history they could capture on their futuristic phones.

Ayrton remained in his role: taking photos, receiving cash. Repeating the process without thinking too much about it.

Until, as the sunlight began to take on orange hues, a group of three men approached with the same calm as any other tourist.

But something about their movements was off. Ayrton noticed immediately. The instinct he had developed in his youth, the one that recognized signs of danger before they happened, kicked in.

One of the men pulled out a knife with a fluid, casual motion, as if it were something he did every day.

—Give us the money. —The words were low, serene, without unnecessary aggression. Direct.

Ayrton didn't hesitate. Money meant nothing to him; he could get more. Without hesitation, he pulled the bills from his pocket and extended them calmly.

One of them took them without even checking the amount. But they weren’t done yet. The third in the group looked at his helmet with a different expression.

—And this too.

Ayrton felt his muscles tense. His helmet was more than an object. It was his refuge. His armor. His only barrier against the unknown.

No. He couldn't give it away.

—No.

The refusal had no hesitation. But the men didn’t take it well.

—You're going to hand it over. Or we’ll cut you up.

One of them tried to yank it away. Ayrton reacted instantly, dodging with a quick movement, his body still functioning on the reflexes of a man who knew competition and danger.

The situation escalated in seconds. One of the men lunged at him, knife raised. He blocked the attack, but in the struggle, the blade slid with unexpected brutality.

Pain exploded instantly. The metal had pierced his left arm. Blood gushed out quickly, hot, relentless.

Adrenaline surged through his system. In a burst of strength, the pilot struck the attacker with a solid blow to the face.

The assailant stumbled backward. The other two, feeling overpowered, retreated. They fled in the opposite direction.

—Maledetto! —the injured man exclaimed, staggering from the impact, his eyes full of fury as he ran after his accomplices.

But Ayrton was no longer watching them. The pain was growing, the blood still flowing. The weight of everything that had happened began pressing down on him once more.

With his wound throbbing, Ayrton turned on his heels and started walking, clutching his arm tightly. He had to think. He had to formulate a new strategy. He had to keep going.

The streets became a labyrinth as Ayrton advanced, his arm pulsing with deep pain, blood still seeping between his fingers.

His breathing was uneven. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving the raw weight of the wound on his skin. But his mind kept repeating one thought: keep going.

The city's lights flickered around him, the sounds blended into a distant echo, occasional glances were ignored. Nothing mattered.

Until he saw it. The silhouette of San Cassiano Cathedral emerged between the old buildings. The discreet bell tower. The stone walls worn by time. The threshold still intact, just as he remembered.

For the first time in days, Ayrton didn’t feel like a stranger.

The world had changed. People, technology, reality itself. But the church was still there.

His steps led him inside, crossing the doors with a hesitant slowness, as if stepping in could return him to something that still belonged to him.

The space was silent. The scent of incense lingered in the air. The altar candles flickered softly.

Ayrton let himself fall onto one of the benches, his body yielding to exhaustion, to the wound, to the suffocating pressure of everything he had been repressing.

His gaze locked onto the altar.

"What is this, God?"

The question hung in the air, suspended between disbelief and desperation.

"Are you testing me?"

His emotions returned, crashing in full force. His breathing became difficult. The pain in his arm intensified. Tears began to fall, unstoppable.

For the first time in a long while, Ayrton allowed himself to feel.

The sound of soft footsteps broke the cathedral’s silence. Ayrton didn’t react immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the altar, his thoughts suspended between physical pain and the suffocating weight of everything that had happened.

The voice came calmly, without urgency, but with a clarity that made him blink and break out of his trance. —Son, are you alright?

Ayrton lifted his gaze. A man in dark clerical robes, with a serene but deeply observant expression, watched him from the central aisle.

Father Lorenzo Moretti did not have the inquisitive gaze of a stranger, nor the caution of someone afraid to step too close.

He simply saw. He saw the exhaustion in his posture. He saw the helmet still firmly placed on his head. He saw the blood sliding down his arm, staining the fabric of his suit.

Ayrton took a deep breath but didn’t respond. The priest took a step forward, his voice remaining just as serene.

—Let me help you.

It wasn’t a request. It was a certainty. Ayrton didn’t know why, but his body relented.

The priest gently guided him to a side bench, where the dim church lighting was less unforgiving.

Without wasting time, the priest took a small medical kit from a nearby table and sat in front of him, inspecting the wound with firm, expert hands.

—This needs stitches. —he murmured.

Ayrton didn’t react. He simply watched.

Father Lorenzo’s hands worked with precision, with the patience of someone who had done this before.

—Before joining the seminary, I had medical training. —he commented, as if answering a question Ayrton had never asked.

The blood still flowed slowly. The priest cleaned the wound, his gaze briefly flickering to Ayrton’s face, as if noticing the traces of tears the helmet still concealed. He said nothing about it. He simply continued his work.

Ayrton closed his eyes for a moment. Not from pain, but from fatigue. From everything his body and mind had been carrying.

For the first time, someone was simply helping him. No questions. No suspicion. Just because he was a wounded man. And in that moment, that was the only thing he could accept.

The silence in the church was absolute.

Father Lorenzo finished stitching the wound, securing the thread with meticulous precision. But his gaze never left Ayrton.

He didn’t question him, didn’t pressure him, but in his expression, there was something beyond mere medical observation. There was understanding. Not of what Ayrton was hiding, but of the weight he carried.

The priest finished his work and settled in front of him, his hands resting on his knees, his posture relaxed but firm.

—It’s not just the wound, is it?

Father Lorenzo’s voice didn’t demand an answer. But reality did.

Ayrton closed his eyes for a moment. The helmet still covered his face, still served as his refuge, still kept him inside an invisible barrier that separated him from the world. But at that moment, the barrier was no longer enough.

His body couldn’t bear it anymore. His mind couldn’t keep denying it. His soul had nowhere left to hide.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the helmet. For the first time, he hesitated. But then, his voice came out in a whisper, barely audible.

—I can’t do this anymore.

The words vibrated in the space between them, suspended in the air, laden with the weight of uncontrollable desperation.

Father Lorenzo didn’t move—he simply waited.

And then, with the sluggishness of someone barely capable of doing so, the pilot removed his helmet. He held it carefully in his hands, leaving his face exposed. And he allowed himself to be seen.

Father Lorenzo exhaled slowly. His gaze traced Ayrton’s features, analyzing every detail, every expression, every nuance he recognized but couldn’t comprehend.

Silence.

Disbelief.

Faith.

—My God… —he finally murmured, his voice honest, with no attempt to conceal his astonishment.

Ayrton lowered his gaze. He couldn’t face him. He couldn’t face himself. But then, without thinking, his voice cracked into a single question.

—Why am I here?

The plea came effortlessly. Without resistance.

Father Lorenzo didn’t have an immediate answer. But in that instant, he knew Ayrton had been sent back for a purpose greater than anyone could understand.

The priest exhaled slowly, still digesting the impossibility before him.

Ayrton Senna. The man. The miracle.

The priest didn’t ask any more questions—at least not in that moment. What he had before him wasn’t a mystery that could be resolved with words.

It was something greater.

Something divine.

His gaze softened, but his tone remained resolute.

—You’re going to stay here. —The statement fell with certainty.

Ayrton furrowed his brow slightly. He was not a man who accepted help easily. But in that moment, he had no other choice.

The weight of everything that had happened still resonated in his chest, the bandage on his arm kept him aware of his vulnerability, and the idea of going back out into the city, wounded, exposed, without any strategy, was unsustainable.

Father Lorenzo noticed his hesitation but didn’t press him. He simply stood, extending a hand toward the side passage.

—Venire.

Ayrton looked at him. Then followed.

The space inside the church was discreet, old, shielded from the intensity of the outside world. A real refuge, at least for now.

As the days passed, the other priests and nuns began to notice his presence. At first, there were only fleeting glances. But eventually, Father Lorenzo had to explain the situation.

The secret was sealed with solemnity. No one was to reveal it. No one was to take photographs or recordings. No one was to use their phones while Ayrton was present.

And little by little, a new atmosphere began to settle within the church walls. Some regarded him with reverence, with the conviction that Ayrton was a messenger of God, a test of faith that had arrived for a higher purpose. Others simply protected his presence, like guardians of a miracle they had yet to understand.

Father Lorenzo, for his part, began teaching him about the modern world, patiently showing him the technological, social, and political changes that had taken place over the past thirty years. Ayrton listened, processed, absorbed the information.

But he knew he couldn’t hide in a church forever.

One afternoon, after gathering enough courage, he locked himself in the small administrative office with the priest, where financial matters were handled. Father Lorenzo offered to contact the diocese in Brazil, but the pilot refused. His family deserved to hear his own voice.

Brazil. What would his beloved country be like now?

He was grateful for having a phone he could still recognize. He spent the rest of the day dialing every number he could remember—his estate in Angra Dos Reis, his house in Algarve, his father's office, and his brother-in-law's.

All answered by the same robotic operator: —The number dialed is no longer in service.

Ayrton closed his eyes for a moment.

It was logical. After nearly thirty years, phone numbers had changed. But logic didn’t make the suffocating pressure in his chest feel any lighter.

His only connection to home was lost, broken.

No, no. He wouldn’t accept defeat. There had to be another way, another alternative. Suddenly, his expression lit up as he remembered something—or rather, someone.

With a firm motion, Ayrton dialed another number. The only other one still intact in his memory.

Alain Prost’s line in Switzerland.

The tone rang. Ayrton clung to the phone with a force he hadn’t felt before.

Alain's number was etched in his mind like an instinct, an untouched fragment of what had once been his present. His last real connection.

His breathing tensed, his chest tightened.

The call connected.

This was it. His only chance.

—Alain! Alain!

The sound of his own voice was a brutal shock against the room’s silence.

The line remained open.

Ayrton’s heart pounded in his chest.

On the other end—nothing.

But Ayrton couldn’t stop.

Not now.

—Alain! Please, talk to me!

The fear in his tone was undeniable.

A plea.

A desperate call to the only familiar face that could bring him back to himself.

Silence.

But then—breathing.

A shift.

A tremor in the line.

Alain was there.

He was listening.

Ayrton exhaled urgently, clinging to the only words he could still say.

—Alain! Help me!

But the answer never came.

In a brutal instant, the connection was severed.

The sound of the call’s abrupt end echoed in the air.

Ayrton blinked.

Then, he remained still.

His hands trembled, the phone still clutched tightly between his fingers.

He didn’t let go.

He couldn’t let go.

The only voice that could bring him back had rejected him. His eyes clouded with the weight of reality.

Father Lorenzo watched in silence. He could feel the depth of his frustration, his desperation. He placed a hand on the Brazilian's shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

—Maybe it was too much to take in. We’ll try again tomorrow.

The days passed with unbearable slowness.

Ayrton kept dialing the same number in that narrow office. But nothing changed.

Alain never answered.

And the world kept turning. But Ayrton was trapped in a limbo where past and present blended without meaning.

Each failed call ended in brutal silence. Each ring of the phone was a reminder that maybe no one who had ever loved him wanted to remember him.

Yet, Father Lorenzo wasn’t willing to give up either. After all, if Alain Prost wasn’t ready to hear the voice of his old racing rival, perhaps he’d be willing to reason with a representative of God himself—someone who could bear witness to the extra-temporal phenomenon unfolding before them.

And then, a week later, the sound of the call changed. Like a prayer answered, a voice on the other end picked up.

Chapter Text

The air in the room grew tense, trapped between the weight of the past and the harshness of the present.

Neither of them moved. Alain blinked, but the image before him remained.

Ayrton.

Exactly as he remembered him.

No marks of time on his skin. No years reflected in his eyes. No traces of a life that should have unfolded.

Just him. As he was nearly thirty years ago.

But that was impossible.

Alain took a deep breath, feeling the irregular pounding in his chest strike with unfamiliar force. His lips parted, but he couldn’t utter a single word. Ayrton was watching him too, caught in the same brutal silence. His expression wasn’t that of someone expecting a reunion—it was that of someone who didn’t know what to say.

And that was the worst part. Because Ayrton had always known what to say.

He always had an answer. He always had certainty. He always had that focused gaze, that clear mind.

But now, he didn’t.

Now, he had nothing.

Alain’s breathing grew heavier. But even so, he didn’t look away. Because if he did, all of this would disappear, like a mirage meant to haunt him.

No.

He couldn't allow that.

The words finally came, broken, barely held together by his disbelief.

—Are you real?

Ayrton swallowed, as if the sound of Alain’s voice was what truly terrified him.

The question hung in the air. But then, Ayrton finally answered.

—I don’t know.

Silence.

The seconds stretched between them as Alain processed the only response he never would have expected. Because if Ayrton didn’t know, then what did this all mean?

The initial silence shattered before it became unbearable.

—How? —Alain’s voice was rough, sharp—not out of anger, but desperation.

Ayrton exhaled slowly, feeling the urgency behind the word.

“How.”

Even he couldn’t answer that.

—I don’t know. —The response was honest. Too honest. Alain wasn’t satisfied.

—That’s not enough.

Ayrton frowned, the pressure in his chest becoming tangible.

—It’s all I have.

Alain shifted, as if the impulse of disbelief forced him to do something—anything.

It can’t be. There’s no logic in this. There’s no way…

Ayrton clenched his jaw, his body rigid, holding something back. Because yes, Alain was right—there was no way. But then, Ayrton lifted his gaze with a different intensity.

—And yet, here I am.

The blow of reality shattered Alain’s resistance. For once, calculations, explanations, and years didn’t matter.

Ayrton was still there.

The erratic beating in Alain’s chest struck with a force he could no longer ignore. His disbelief crumbled, leaving only what remained beneath it.

The weight of silence shifted. It was no longer the initial doubt. It was something deeper. More personal. Alain exhaled, but the air barely seemed to ease the tightness in his chest.

—Why now?

The question wasn’t an accusation.

It was a confession.

Because he wasn’t ready for this. Because he had learned to live without Ayrton, even if he had never truly accepted it.

Ayrton lowered his gaze, his expression holding something even he couldn’t name.

—I don’t know either.

There was no explanation, no clear purpose. Just the reality that he was here.

Alain ran a hand down his face, letting out a barely audible laugh—not out of humor, but exhaustion. Because this was consuming him. If Ayrton was truly here… then what did it mean for everything Alain had felt over the past thirty years?

—I mourned you. —The words were a blow, raw, unfiltered.

Ayrton heard them. He felt their impact. And he held them, without trying to soften them.

Because that was the truth.

Because Alain had been forced to learn how to move forward without him.

Because Alain had had to accept an absence that never felt fair.

The years spent without answers. The buried memories he had never allowed himself to revive. The emptiness he had never been able to fill.

Because for Alain, the story had already been written. But now, Ayrton was here, in flesh and blood, tearing apart everything Alain had rebuilt.

Ayrton blinked, as if, for the first time, he truly understood what it meant to have returned.

He wasn’t just in the future.

He was in Alain’s present—in the place he had left empty.

—I never meant to hurt you. —The whisper wasn’t an excuse. It was an admission. Because there was no avoiding the fact that, by returning, Ayrton had unraveled everything.

And for the first time since the door had opened, Alain looked at him without hesitation.

And he believed him.

The Frenchman took his time before moving. But when he did, it wasn’t out of impulse. It was out of need. His hand lifted slowly, without a clear command—only guided by something deeper.

Ayrton didn’t look away, but his breath hitched at the closeness. Alain didn’t touch him immediately. He couldn’t—not yet. He lingered there, his hand suspended in the air, just inches from the face he had once thought lost.

The same face.

Just as it had been thirty years ago. Thirty years built upon his absence, upon a story that should have ended long before Alain was ready to let it go.

Just him, untouched.

Alain exhaled, his pulse pounding against his skin.

And then, he touched him.

The contact was light at first, as if he feared breaking the impossible balance of this moment.

But he didn’t.

Ayrton was still there.

Real, tangible. Alive.

Alain’s fingers slid over warm skin, pausing at every line, every familiar curve, every shadow the sunset light traced over his face. Ayrton remained, allowing Alain to take him in, as if memory wasn’t enough, as if his presence needed to be confirmed through touch.

The younger man blinked, for the first time sensing that Alain was truly seeing him. But to Ayrton, this wasn’t the Alain he knew. Not the one he had last seen just months ago.

The graying hair. The pronounced wrinkles on his skin. The depth in eyes that had seen too much.

The impact was silent, but no less brutal. Because this Alain had lived years—decades more. He had aged. He had moved on. Without him.

Ayrton tried to breathe, but the air didn’t fill his lungs as it should. For the first time, he truly understood what it meant to wake up here.

Then, Alain moved closer. There were no hesitations, no doubts. Only the unrestrained impulse to reach him, to hold him, to merge with the presence he thought he had lost.

And he embraced him, without reserve.

Ayrton tensed, caught between confusion and the overwhelming sensation of that touch. This wasn’t the Alain he remembered, but the warmth was the same, the strength was the same, the longing held back for years was still there, intact.

Alain’s arms clung to his back with an urgency difficult to contain, with a need that couldn’t be hidden. Tears slipped free, as if they had been waiting years to fall.

Alain made no sound, but Ayrton understood. Suddenly, there were no questions, no theories, no certainties.

Only him, holding him in silence.

The trembling in Alain’s body was almost imperceptible, but Ayrton felt it. The pressure on his shoulders. The uneven breath near his ear. The force with which Alain refused to let him go.

Ayrton lowered his gaze, feeling more lost than ever. He wasn’t just in another time—he was in a world that didn’t belong to him. The certainty struck at some point, without warning, without a clear logic to prepare him for it. It settled in his chest, latent, silent, entwining with every thought he tried to form.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not because someone told him so. Not because there was a fate he should have followed. But he felt it.

This time, Alain didn’t push for reason or meaning. Because now, the how no longer mattered. Only that Ayrton was truly here. And that after so many years, he could finally see him again.

Father Lorenzo finally moved, but cautiously, as if interrupting them required impossible precision. He had witnessed reunions filled with faith, tears, and deep confessions.

But nothing like this.

Nothing like two souls finding each other again in a space so small, so fragile, so impossible to contain everything happening within it. The priest inhaled deeply, composing himself before speaking.

—Signor Prost, you should rest for the night.

Alain didn’t move.

Ayrton didn’t either.

The weight of their restored connection held them like magnets, impossible to break just yet.

However, Father Lorenzo insisted, his tone serene but firm.

—You can come see him whenever you wish. —The words floated in the air like a promise.

Alain closed his eyes for a moment, as if convincing himself that this wasn’t the end—just the first step.

Ayrton furrowed his brow, his stance contained but carrying something more. He didn’t want Alain to leave. He couldn’t understand why he had to let him go, just now that he had returned.

But then, Alain stepped back. Not because he wanted to—only because he had to. Ayrton didn’t look away, and neither did Alain. Finally, they parted.

Father Lorenzo guided Alain out of the room, his steps heavy on the wooden floor. Ayrton followed him with his gaze until the door closed. But Alain’s absence did not fade.

The priest walked with Alain through the hallways, each step accompanied by dense silence.

Until, at last, he spoke.

—Ayrton told me he woke up alone on the racetrack.

Alain lifted his gaze immediately. Father Lorenzo continued, his voice measured but carrying the weight of someone who had witnessed true panic.

—He saw himself in the monument at the park near the track. That’s where he realized what had happened. He knew he had died.

The words struck with an impact impossible to dodge. Alain didn’t respond—he only listened.

The priest kept recounting—the terror, the fear, the days of desperation.

How Ayrton tried to survive. How, lost and without answers, he came to him. How he accepted his help, because it was all he had.

Alain exhaled with difficulty, the images reconstructing in his mind, the weight of everything Ayrton had endured alone.

For the first time that night, Alain understood—the confusion, the panic. The reason Ayrton looked so lost.

For the first time, he truly grasped what this return meant. And he couldn’t stop himself from feeling horrified.

Father Lorenzo halted at the exit, watching him closely. Alain met his gaze, his expression more open, more raw.

—Thank you.

It was all he said. But the priest understood.

The night was already deep when Alain arrived at the hotel he had booked at the last minute. It wasn’t the kind of place he would normally stay in. He would always choose somewhere more secluded, far from the bustle of the city center and tourist areas.

But it didn’t matter—it was the closest hotel to San Cassiano Cathedral. And there was no way he could bear being too far from Ayrton at this moment.

The reception was still lit. A young woman behind the counter shifted in her seat upon seeing him enter, as if she immediately recognized Alain Prost’s name and face.

The commemorations for the anniversary were still ongoing. And Alain had no intention of being part of them.

He signed a couple of autographs for some guests who recognized him. He avoided conversation. After checking in, he went up to his room.

For the first time since stepping into that church, he was completely alone. The air felt different—colder, heavier.

The room was elegant, with polished wooden furniture and thick curtains that blocked the view outside. The dim light cast long shadows on the floor, amplifying the feeling of emptiness.

Alain sat on the edge of the bed, his mind spinning without pause.

Ayrton had survived alone. He had fought to understand what had happened.

Now, he was here.

But what could he do?

How could he help him?

The answers weren’t clear, but Alain knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t going to leave him alone again.

The phone on the nightstand emitted a faint glow as the screen lit up the room. It was a message from Victoria. The promise to call her still lingered.

Alain narrowed his eyes, staring at the device without touching it. He wasn’t in the right headspace for that now. Not tonight.

The message remained unopened as Alain lay back, still fully dressed, the weight of the day finally settling over him.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he would think about how to help Ayrton.

Tomorrow, he would worry about Victoria.

But tonight, he simply let exhaustion take him.

Chapter Text

Alain closed the door to his hotel room, feeling the weight of the routine he had unexpectedly adopted since his arrival.

Every morning, the same walk to the church. Every day, the same route through streets he knew far too well. Every meeting, the same silence between them before words dared to appear.

But something had changed.

Ayrton, though still quiet, no longer rejected his presence as he had on that first day. His posture remained rigid, cautious. But his eyes, at times, revealed a recognition that hadn’t been there before.

He had started to accept the inevitable.

He sat across from Alain, as he had in the days prior, next to the simple table in his room.

—You look tired —he finally said, breaking the silence.

Alain exhaled with a faint smile, leaning back in his chair.

—So do you.

Ayrton didn’t respond.

The Frenchman studied him for a moment before continuing.

—I’ve been thinking about what you’re going to do now.

Ayrton lowered his gaze. It wasn’t the first time they talked about this. But Alain always returned to the point, as if he needed to make sure Ayrton understood what it meant to be here.

—I don’t have answers for that, Alain.

Alain nodded, but didn’t let the conversation end there.

—Then let’s talk about something else.

Ayrton raised his eyes, a barely perceptible hint of curiosity flickering across his face.

—The world has changed. Formula 1 has changed.

The Brazilian remained silent, but Alain noticed the way his expression hardened.

—Now everything revolves around technology. There’s more simulation, more real-time data. Driving is different. —Alain paused before adding—: No one has to guess what’s happening with the car anymore.

Ayrton furrowed his brow slightly.

—It’s changed that much?

Alain let out a short laugh.

—You have no idea.

Ayrton slid his fingers across the wood of the table where his hands rested, his eyes lost in thoughts he didn’t share.

—And you, Alain… what have you done all these years?

Alain looked at him closely, surprised by the question.

—I stayed in motorsport. Managed a team, got involved in driver safety. —He paused, his tone softening—: Formula 1 learned from what happened to you.

Ayrton narrowed his eyes, feeling the conversation tread into a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Alain noticed his reaction, but kept going.

—You’re not just a memory to people, Ayrton. You’re much more.

The Brazilian exhaled heavily, as if he suddenly felt the full weight of his existence in this time.

—Don’t say nonsense.

But Alain shook his head.

—It’s not nonsense. To a lot of people, you’ve become something more than a driver.

Ayrton looked at him with a warning in his gaze.

Alain held his expression, unwavering.

—You’re almost a religious figure to some.

The silence between them grew so thick that Alain thought Ayrton would simply shut it down, dismiss what he was saying with his usual skepticism.

But Ayrton didn’t.

He didn’t respond immediately.

He just lowered his gaze, as if the information truly affected him.

As if the idea of being something more than himself unsettled him in an unexpected way.

The light from the window fell on him with an unsettling familiarity, highlighting each feature as if time had never touched his skin.

Alain exhaled and studied him closely.

—This is incredibly unfair.

Ayrton raised an eyebrow.

—What is?

The Frenchman rested an elbow on the table and gestured with his hand, as if it were undeniable proof.

—You still look exactly the same. I, on the other hand, am an old man.

The comment came naturally, without resentment, but clear enough to emphasize the contrast. Ayrton looked at him a second longer than necessary before replying.

—You haven’t changed that much.

Alain frowned with a half-smile.

—Don’t tell me I’m still insufferable.

For the first time in days, Ayrton let out a brief laugh, almost hidden in his breath.

—Not as much as you used to be. But it’s still there.

Alain made a mock-offended gesture.

—Such sweet words.

Ayrton shook his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his face, though something still lingered beneath it. As light as the conversation seemed, the underlying truth remained.

Ayrton was still here.

It was a thought Alain still hadn’t managed to fully grasp—not because it was hard to understand, but because it simply shouldn’t be possible.

It didn’t matter what words they exchanged. It didn’t matter that familiar gestures were starting to reemerge between them. Ayrton was still an unknown. An unresolved mystery.

And Alain couldn’t stay away from him.

The nights passed with the same restlessness as the first. Alain had now been in Imola for three days, and each one had brought him back to the church, facing the same silence, the same unanswered question.

Each night in his hotel room, the lack of answers kept him awake. The phone rested on the nightstand, the screen lighting up occasionally with notifications he didn’t check. Calls he didn’t answer, messages from his daughter, from colleagues, from acquaintances.

None of that mattered now.

The only thing circling in his mind was Ayrton.

How could he help him?

What was he going to do with him?

The most obvious option had crossed his mind more than once: contact his family. But every time he considered it, the thought faded before becoming real.

He didn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t know where to begin. What if they didn’t believe him? What if they thought it was madness?

No. It wasn’t just that. There was something more. Something Alain didn’t allow himself to examine. Because deep down, he didn’t want to share him just yet.

Without realizing it, that idea had taken deeper root in his mind. But he still couldn’t name it. He still couldn’t see it clearly. He only knew that each night, when exhaustion finally claimed him and his eyes closed, his last thought was of Ayrton.

The days at the church passed with a stillness impossible to find in the outside world. Ayrton had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the place, to the slow cadence of morning prayers, to the light filtering through the stained glass, to the sound of footsteps over ancient marble. But despite the apparent peace, his body was out of balance. His strength was fading with the lack of training. His skin, once marked by the sun and effort, looked paler.

He knew it. But he still couldn’t do anything about it.

He had tried to help with the church chores more than once, looking for some way to fill his time with something concrete. But they hadn’t let him. The priests were kind, deeply generous, but they treated him with a reverence that made him shudder.

As if he weren’t a man. As if he were something else. As if he were to be served, protected, honored.

Ayrton hated it. But he didn’t know how to stop it. And worst of all, despite his discomfort, he didn’t dare leave the church either. He could still feel the uncertainty of that first day in the city—the streets, the stares, the memories immortalized on every corner. He wasn’t ready to face it again.

So he spent most of his time wandering the cathedral, pacing the hallways, exploring the hidden corners between columns, letting his thoughts get lost in the pages of the Bible or in conversations with the priests. They weren’t conversations about faith, not necessarily. They spoke to him about their childhoods, the paths that had led them there. They told him stories of people who had found refuge in the church, of moments of doubt and revelation.

There was something human and sincere in the way they shared their lives with him. Ayrton listened with respect and attention. For the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel like an enemy.

One of the priests had lent him his phone. Smartphone, he repeated the word to himself—smartphone. Father Leandro had patiently taught him how to use it; the touch screen, the apps. The way everything seemed to exist within that little magical rectangle.

It was absurd. It was fascinating. It was a tangible reflection of the time that had passed without him.

Ayrton ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the device, exploring it with curiosity. Then, his mind drifted elsewhere.

He thought of Alain. Of how he had changed. Of the time reflected in his face, in his eyes, in his gestures. Of what remained unchanged. Because despite the years, Alain was still himself.

He smiled, without realizing it.

The church bells rang mid-morning as Alain stepped through the front doors.

Ayrton was there, as always. Not in prayer, not speaking with anyone. Just in silence.

But this time, Alain noticed something different in him. He had lost more weight than was reasonable. His movements were slower—not from exhaustion, but from a clear lack of routine. Ayrton wasn’t used to inactivity.

Alain approached him, but before he could say anything, Father Lorenzo appeared from the side corridor, already wearing the expression of someone with a decision made.

—Signor Prost.

Alain gave him a slight nod. The priest stopped in front of them, looking at Ayrton intently.

—You can’t stay here, cut off from the world.

Ayrton didn’t answer, but his body tensed slightly at the statement.

Alain glanced sideways at him.

—I’m not ready.

Father Lorenzo shook his head.

—You never will be if you keep hiding here.

Ayrton’s silence was enough for the priest to go on.

—Go out. Explore the city. Alain will go with you.

Ayrton’s eyes darkened with a mix of discomfort and reluctance.

—I don’t need to go out.

The priest smiled patiently.

—It’s not a matter of need. It’s a matter of reality.

Before Ayrton could reply, another priest approached, clearly in disagreement.

—Is it wise to allow this?

Father Lombardini, one of the most respected in the church, came forward with a stern expression.

—What if someone recognizes him?

—What if they come looking for him? —added another priest from the doorway.

Alain frowned, understanding the magnitude of the conflict. The clergymen protected him as though he were something sacred. As if Ayrton had to be hidden from the world.

Even Ayrton seemed to flinch at their words, the weight of his situation showing in the tension of his shoulders. But Father Moretti left no room for argument.

—He has to go out.

The others exchanged uncertain glances, but none dared to object. Father Lorenzo turned to Ayrton.

—Get dressed. Wear sunglasses, a cap. Cover your face with a mask if you like. But don’t wear the helmet.

Alain caught the stiff gesture in Ayrton’s posture.

—Why?

The priest held his gaze.

—Because you can’t live in hiding.

Ayrton exhaled slowly, glancing briefly at Alain. The Frenchman said nothing. He just watched, waiting.

Ayrton clenched his jaw, holding back the impulse to reject the idea. But then, without a word, he stood and left the room. It wasn’t acceptance, but it wasn’t refusal either. And that was enough.

The air outside the church had a different weight. It wasn’t the same as the one Ayrton had felt when he first arrived.

It was heavier. More definitive.

The sun struck the facades of the buildings with unyielding clarity, emphasizing the warm tones of old stone and the gleam of windows.

It was a city he knew. But it wasn’t the same.

He missed the place he had known, where cars weren’t so quiet. Where mobile phones weren’t glowing glass rectangles. Where shop windows didn’t project images with impossible sharpness.

Everything was recognizable, but nothing was the same.

Ayrton adjusted the mask over his face, the fabric tightening against his skin as he walked with careful steps. He didn’t look directly at Alain, but he could feel him nearby—closer than necessary. It wasn’t an invasive presence, but it was there. Watchful.

Alain didn’t say much—he just observed him. He didn’t lead the way, didn’t set a direction, but his movements were precise, as if he were alert, aware of something even he couldn’t fully identify. Ayrton barely furrowed his brow when he noticed the change in how Alain moved, how his presence carried a different weight.

The walk through the streets became a collection of silent pauses, moments where Ayrton stopped to process what he saw, to try to understand how the world had kept moving without him.

The traffic lights were no longer the same. The advertisements were faster, brighter. People’s gazes didn’t linger on storefronts; they stayed glued to their phones.

Ayrton felt annoyed noticing that no one seemed truly present in the city. Everyone was busy, trapped in something he couldn’t see: screens, messages, notifications. He was a stranger to all of it.

He exhaled slowly, letting the air filter through the mask, giving himself a moment to process what he was feeling.

A group of tourists passed by, immersed in their own worlds. They didn’t look. They paid no attention.

They didn’t recognize him.

The relief came with a contradictory sensation. He didn’t know if he wanted to be invisible or if he simply didn’t want to be what others expected of him.

Alain turned slightly, barely noticeable, as if he were measuring him without really intending to.

The Brazilian lowered his gaze. The silence between them carried a different weight. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was contained. It was something that didn’t yet have a name.

The walk had been longer than expected. Alain glanced sideways at Ayrton as they moved along the sidewalk, noticing the tension that still lingered in his gestures.

—We should have a coffee.

Ayrton turned to look at him, his expression more neutral than usual.

—I’m not hungry.

Alain let out a short laugh, as if the response didn’t surprise him at all.

—It’s not like you’re about to break a fast. Just coffee. Something light.

Ayrton didn’t reply immediately. His thoughts wandered to the food at the church—simple, tasteless, functional. He didn’t reject it, but he didn’t enjoy it either. Maybe, if he ate something that actually had flavor, it would be easier to force himself to eat. He sighed before nodding slightly.

Alain led him to a quiet café on a less crowded corner. The aroma of freshly ground coffee floated in the air, mingling with the sound of scattered conversations at nearby tables. The place wasn’t elegant, but it had a warmth that felt unexpectedly inviting.

The younger man paused for a moment at the entrance, taking in the details carefully. Before he could react, Alain walked toward a table and, without thinking too much about it, pulled out a chair for Ayrton.

The Brazilian blinked. It wasn’t a usual gesture for him. It wasn’t something he expected from Alain.

He sat down without saying anything, though his expression stayed puzzled for a few seconds longer than necessary.

While they waited for their order, Ayrton let his gaze drift around the place without really focusing. Then, a man seated at a nearby table caught Alain’s attention. He was middle-aged, modestly dressed, with a coffee in one hand and the other making a small gesture in their direction.

Alain raised an eyebrow when the man pointed at Ayrton with his finger. Then he gave a thumbs-up. Alain frowned, not understanding a thing. Ayrton didn’t either.

When the coffee arrived, he simply stared at his cup without much interest, stirring the liquid with a spoon without tasting it yet.

The Frenchman looked at him out of the corner of his eye, almost amused.

—Are you just going to stare at it or are you going to drink it?

Ayrton let out a faint snort but brought the cup to his lips.

The coffee had a strong, robust flavor—very different from what he usually had at the church. Much better.

He set the cup back down on the table and looked at Alain with a neutral expression.

—It’s good.

Alain let out a short laugh.

—That’s your elegant way of saying you finally tasted something decent.

Ayrton didn’t reply right away, but he took a piece of bread from the basket they’d been given at the table.

—The food at the church is… edible.

Alain rested his elbow on the table, watching him closely.

—Translation: tasteless.

Ayrton bit into the bread, keeping his gaze on him without confirming or denying the comment.

Alain smiled, openly showing his relief. For the first time in days, there was something in Ayrton that wasn’t completely held back.

—You should be eating better —Alain added, this time with a softer tone.

Ayrton took another sip of coffee before replying.

—Maybe if the food had more flavor, it’d be easier to do so.

Alain nodded approvingly, as if that was the answer he’d been hoping for.

The conversation flowed with unexpected ease—without the burden of doubt, without the weight of the time that had separated them. Just a moment of normalcy, something that, for a brief instant, felt real.

Ayrton set his cup down on the table and leaned back slightly in his chair.

—I never thought to ask you —he said, in a lighter tone—. But… how are your kids?

Alain blinked. The question caught him off guard, not because it was unexpected, but because he hadn’t stopped to think that Ayrton didn’t know that part of his life.

—Nicolas is doing well. You knew him when he was little.

Ayrton nodded.

—Yeah. He was just a few years old, right?

Alain smiled with nostalgia.

—Now he’s older than I was when we were racing.

Ayrton let out a short laugh, like the idea struck him as absurd.

—That’s ridiculous.

—It is —Alain agreed with amusement. —There’s also Sacha, my second son. And then there’s Victoria.

Ayrton tilted his head at the name.

—I don’t know her.

Alain leaned his elbow on the table.

—No. She was born a couple of years after you…

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Ayrton lowered his gaze, but his expression didn’t darken.

He just waited.

Alain exhaled gently before continuing.

—Victoria is brilliant. She’s strong-willed, smart.

He smiled.

—I think you two would get along.

Ayrton let the words settle in his mind. For some reason, the thought genuinely pleased him.

—Yeah?

—Yeah. She’s stubborn. Like you.

Ayrton let out a brief chuckle.

—I see you haven’t changed much.

Alain smiled sideways. The rhythm of the conversation was different now. More natural, more… light.

Ayrton took another sip of coffee and looked at Alain more intently.

—And you?

Alain furrowed his brow slightly.

—Me what?

Ayrton set his coffee down on the table.

—Your love life.

Alain felt a slight hitch in his pulse, not because of the question itself, but because he didn’t have a clear answer. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment.

—Bernadette’s doing well.

Ayrton raised an eyebrow.

—That doesn’t answer my question.

Alain let out a small, noncommittal laugh.

—Since when are you so inquisitive?

Ayrton didn’t press the point, but the way he smiled with a hint of mischief made it clear he’d picked up on something in Alain’s reaction.

The Frenchman quickly steered the conversation back.

—Let me tell you about the current drivers on the grid in our category.

Ayrton let out a short, almost theatrical sigh but allowed the topic to shift.

From that point on, the conversation flowed with greater ease. Ayrton smiled more often than Alain had expected. He laughed more than Alain remembered ever seeing him laugh. And Alain felt his heart race—with a happiness he hadn’t felt in years.

Chapter Text

The bluish glow of the phone lit up the nightstand, pulsing at regular intervals with notifications Alain had left unattended.

Two weeks in Imola.

Two weeks without going home.

Two weeks avoiding the questions piling up on the other end of the line.

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling heavily before looking at the screen.

Eleven missed calls.

His assistant had sent persistent messages, reminding him of postponed commitments.

Victoria had called more often than usual.

And Bernadette…

Bernadette, who rarely reached out without reason, had left a voicemail. Alain pressed his lips together, considering whether to listen.

But he didn’t.

The only thing occupying his mind was Ayrton.

Every day, every afternoon, every conversation they’d had over the last two weeks felt more important than anything else.

Alain leaned back in the chair, scanning the hotel room as if it were a space that no longer held meaning. The neutral walls, the untouched bed, the desk covered in papers he hadn’t touched since his arrival.

A place in transit.

A place that no longer mattered.

Because his world was out there, in the church, where Ayrton continued to exist against all logic and reality.

Alain closed his eyes for a moment.

He knew he couldn’t keep postponing this.

He knew he had to act.

An idea began to take shape, settling in his mind with the weight of an inevitable decision.

Afternoons in Imola had adopted a rhythm of their own, a quiet routine Alain didn’t dare to break.

Each day, the same walk to the church. Each afternoon, the same conversation with Ayrton.

But their dialogues had shifted.

At first, they were brief, uncertain, marked by disbelief. Ayrton responded in short phrases, as if still unsure the man sitting across from him was truly Alain.

Now, the conversations flowed with more ease.

Ayrton folded his arms across the table, watching him with more attention than usual.

—Tell me more —he asked in a neutral tone, but with the weight of genuine curiosity—. What else have you done all these years?

Alain set the coffee cup down slowly, as if the weight of the question made him measure every word more carefully than necessary.

—I stayed in motorsport —he began, exhaling softly—. Worked on driver safety, even ran my own team.

He paused briefly, then added in a lower voice:

—Didn’t go very well, actually.

Ayrton raised an eyebrow.

—You had your own team?

Alain let out a short laugh, without humor.

—Prost GP.

The Brazilian furrowed his brow, processing the information.

—I remember you talked about it with me, during those calls after your retirement.

Alain nodded.

—I did.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, as if the memory still carried a shadow of frustration.

—I even mentioned the idea of you becoming one of my drivers.

Ayrton blinked once, slowly.

—Yes. You did.

Silence lingered between them, marked not by distance but by lost possibilities.

—But the team didn’t succeed.

Alain rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands.

—No.

Ayrton studied him for a moment before speaking.

—Why?

Alain let out a faint laugh, this one lacking any hint of amusement.

—Prost GP came from a simple idea: to build something of my own, a team with my vision, my approach. But… leading isn’t the same as competing.

The Brazilian leaned back in his chair, weighing Alain’s words with a mix of interest and analysis.

—Too much bureaucracy?

—Too much. Too much politics. Too much poorly managed money.

He paused before exhaling again.

—I never imagined it would be so complicated.

Ayrton traced his fingers across the smooth surface of the table, as if the thought of that lost possibility felt strangely distant.

—If it had happened, Prost GP would’ve been different.

Alain held his gaze.

—If you had been on the team, everything would’ve been different.

The words hung in the air for a moment, weighted with the gravity of a future that never came to be.

Ayrton lowered his gaze, but a shadow of thought flickered across his expression.

—I was curious what it would’ve been like to have you as a team principal.

Alain let out a soft laugh.

—It wouldn’t have been easy.

Ayrton smiled faintly to the side.

—I wouldn’t have expected it to be.

The Frenchman studied him closely.

—But at least it would’ve been interesting.

Ayrton tilted his head with a barely perceptible nod.

—I don’t doubt that.

The silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts, with a lost possibility that, for a moment, seemed to exist again in their words.

—What else has changed? —he asked at last.

Alain exhaled quietly.

—Everything.

He paused, then added:

—Back then, when the car was failing, you felt it in your gut —Alain said, his voice low, as if speaking to himself—. A strange vibration, a different smell, even the sound told you things no engineer could foresee.

Ayrton watched him intently, without interrupting.

—The car was yours —Alain continued—. No intermediaries. Your foot talked to the engine, your hands argued with the steering, and you knew—without anyone telling you—when it was ready to break... or to win.

—And that’s gone? —Ayrton asked, tilting his head slightly.

Alain smiled, but it was a joyless one.

—Now you don’t listen to the car. You read it. On a screen. A display tells you if the fuel mix is off, if the turbo needs adjusting, if the temperature’s climbing. There’s no conversation. Just reports.

—What kind of telemetry do they use? —Ayrton asked, genuinely curious—. Real-time channels? Sensors in the suspension, oil pressure, differential?

—All that... and more —Alain replied—. Every component has its own encrypted language. There’s a whole team interpreting what you used to feel. Sometimes it feels like the driver doesn’t need to understand the mechanics anymore, just trust them.

Ayrton looked down for a moment, thoughtful.

—When I adjusted brake pressure, I did it based on how the car dove into the corner. Not because a number told me to.

—Exactly —Alain murmured—. That moment when the car surprised you... now they design it to make sure it doesn’t.

—But the car shouldn’t be comfortable —Ayrton said—. It should challenge you. If it doesn’t, you’re not driving. You’re supervising.

Alain stared at him for a few seconds.

—You get it better than most. But the world didn’t want more risks, or human error. It wanted precision. And that’s necessary if we want more safety.

He fell quiet for a few minutes, remembering that addictive feeling of driving at 300 kilometers per hour. Back then, he felt like he could almost fly. The beauty of slicing through the track, accelerating... shadowed by the faces of friends who had crashed, lying motionless along the way.

—And you? —Ayrton asked firmly—. What would you want?

—I suppose I’d want to keep feeling the car, but... I wouldn’t be willing to lose another driver.

Ayrton ran his fingers along the wood of the table, as if searching for something tangible in the middle of that conversation.

—Has it changed that much?

Alain let out a bitter laugh.

—You can't imagine how much.

The silence stretched between them, marked not by physical distance but by time itself.

—And the others? —Ayrton lifted his gaze, his brow gently furrowed—. Ron, Gerhard, Piquet, Mansell...

Alain blinked a couple of times before answering.

—Ron left racing a few years ago. McLaren isn’t what we knew anymore. Gerhard... well, he’s been involved in team management for years. He never really left the paddock. Nelson’s still in the sport, though he focuses more on his family now. And Nigel... —Alain smiled with a mix of nostalgia and amusement— he’s still Nigel.

Ayrton watched his expression, catching the weight of the years carried in every word.

His world had moved on without him.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the tension held in his body.

—It must feel strange for you —Ayrton murmured, not looking at him—. Being here.

Alain held his gaze before answering.

—Not as strange as it does for you.

Ayrton let out a brief laugh with no real humor.

—Right. I suppose not.

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes at a thought he chose not to share.

The truth was, he didn’t want to leave Ayrton.

Each conversation, each moment spent together made the idea of leaving him behind that much harder.

But he had no choice.

Sooner or later, Ayrton had to step out into the world.

And Alain had to make sure he wouldn't do it alone.

The routine shifted in imperceptible ways.

At first, Imola was a world contained within the church walls. The city stopped at the wooden doors, maintaining a safe distance. But slowly, outings became more frequent. And Ayrton learned to navigate a reality that didn’t quite belong to him yet.

The places Alain chose for lunch were discreet, tucked away, warm—spots that didn’t seem to be in a rush to catch up with the twenty-first century. The cobblestone trattoria, the café hidden between old streets, the restaurant with tablecloths worn by years, where the food was simple but the atmosphere made things feel less foreign.

It was better that way. The world had to arrive in small doses.

On one of their outings, Ayrton ran his fingers across the menu, feeling the smooth paper, printed in a typeface different from what he remembered. The names of the dishes were familiar, but something in their descriptions made them feel different.

Alain noticed his expression and set his napkin down with a calm gesture.

—Everything alright?

Ayrton tilted his head slightly.

—Yeah. Just... different.

The Frenchman leaned an elbow on the table, smiling.

—Different doesn’t have to mean bad.

The Brazilian exhaled softly.

—It’s not bad. Just strange.

Small details began seeping into his routine. People no longer called waiters with a gesture, but with a device on the table. No one read newspapers, but the glow of smartphones flashed with notifications Ayrton still couldn’t fully grasp.

The world moved at a pace he didn’t remember.

On another outing, Alain showed him how to pay with a QR code.

Ayrton squinted, studying the screen with a mix of confusion and skepticism.

—They don’t use cash anymore?

—Less and less.

Ayrton ran his hand along the edge of the table, thoughtful.

—That’s absurd.

Alain laid his spoon down with a short laugh.

—You said the same thing about telemetry in the cars.

Ayrton snorted with amusement.

—I still say it.

The changes were small, but inevitable. Ayrton never said it out loud, but he was beginning to understand. And Alain, quietly, was watching.

Adaptations crept in without announcement. The way Ayrton no longer needed Alain to explain how to order food from a tablet, the way he had learned to interpret digital signs on the street, how he’d stopped frowning at every screen glowing with news from a world that moved forward without him.

Everything was changing. But change didn’t mean safety.

And Alain knew that.

When the Frenchman walked into Father Lorenzo’s office, he did so with the same conviction that had settled into his decision days ago.

The priest watched him with a steady gaze, hands clasped on the wooden desk.

The silence between them held a certain gravity, a tension both knew they had to address.

—Signor Prost —Lorenzo began, voice measured— you know this isn’t as simple as you want to make it seem.

Alain kept his eyes on him.

—There’s nothing simple about this, Father. No one knows that better than I do.

The man exhaled softly before leaning back in his chair.

—Ayrton has no identity in this time. No documents, no official records. Legally, he’s a ghost.

Alain’s jaw tightened at those words.

That was exactly the problem.

The priest tilted his head with a calculated gesture.

—And if someone discovers him, how will you justify his existence?

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes.

—If he stays here, it’ll only be harder for him to adjust.

The priest frowned, concerned.

—We don’t know what this could lead to. His mental state, his disorientation. You can’t expect—

—Expect what? —Alain cut in, sharp—. That I leave him locked up here until his own mind consumes him?

Father Lorenzo didn’t reply immediately.

But he didn’t look away.

Alain leaned slightly forward, with the conviction of someone who had made an unshakable decision.

—Sooner or later, he’ll have to face the world. And when that moment comes, I want to be there. I won’t let him do it alone.

The priest studied his expression carefully.

Ayrton could no longer hide from the world.

And Alain wouldn’t allow it.

Lorenzo exhaled heavily, but didn’t argue.

He just nodded, knowing deep down there was no other choice.

That morning, before the first sermon of the day, Alain stepped into the church with a decision carved in stone.

The arrangements were finalized. Contacts activated. The plan in motion.

He wouldn’t give Ayrton a way out.

Alain had learned how to make precise, calculated moves, without cracks. Throughout his racing career, his survival depended on decisions made in fractions of a second—on spotting an opening and seizing it before it vanished.

This was no different.

He knew that if he gave Ayrton too much time to process, he’d find a way to delay it, to dodge the change, to retreat into resistance.

But Alain couldn’t allow that.

The Brazilian had lost all points of reference. The world wouldn’t wait for him to catch up. He had to move.

Alain had structured the plan with the same cold precision he used preparing for a race: no room for doubt, no margin for error.

The calls had been brief, the contacts chosen with surgical care. There could be no gaps, no unnecessary risks.

The transfer had to be fast, clean, invisible.

If Ayrton sensed a choice, he would reject it.

If he thought he could stay, he would find a reason to do so.

And Alain wouldn’t allow it.

Today, Ayrton would leave with him.

When he found him sitting on the side pews, Ayrton was as always—immersed in a stillness that felt impenetrable, eyes fixed on some undefined point where light filtered through the stained glass.

Alain approached without hesitation.

—We’re leaving.

The Frenchman’s voice cut through the air like a verdict.

Ayrton barely reacted, frowning in marked confusion.

—What?

Alain met his gaze.

—We’re leaving Italy. Today.

The Brazilian blinked once, slowly, and then his eyes darkened with a mix of disbelief and immediate resistance.

—What are you talking about?

—Everything’s ready —Alain straightened with determination—. We’re leaving now.

Ayrton’s body tensed instantly.

—No.

Alain didn’t back down an inch.

—You don’t have a choice.

And then Ayrton erupted.

—I don’t have a choice?! —he shot to his feet with sharp movements, fury vibrating in every word—. You decided for me without even asking?

The priests began to draw closer, alarmed by the intensity in Ayrton’s voice. Father Lorenzo was the first to intervene.

—Signor Prost, please...

But Alain ignored him completely, eyes locked on Ayrton.

—How much longer do you plan to stay here, hiding?

—I’m not hiding.

—Yes, you are —Alain took a step forward, unwavering—. You’re running, Ayrton.

The Brazilian clenched his jaw, breath growing shorter, more erratic.

—You have no idea what’s happening inside me!

The other priests tried approaching, concern etched into their faces. One of them raised his voice:

—This shouldn’t be happening! He must stay!

Another stepped forward with an almost reverent look toward Ayrton.

—He can’t leave! He’s a miracle! We can’t abandon him to the world!

Alain felt the impulse to respond, but then Father Moretti raised a hand and silenced them.

The man looked at each of them with a composed expression.

—This is the right thing to do.

His voice was firm. Certain.

As if he, too, hoped not to be wrong.

Ayrton looked away in frustration, the ground beneath his feet seeming to tilt.

—You can’t do this to me, Alain.

The Frenchman exhaled sharply. Time for the final blow:

—If everything goes smoothly, I’ll be able to help you contact your family in Brazil.

The world seemed to shrink in that instant.

Silence fell with the weight of something irreversible.

Ayrton’s posture eased, the anger giving way to an emotion he couldn’t name.

Brazil. His family. The only thing that truly mattered.

In the end, he exhaled heavily, closed his eyes for a moment, and let the answer fall, tension still clinging to his voice.

—Alright.

Alain didn’t celebrate the victory.

There was no satisfaction.

Only the certainty that this had to happen.

But just when everything seemed resolved, Alain’s phone vibrated.

He looked at the screen.

Victoria: I’m in Imola. Where are you, Dad?

Alain felt a blow to the chest—not fear, but a brutal certainty.

He was out of time.

Ayrton, still tense from the earlier argument, noticed the shadow of worry crossing Alain’s face.

—What is it?

Alain raised his gaze, still processing.

The priests noticed the change too—watchful, cautious, as though destiny was interfering once again.

—My daughter is here.

The words landed with the weight of a threat.

Ayrton didn’t move, but his expression shifted.

Not fear. Not discomfort.

Something else Alain couldn’t immediately decipher.

Father Moretti was the first to speak, his tone restrained.

—Is that a problem?

Alain exhaled, his shoulders still stiff.

—Yes.

He turned to Ayrton with urgency behind his eyes.

—We can’t stay here. If she finds us, this becomes much more complicated.

But Ayrton didn’t move.

He didn’t react with haste.

He just looked at Alain, with an expression bordering on introspection.

—Your daughter —he murmured, more to himself than to Alain.

The Frenchman grew impatient.

—Yes, my daughter. And if I know her, she’s already on her way.

Father Lorenzo furrowed his brow in subtle thought.

—If she finds him, she could be a bridge.

Alain turned toward him with a sharp look.

—It could be a disaster.

The silence between them turned uneasy.

Every decision had just become more tangled.

And just as Alain looked toward the entrance, Victoria’s figure appeared, crossing the church aisle.

Everything had just become much harder.

Chapter Text

Victoria had learned to hold herself together without making noise. Not out of habit, but by choice.

Her way of moving through the world didn’t draw attention: she observed more than she opined, acted before she explained, and didn’t demand space—but rarely gave it up.

She was the kind of person who knew what to say… but preferred to keep it to herself. Not out of fear. But because she had discovered that silence, at times, carries more dignity than any argument.

And that—that firm, contained way of being— was what made her so hard to break.

It was how she moved through the world: steady, rational, never letting emotions dictate her steps. And yet, there was one crack she had never been able to seal.

A name.

The name that lived in her father’s eyes when he thought no one was watching. The name he whispered when the silence of night grew too thick. The name that froze the air whenever it slipped by accident into conversation.

Ayrton.

Victoria had resented him without meaning to, for years. Not out of jealousy, nor anger. But for being the ghost that kept her father half-alive. An absence that weighed more than many presences.

And now…

Now she was standing in that church, crossing the aisle slowly, eyes locked on that man. That man whose features matched the old photos, the documentaries, the subtle gestures in her father’s face.

It was him. And it wasn’t.

Victoria stopped a few steps away, not quite approaching.

—This... this is some kind of trick —she said softly. Her tone was controlled, almost methodical.

Ayrton looked at her without moving.

—It’s not.

She ignored him. Turned to Alain.

—What is this? An actor? A madman? Did you know about this?

Alain, still unable to form words, managed a faint nod, never taking his eyes off Ayrton, as if still needing to believe he wasn’t hallucinating.

—How did you find me? —he asked, low voice tinged with disbelief and that disorientation only a father caught off guard by his daughter could feel.

Victoria looked at him like the question was absurd.

—You forgot to close your geolocation app. I saw you were downtown… I figured something was going on.

Ayrton blinked. Just enough to show a flicker of confusion beneath the quiet.

—Geo... what?

Once again, she ignored him, refusing to look at him, afraid she had lost her mind.

—Answer me, Dad!

—Yes —Alain replied, voice heavy with fatigue and caution.

—How long?

—Weeks.

Victoria pressed her lips together, holding something back. Not anger. Not tears. Something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

She turned to Ayrton again. Studied him coldly, as if she could break him down with her stare.

—Can you prove it?

He held her gaze with the same calm he’d learned on the track, the kind you cultivate between engines and eyes waiting for you to fail.

—I can’t prove I am who I say I am. But I can’t pretend not to be, either.

Victoria took a deep breath. It wasn’t a satisfying answer. But it wasn’t a lie.

She crossed her arms.

—Then start talking. From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.

Alain lowered his gaze. Not because he didn’t want to speak, but because he didn’t know how to give shape to what he’d lived.

—It was that call —he said at last—. That’s why I didn’t want to answer it. It was… too improbable. It sounded like a joke. Or a trap.

Victoria said nothing. She remembered. How he’d stared at the phone ringing again and again until it stopped, over and over. She’d watched him do that for days, without a word, without explanation. She had stood by him in that silence, giving him space, never imagining that behind all of it was someone… like him.

—That’s why I came to Imola —Alain went on—. I was called by Father Lorenzo Moretti, from San Cassiano. He just said I needed to see something with my own eyes. No further explanation.

Victoria kept her eyes fixed on him, but didn’t interrupt.

—I went there thinking I’d lost my mind —Alain said—. That it would be a mistake, or a bad joke. But then I saw him.

His voice was quiet. Not secretive—weighted.

—And he was here. Alive. Just as he was that day...

Victoria remained still, arms crossed. Her expression was hard to read, but the gleam in her eyes wasn’t confusion anymore. It was anger.

—And you kept him here? Hid him for weeks without telling me?

—I wasn’t trying to keep him here —Alain corrected—. He found this place on his own. The church. I just... made sure no one else discovered him.

—And you chose to disappear too? To ignore me for days as if I didn’t exist?

Alain swallowed.

—I didn’t know how to talk to you. I didn’t know how to explain it.

—Lies —she shot back, calm and cutting—. You didn’t know how to look at me without me seeing you like this. Unstable. Gone. Guilty.

He didn’t reply. He knew she was right.

—It’s not just what you did —she added—. It’s how you did it. As if I didn’t matter in this equation.

—Victoria...

He finally looked at her. With tired eyes and a honesty he hadn't known how to show until now.

—I love you. Never doubt that. I never meant to leave you out. But this... this was too much for me.

Silence. Alain lowered his gaze. His fingers toyed with the wedding band he still wore.

—I tried, you know? To move on. To let it go. But when I saw him there, confused, lost… what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave him to fend for himself.

Victoria clenched her jaw, but her breathing was no longer quite steady.

—And what is this to you? A duty? A delusion?

He took his time before answering.

—It’s something I can’t explain. But I know I couldn’t turn my back on him. Not again.—He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words.—I couldn’t risk this becoming public. I still don’t understand what’s happening… I just knew I had to protect him.

Victoria crossed her arms. She turned to Ayrton.

—And what do you know about all this?

He held her gaze with measured calm.

—I only remember being on the track. Imola. The noise, the corner… and then nothing. When I woke up, it was no longer 1994.

His tone was soft, without drama, yet every word carried the weight of disorientation.

Victoria studied him in silence for a few seconds. Not with compassion. Not with rejection. Only with that fierce curiosity she used to make sense of the world when it offered no logic.

—So you don’t know how you came back. Or why.

—No. I only know I’m here. And that I don’t belong to this time.

The silence that followed was brief but heavy. Victoria’s gaze swept through him like a sharp draft—not searching for grandeur, nor myth. Just truth.

But it was Alain’s voice that weighed heavier. The way he confessed he couldn’t let go. The tremor hidden behind every sentence. The crack opened between a father and daughter… because of him.

Ayrton didn’t lower his gaze. He never did. But inside him, something contracted. A pang that wasn’t physical pain, nor fear. It was guilt.

Victoria turned back to her father.

—Where are you taking him?

—Home —Alain replied, without hesitation.

—Our home?

A moment of hesitation.

—Yes. At least for now.

Victoria nodded slowly, as if fitting a new piece into an impossible puzzle. An uncomfortable piece. Unfixable. But inevitable.

—Then I need you both to understand something —she said, taking a step back to face them—: I’m not going to pretend this makes sense. I won’t romanticize it, or act like any of this is normal.

Her voice was steady, but trembled at the edge.

—But if he’s going to be with us… if you’re going to protect him, then I need to know how to do that too.

Ayrton blinked for the first time, surprised. Not by the words. But by the fact that they came from her. He could tell, even without knowing her, that something had cracked and reformed in that instant.

Alain furrowed his brow. His body responded with relief. His face, with concern. He knew that tone in his daughter—it was the same she used when making an important decision before knowing whether it would hurt.

—Thank you —murmured the Brazilian softly.

Victoria looked away.

—I didn’t say it for you.

After that hard conversation, Alain mentally reviewed his plan once more. The departure, the transportation, the schedule. He had tried to anticipate everything.

Everything except Victoria.

—This changes the conditions —he said quietly, not looking at her directly.

Victoria raised an eyebrow.

—Because I’m here now, or because you can’t keep doing things behind my back?

The tone wasn’t sharp, but it was exact. Alain didn’t respond right away.

—Not because I didn’t trust you… —he began.

—But because you thought I’d stop you —she finished.

Alain finally looked up.

—Would you have?

Victoria held his gaze, and though she didn’t answer, the silence was clear enough: maybe not, but she wouldn’t have made it easy.

—It doesn’t matter. I’m here now —she said, lowering her tone—. Just tell me what you need.

Alain nodded. It wasn’t the ideal response. But it was enough.

A few meters away, Ayrton stood by the altar while Father Lorenzo finished praying with him. The other priests kept their distance, as if honoring a ritual they weren’t meant to interrupt.

—The time has come —said the priest, voice serene. His hand rested on Ayrton’s shoulder in a paternal gesture—. Do not be afraid. God never loses the thread of his mysteries, even when we fail to understand them.

Ayrton closed his eyes.

—Thank you for taking care of me —he murmured—. I won’t forget this place. Or you.

Father Lorenzo made the sign of the cross on his forehead, as if entrusting him to a world waiting with sharpened teeth.

—Walk humbly, son. Even if you don’t know why you’re here, someone does.

Ayrton swallowed.

—May I take a few minutes to pack?

The priest nodded with understanding.

—The room is yours until the very last second.

Ayrton climbed the stairs in silence. Each step slower than the last, as if every stair pulled him farther from a fragile pocket of peace he had come to know well.

Entering the room, he was overwhelmed by a sharp mix of nostalgia and fear. The bed still unmade, soft light filtering through the window. He knelt at the edge of the bed. He didn’t ask for answers. Only silence.

He prayed not for it all to make sense, but simply to be able to endure it. To quiet the noise in his head.

When he came back downstairs, he was holding a plastic bag. Inside, carefully folded, were a couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the Bible Father Lorenzo had left on his nightstand—and the racing suit he had been wearing when it all began.

Victoria was the first to notice. Her eyes scanned each item in silence, lingering for a moment longer on the white fabric folded with precision.

But that wasn’t what caught her attention.

In his left arm, held close as if it were the most valuable thing he owned, was the yellow helmet.

—Is that…?

Her gaze traced the contours of the helmet with quiet curiosity. She had seen it so many times... Alain, on the other hand, looked at it with an unreadable expression.

—You won’t need it out there —he said at last, in a low voice.

Ayrton tightened his grip on the helmet.

—I know. But it’s the only thing that still belongs to me.

Alain lowered his eyes for a moment. He didn’t insist.

Ayrton offered no further explanation. He set the bag on the floor and readjusted his hold on the helmet, as if doing so anchored him in that moment, in that life. Not like someone clinging to the past, but like someone refusing to be erased from it.

—I’m ready —he said finally.

And in the silence that followed, no one dared to contradict him.

But before crossing the threshold, he turned back.

The stone hallway was dim. The air smelled of incense and damp wood. Standing there were the men who had cared for him for months. Not like a guest. Not like a penitent. But like something they didn’t know how to name, yet understood needed protection.

Father Matteo was the first to step forward. His hands were clasped, eyes moist, though his voice did not waver.

—We don’t understand what you are, Ayrton. But we know you are not a mistake.

Ayrton lowered his gaze—not out of shame, but for something deeper. Something close to love, though he didn’t know how to return it.

—I’m not what you think —he murmured.

—It doesn’t matter what you think you are —said another brother, younger—. What you did here was real. What you gave. What you healed.

Ayrton felt something tighten in his chest. He recalled sleepless nights, shared prayers, walks through the cloister in the rain. He remembered Brother Luca teaching him how to bake bread, Brother Pietro speaking of psalms as if they were childhood songs.

He remembered the silence. And how, for the first time, that silence hadn’t made him feel alone.

—Thank you —he said, barely audible.

Father Leandro stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t a blessing. It was a human gesture. Warm. Unconditional.

—Come back whenever you want. Or when you need to. We don’t keep clocks here.

Ayrton nodded. He couldn’t speak anymore. He picked up his things and followed father and daughter toward the exit.

Though the world awaited him with questions, with lights and open wounds, he knew something of him would remain there. Not as a debt. But as a root.

The car had been prepared the night before—a dark, discreet sedan with Italian plates and forged documents that wouldn’t withstand much scrutiny, but were enough for the stretch ahead.

Alain had made the necessary calls, activated favors collected over years, and set in motion a quiet network of protection. Among its gears, a crucial one: an old friend, now a former Swiss diplomat, who still carried a certain moral debt to Alain. He had agreed—reluctantly—to ease their crossing through a secondary road without tight monitoring, timed to the shift change of border agents.

Everything had a margin of error. But it was the narrowest margin Alain was willing to accept.

Victoria, checking the forged papers left in the glove compartment, frowned.

—Is this real? —she asked, holding up one of the documents—. Did you seriously think this was a good idea?

—It’s not good —he replied without turning—. It’s the only one.

She looked at him, somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

—And what if we get stopped? What if he gets stopped?

—Then the world will know Ayrton Senna is alive. And that, Victoria, is a problem no one’s ready to face.

The words hung for a few seconds, like an unadorned stone. After that, no one asked again. The plan was underway. And there was no room to change course.

Ayrton, masked, wearing sunglasses and a cap, climbed into the back seat without asking where they were going. He simply closed the door softly, as if not wanting to disturb the world any more than necessary.

Victoria settled into the passenger seat beside her father. Still angry, but she needed to be there—there was something calming, or at least functional, in seeing the wheel in the hands of someone she trusted. Behind her, Ayrton was just a silent presence wrapped in stillness. Too tangible to ignore, but still too strange to face directly.

Alain gripped the steering wheel with the precision of a driver who knew the road well—though this time, the risk wasn’t speed. It was silence.

The journey was long. First through the winding roads of Emilia-Romagna, scattered with silent vineyards and hamlets dissolved by fog, then along quieter secondary highways, far from tolls and cameras that saw everything.

A light drizzle began to blur the windshield, and the sky, dulled by a uniform gray mass, seemed to fold over the road. The car advanced like a steady thought, silent but resolute.

Inside, the atmosphere was dense. Not because of what was said, but because of all that wasn’t. The hum of the engine was a constant whisper, joined by a radio playing softly, where an Italian voice read current news with imperturbable neutrality.

Ayrton, seated in the back, watched through the window. His eyes—hidden behind dark glasses—followed the warped silhouettes of signs, poles, leafless trees. None of it felt familiar. At times he closed his eyes, as if needing to interrupt the overwhelming flow of the present. In his hands, the yellow helmet. He didn’t grip it tightly, but held it with the kind of quiet contact reserved for the irreplaceable.

Alain kept his gaze fixed on the white line of the asphalt, his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. He drove with the millimetric precision of a man carrying something too fragile to rely on luck. From time to time he checked the time. Then the rearview mirror. A habit. A need. There he was—Senna, back in his life. Not as a memory, but as a living body, breathing just behind him.

And Victoria, in the passenger seat, knew it too.

For more than an hour, no one spoke. It was a mutually accepted silence—a truce to avoid saying something wrong when everything was on the verge of tipping.

She was the one who broke it. Without turning, her eyes on the foggy windshield:

—You don’t seem like someone used to not being in control.

The words lingered. Neither accusatory nor gentle. Just an observation.

Ayrton took a moment to answer. His voice sounded muted, but steady.

—I’m not.

Victoria turned her head slightly toward the headrest, as if trying to read between the words.

—And yet… here you are. In the back seat of a car, carrying forged documents, hidden from the world.

—That’s also a form of control —he replied, without irony. Just honesty.

Alain didn’t intervene. His expression remained unchanged, but every word Ayrton spoke, every inflection between them, reached him clearly. Like an echo vibrating down his spine.

Victoria let out a dry laugh.

—How can you talk like nothing affects you?

There was a pause.

—And how can you seem so calm, when none of this makes sense?

She took her time answering.

—I’m not calm. I just learned not to show it.

Alain tightened his grip on the steering wheel, as if trying to hold on to both the literal and emotional direction of the journey. His focus stayed anchored to the road, but inside, something was quietly splintering. He had never heard them talk like this. Not her. Not him. And yet, they were speaking—right there, behind his shoulder—with words arranged like fragile pieces.

Ayrton slowly turned his face toward the back of the seat. His face remained hidden, but something in his breathing softened.

—Did it work?

Victoria lowered her gaze slightly, as if the question touched something old.

—I don’t know —she replied—. But I’m still here. And so are you. Though I still don’t know what that means.

Silence.

But not confrontational. It was a different kind of silence now. Lighter. Like a calm born from the recognition of the inevitable.

Alain took an exit without announcing it. He turned gently onto a narrower road lined with trees fractured by winter. In the distance, a service station emerged like a brief island, lost among the hills. The radio murmured a forgettable tune.

The car veered off the main road and took a tight curve that opened onto a lonely gas station, tucked between low hills and leafless trees. The sky, covered by a uniform layer of clouds, seemed frozen in perpetual gray.

The place felt like a time capsule: a rectangular concrete structure, with a self-service shop lit by fluorescent tubes and a rusted canopy covering two fuel pumps. The sign, half-lit, flickered with a generic name that meant nothing.

Alain pulled the car up beside the pump. He switched off the engine with a precise gesture and glanced at his watch.

—Twenty minutes —he said, more to himself than to the others.

Victoria got out first. The cold air struck her face with an intensity that made her shut her eyes for a moment. She stretched her arms, walked a few steps, then leaned against the car, watching her father as he began refueling with methodical movements.

Ayrton got out after her. He wore his cap low, his mask tight, and his sunglasses still on. Still wishing he could wear the helmet he’d allowed himself to leave under the seat.

He crossed the pavement slowly, like someone who still didn’t fully trust the ground beneath his feet. He entered the store without looking at anyone.

The interior was lit by a flat, sterile white light. Shelves held packaged snacks, energy drinks, shrink-wrapped magazines, and an automatic coffee machine buzzing without pause. At the back, a wall-mounted television played a news broadcast in Italian: images of armed conflicts, floods, political leaders speaking with hollow smiles.

Ayrton stood before the screen with little interest. He needed something—anything—to provide the smallest distraction from the weight of what he was facing. But what he saw was worse: malnourished children, bombed cities, inflation rates, empty speeches. None of it was new. And yet, it hurt more now.

Because he had come back. And the world was still the same.

The same rot. The same indifference. Only faster. Louder. Better disguised.

His hands closed into the pockets of the borrowed jacket. Not from cold. From helplessness.

—Everything feels faster —he murmured, unaware Victoria had approached behind him.

—It is —she replied, unsurprised.

—And how do you manage to understand it?

Victoria shrugged.

—I don’t understand it. I just adapt faster than most.

He nodded slowly. And for the first time on this journey, he lowered his sunglasses. Just slightly.

His eyes were red. Not from fatigue, but from the constant effort not to break.

Victoria said nothing. But she didn’t leave either.

Outside, Alain still stood by the car. He had finished refueling but hadn’t moved. The phone in his hand showed the route, the estimated time to the crossing point, the exact coordinates. But his gaze was fixed on the store’s window.

He watched them through the glass: Ayrton, standing in front of a screen he couldn’t understand, and Victoria, beside him—no weapons, no shields.

And for a moment, something shifted inside him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t relief. It was… recognition.

Two worlds he had kept apart for years—his private life, his daughter, his home; and his life on the track, of risk, of passion—were right there. Together. Without imploding.

And although they weren’t speaking kindly, although silence still weighed heavier than words, something in that image seemed possible.

As if, for the first time, he didn’t have to choose.

Back on the road, the path grew narrower, bordered by bare trees and rusted signs. The light began to fall, draping the fields in that undefined gray that is neither day nor night.

The car moved forward in a reverential silence. No one spoke. Ayrton still held the helmet to his chest, as if it protected him more than he could protect it. Victoria, seatbelt tightened, kept her eyes on the horizon. And Alain, at the wheel, glanced at his watch every five minutes, following the rhythm of a plan only he fully understood.

—Seven minutes left —he murmured, more to himself than the others.

Victoria tilted her head slightly.

—And after that?

—A detour before the main road. There’ll be a minor checkpoint. Nothing official. They’ll look at the car and our faces. You and I won’t raise questions. If Ayrton doesn’t speak or make eye contact, it’ll be enough.

—And if it’s not? —she asked.

—Let’s not think about that —Alain said, with fragile resolve.

The detour appeared suddenly, a curve almost hidden by overgrowth. Alain turned the wheel with precision, and the road became a rougher path, cracked pavement and orange street lamps in the distance.

A black car waited beside a small booth. Two men in dark suits—one checking documents, the other holding a tablet. The one with the tablet saw them arrive and stepped forward calmly.

Alain stopped the car, got out slowly, and met the man. They exchanged a few words in hushed tones. Victoria watched from the backseat, holding her breath without realizing it.

—Is that an officer? —Ayrton whispered.

—Not exactly. More like… someone who works with them.

—On your side?

Victoria looked at him briefly.

—For now.

Several long seconds passed. The man with the tablet nodded toward the car.

Alain returned and opened the driver’s door.

—Now. All three of us get out. Victoria, you speak for him if they ask questions. Ayrton, keep your mask on, head down. Don’t say a word.

The three stepped out. The air was colder here. The silence carried weight.

One of the officials pretended to check papers. The other gave them a quick glance.

—Destination? —he asked, not raising his voice.

—Nyon —Alain answered.

—Family?

—My daughter —he said, pointing to Victoria—. He doesn’t speak. He’s in medical treatment.

The agent looked at Ayrton. Then at Victoria.

—Mute?

—Temporarily —she replied, calmly.

The agent held their gaze for a few more seconds. Then nodded.

—You can go.

There were no goodbyes. No warnings. Just a wave of the hand and the faint sound of tires returning to the asphalt.

Once inside the car, no one spoke for several minutes. It wasn’t relief yet. It was disbelief.

Ayrton was the first to break the silence.

—That’s it?

—Yes —Alain said. But his voice trembled just slightly.

Victoria closed her eyes. Outside, Switzerland welcomed them with postcard calm. But inside the car, the world still brimmed with unanswered questions.

The drive to Nyon stretched out as the kilometers piled up like unspoken thoughts. With the pressure of the crossing now behind them, the atmosphere inside the car didn’t lighten… it only grew quieter.

Switzerland unfolded before them like a perfectly rendered painting: the meadows, distant snow-capped peaks, discreet houses with carefully tended gardens. But Ayrton didn’t look at it in awe. Only with a mix of confusion and a sadness he still didn’t know how to name.

Victoria, watching him discreetly in the rearview mirror, saw him rest his forehead—briefly—against the window. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t thinking. He was simply trying to exist.

Alain, for his part, kept both hands on the wheel, as if the tension from the border crossing still lingered in his fingers. The road to Nyon was familiar, but this time it felt foreign. He had driven it many times—alone, with his children, with colleagues. But never like this.

Never with someone he’d buried decades ago, breathing just a few feet away.

Then he saw it. Ayrton, in the passenger seat, had closed his eyes. Not fully, but enough for his body to finally surrender to exhaustion. The cap covered part of his face, the mask still in place, and the helmet rested at his feet—as if, for the first time, he could let it go without fear.

Alain felt something loosen in his chest. And without meaning to, the memory came back. Victoria watched him in silence. Not with suspicion, but with a new attention—more human. She already knew that story. She’d heard it so many times she could recite it by heart. But this time, she didn’t need to hear it. She was watching it.

1984. Senna, young, reserved, with that gaze that seemed to measure everything. Alain had invited him to lunch at his home. A simple gesture. Kind. Senna climbed into the car, murmured a thank-you… and slept. The entire drive. When they arrived, he greeted politely, ate the meal Anne-Marie had prepared, sat on the sofa… and slept again.

Alain had understood the message. Sleep was his way of not being present. Of not forming ties. Of not owing anything to anyone.

And yet here he was again. Sleeping. In his car. In silence. But not running away.

This Ayrton wasn’t the same. There was something more fragile in his breath, more human in the way he sank into the seatback. As if he no longer had the strength to pretend distance. As if, finally, he could allow himself to rest close to him.

Alain didn’t say a word. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew that any word would break that moment. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to break anything.

Victoria, beside him, looked over. Her expression was strained, yet more understanding.

—Are you sure about what you’re doing, Dad?

The question floated in the air, without judgment. Just a need to know.

Alain didn’t respond right away. The engine murmured softly beneath his feet. The sky was darkening slowly, dyeing the edges of the lake deep blue.

—No —he said finally—. But I’m not going to leave him alone again.

Victoria nodded. Maybe she couldn’t yet feel convinced, but she understood that—for her father—this was the only thing that mattered.

And in that car, beneath the Swiss sky, with the past asleep in the passenger seat, the three of them shared a moment of truce. Fragile. Silent. But real.

Chapter Text

Alain showed him the essentials: the east wing, the guest room with garden views, the private bathroom, the doors best left unopened. The tour was brief, almost mechanical. But every word spoken hid another that preferred to stay unsaid.  

The library remained closed. So did his study.  

Places where memories slept in no particular order, still not permitted to wake.

Victoria was courteous. Practical. She explained where the utensils were, the household routines, the type of tea she usually brewed on cold nights. Then she shut herself behind her door, headphones on, eyes lost in another century. Pretending normalcy demanded energy—and she wasn’t sure she had enough.

The afternoon fell slowly. In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle softly. Victoria poured the tea unhurriedly as instrumental music played from her phone: a quiet piano, almost meditative.

Ayrton crossed the threshold in silence, as if he’d already learned to move with the respect of someone living in someone else’s home.

—Am I interrupting? —he asked.

—You take yours without sugar, right? —she replied, without looking up, while pouring the second cup.

He blinked.

—Yes. Thank you.

They sat at the small table by the window. The light was soft, grayish, and the porcelain made the kind of gentle noise things make when there's no hurry.

—I want to apologize —Ayrton said after a few seconds of silence.

Victoria looked up.

—For intruding into your lives. For disarranging something that was already in place. You can be angry with me if you want, truly. But not with your father. He was only trying to help me. To protect me.

Victoria narrowed her eyes, surprised. Not by the words, but by the tone. Something in him didn’t match the myth she'd imagined for years.

—You care about him?

—I do —Ayrton answered, without hesitation.

She lowered her gaze to her cup. Stirred with her spoon even though there was nothing to dissolve.

—You matter deeply to him —she said—. Not because of who you were, but because of who you still are to him.

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

—I know what the world says about you. The most loved, the most daring, the unforgettable. But none of that… matters to me. Only my father does. And if you left a mark that deep in his life… then something in you is definitely worth it.

Ayrton didn’t respond immediately. His hands circled the cup, not for warmth, but as if needing something to make him feel present.

Victoria stood, picked up her cup. Then paused a second before leaving.

—I won’t say anything. Whatever this is, or whatever it becomes. That’s between you and him.

Ayrton lifted his head. He looked at her directly, with the clear honesty of someone who still doesn’t quite know how to fit into the world—but is trying.

—Thank you —he murmured.

Victoria held his gaze for just a moment, then smiled. Small. Unexpected. But real.

—I don’t know if I believe in miracles. But this… feels close.

She left without another word.

Ayrton remained there, in the golden dimness, with a cup of tea in his hands and something new in his chest.

The house, despite its size, seemed to hold its breath.  

As if waiting to see whether the new body treading its halls would dissolve with daylight.

That morning, Ayrton came downstairs early. He didn’t know if anyone else would be awake. He wasn’t expecting anything. But the kitchen was already occupied.

Alain stood by the Italian coffee maker, arms crossed, waiting for the steam to rise. His grey robe was rumpled. His hair messy. His eyes still full of night. But he looked intact. Intact the way only someone who’s endured many early mornings can be.

—Coffee —he said, without turning—. Strong. I hope you haven’t forgotten how you used to take it.

Ayrton gave a small smile. He walked over slowly and sat at the oak table. The countertop was tidy, but not spotless. As if someone had deliberately left a few signs of life.

The cup arrived hot, in familiar hands.

—Thanks.

There were no more words for several minutes. Just the subtle hum of the machine, the sound of spoons against ceramic, and the low murmur of the world before it began.

Ayrton held the cup between both hands.  

He still hadn’t connected to this place. The textures felt different. The air was colder. But in that moment, the coffee was real. The warmth was real. And Alain, sitting across from him, with his unshaven face and unapologetic dark circles, was perhaps the most real thing he'd had since waking up.

—You didn’t sleep much —Alain said, not looking at him.

—Enough to know I’m still here —Ayrton replied.

Alain nodded. Then sat down opposite him, crossing one leg, as if that posture made everything less fragile.

There was a pause.

—The garden’s well kept —Ayrton said, looking out the window.

—Victoria insists on it. Says plants are less chaotic than we are. And she’s probably right.

A shadow of a smile crossed Alain’s face.

Ayrton took another sip. This time, closing his eyes briefly.

—Thank you for this.

—For the coffee?

—For not asking anything.

Alain looked at him then, directly. His eyes were clearer at that hour—or maybe it was just the morning light streaming softly through the window.

—I will ask. But not today. Not here.

The conversation ended there.  

But the silence wasn’t that of strangers.  

It was the silence of two people sharing the weariness of surviving the same day, without quite knowing why.

And for that moment—brief, warm—both were home.

Even if they didn’t say so.

The next two mornings began the same: with the whisper of steam filtering through the doors and a faint scent of coffee spreading through the house before dawn. But this time, Alain wasn’t the one making it.

It was Ayrton.

He rose early, without anyone asking. Barefoot, hair tangled, his eyes still swollen from a broken sleep. And yet, something in him had begun to feel like part of the space.

By the fourth day, Alain entered the kitchen wearing a look halfway between surprise and domestic irritation.

—You know the staff can handle this, right?

—I do —Ayrton answered, turning with a fresh cup already served—. But let me do this for you. I don’t need much sleep. And sometimes… waking up with a purpose is better than not waking up at all.

Alain accepted the cup without protest.

—Back then, when I had no races or practice sessions, I used to wake up at noon —Ayrton added, smiling lightly—. But the world seems more of an early riser now. How do people handle cold mornings these days?

Alain looked at him, a familiar spark lighting his eyes.

—Simple. You hop on a bike and pedal until you stop feeling your fingers.

That same morning, shortly after sunrise, they were already riding together along a quiet route skirting the vineyards near Nyon. The air was crisp. The leaves still damp. And the summer light cast long shadows across the wet asphalt.

Ayrton was breathless at first. He felt the lack of training as a weight unfamiliar in his body—like this new world had settled into his muscles too. But he didn’t stop. Not once.

Alain rode ahead, not turning back, but keeping pace. Adjusting without warning. Holding the distance with the precision of someone who didn’t need to look to know he was still being followed.

—You’re not twenty anymore! —he shouted over his shoulder, wearing a half-smile.

—Look who’s talking! —Ayrton fired back, breathless but with a new energy burning in his chest.

They laughed. Without looking back.

Once home again, they stopped at the gate, the bikes leaned against each other.

—I’d forgotten how good this feels —Ayrton said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

—The wind in your face or the ache in your legs?

—Both. But mostly… being here. Feeling. Even if it hurts.

Alain didn’t reply. He simply handed him a bottle of water without a word. And as Ayrton drank, he thought—without sadness, for the first time—that maybe, after all, he’d returned to the right place.

The ride left something in the air besides broken breath. Ayrton’s face carried a different kind of pallor—not fatigue, but clarity. That clean exhaustion that doesn’t weigh you down, but clears the way.

After showering, he followed the familiar scent down to the kitchen. He didn’t know what to expect, but when he turned into the dining room, everything aligned effortlessly: the table was set, Alain leafed through the newspaper with his glasses crooked, and Victoria sipped her tea with crossed legs, like they’d been sharing rituals for weeks that had only just begun.

The woman preparing breakfast—an older lady with precise manners and a soft voice—set a plate before him without questions. She didn’t look at him more than necessary. But there was a gesture—a gentle brush when straightening the knife, a subtle pause while placing the butter—that felt familiar.

His mind brought back a vivid image.  

Juracy.  

In Algarve.  

With her checkered apron and that sweet way of caring without intruding.

A knot formed in his throat. He didn’t show it.  

Just nodded quietly and muttered a "thank you," which the woman answered with a brief smile, as if she too understood the weight of memories shared over bread.

Victoria flipped through her smartphone with apparent disinterest. Alain still browsed the printed paper with barely concealed attention.

She was the one who spoke first, without lifting her eyes.

—You should buy new clothes.

Ayrton froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

—Sorry?

—You’ve been wearing the same sweatshirt since you left the monastery. And the pants won’t survive a fourth wash.

The remark carried no venom. It was a dry, almost innocent observation. But Ayrton blushed instantly.

—I haven’t had time —he mumbled, looking down.

—It’s not a criticism —Victoria said, slower now—. I just think you’d feel better wearing something you actually chose yourself.

There was a pause.

Alain dropped the paper on the table with a suddenly animated gesture.

—I know the perfect spot —he said—. Quiet, tasteful, no cameras. We could even grab lunch out. If that’s alright with you.

Ayrton looked up. Something in Alain’s expression—that newfound ease, like someone discovering excuses where before there were only routines—softened the discomfort.

—Alright —he said—. Something that doesn’t smell like incense would be nice.

Victoria smiled, barely. Alain raised his cup in agreement.

And just like that, between crumbs and conspiratorial glances, another stitch was sewn into the day:  

a shared gesture, a subtle sign that the present was beginning, timidly, to take shape.

After breakfast, Alain rose with unusual energy. Not overflowing enthusiasm, but a kind of drive he hadn’t shown in a while. Victoria noticed. She said nothing.

Ayrton went upstairs to change. When he returned, he still wore the same blue sweatshirt, a dark cap, sunglasses, and a black mask covering most of his face. Even so, something in his stride—that mix of confidence and shyness—kept drawing eyes.

The drive was brief. Alain navigated with the ease of someone who knew every alleyway in Nyon. The shop sat on a discreet street, with no flashy displays or blaring music. A men’s boutique with a European air—sober, elegant.

—Here we are —Alain said, switching off the engine—. They don’t ask questions. And they have taste.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm—light wood, neatly spaced racks, and soft lighting that made everything seem more expensive than it was. The employees—two middle-aged women with professional smiles—welcomed them graciously. But one glance at Ayrton, even with his face covered, changed something in their posture.

They didn’t know who he was. Or maybe they did. But his presence had that magnetism no one could fake.

—Vous avez une belle allure, monsieur —said one of them, offering him a blue linen shirt—. Même avec le masque.

Victoria let out a soft laugh. Alain pretended not to hear it.

The selection began. Alain leaned toward semi-formal looks: straight-cut trousers, cotton shirts, turtlenecks in grey, navy, deep green. Clothes that spoke of discretion without abandoning style.

Victoria, meanwhile, embraced the game. She offered him abstract-printed t-shirts, bright-colored jackets, even a shirt embroidered with flowers.

—You don’t have to wear it —she said, smiling—. But it’d be fun to see you try.

Ayrton followed with amused resignation. He entered and exited the changing room with each item, and every time, the employees praised him with a kind of effusiveness that left him unsettled.

—C’est parfait, monsieur. Vous avez une silhouette incroyable.

—Have you always been this flirty? —Victoria whispered, almost conspiratorial, as he buttoned up a white shirt in front of the mirror.

—I’m not sure —Ayrton replied, not looking at her—. Maybe I’m just remembering.

In the end, they left with more bags than they could carry. Victoria had three looped over her forearm. Alain, just as many. Ayrton was trying to balance a tower of shirt boxes and a new pair of shoes.

—This is too much —he said, laughing—. I swear I’ll pay you back to the last cent.

Alain glanced at him sideways, smiling without needing to explain it.

—When you can —he said—. Or when you want. I’m not in a hurry.

And in that moment, walking down the sidewalk with bags bumping their legs, the air grew lighter. As if, for an instant, the world wasn’t so out of place.

But Victoria wasn’t finished.

—Who said you’re the only one who gets something new? —she tossed at Ayrton with a mischievous smile—. I deserve something too.

And without waiting for a response, she took his arm—with a familiarity that surprised them both—and dragged him toward the next shop. Alain followed with amused resignation, murmuring something about “the dictatorship of modern consumption.”

They entered a shoe boutique, then one for minimalist jewelry, and later a clothing store where Victoria tried on three different coats only to decide none were quite right. The shop attendants, charmed by the two men, approached Ayrton with wide smiles and comments in French, Italian, English. He, still masked and capped, responded with polite charm but kept the exchange brief.

—You have a way of disarming them without promising a thing —Victoria said quietly, as he held a bag for her.

—It’s not skill —Ayrton replied, smiling sideways—. It’s practice.

While she tried on some earrings, Ayrton paused in front of a display of smartwatches. He studied one with a curved screen and metal strap. Then another, smaller, with functions he didn’t fully understand. They looked like something out of a science fiction movie.

—Do you like it? —Alain asked, appearing beside him.

—It’s curious —Ayrton said, not looking away.

—Want one?

—No —he said quickly—. I don’t need more things. You’ve already done enough.

Alain didn’t insist. But he lingered another moment, watching how Ayrton looked at the watch like it was a window into a world he wasn’t yet sure he wanted to enter.

Later, they had lunch at a discreet restaurant with linen tablecloths and windows opening onto a private garden. Alain insisted on paying, and this time no one objected. The meal was calm, almost cheerful. Victoria ordered wine. Alain told a story from Suzuka that made all three laugh. And Ayrton, for the first time, allowed himself to relax.

At one point, Victoria offered him a bite of her dessert from her fork, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

—Try it. I doubt it tastes like anything you’ve had before.

Ayrton accepted, raising an eyebrow. He made an exaggerated face.

—Is this even legal?

—Lavender mousse —she said, laughing—. You won’t die. You’ll just become more refined.

Their laughter was brief, but genuine. And in that moment, something inside Ayrton broke—not from pain, but from memory.

He thought of Bianca and Paula. How they used to run barefoot around the house, how they hung from his neck to steal kisses. They must be women now. Adults. With lives he didn’t know.

He thought of Bruno. His bright gaze. His obsession with cars since childhood. Had he raced? Had he chased that dream?

He thought of his siblings. His parents. Of long Sunday lunches in São Paulo, filled with laughter, arguments, background music and the scent of cheese bread.

And he knew, with a certainty that hurt without wounding, that none of it remained.  

He was the only one who hadn’t changed.  

Which made him the strangest of all.

But then, Victoria touched his arm to tease him again about the mousse.  

And Alain passed him more water without a word.  

And the sun poured through the window as if it didn’t know time had passed.

And for a moment, Ayrton allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, something new could still be built.

The afternoon light was turning golden when they returned. The bags crinkled with every step down the entryway. Victoria excused herself with a quick “I need to check some emails,” though Alain suspected she just wanted to leave them alone. He didn’t blame her. He too felt something in the air—the kind of thing that weighs less when no one’s watching.

Ayrton carried his bags up to the assigned room. Alain followed, more out of instinct than decision. He had one more bag—a wool jacket he’d insisted on buying for Ayrton, even if he hadn’t been fully convinced.

The bedroom was bathed in soft light, slanting in through the window. The bags landed scattered across the bed, the empty hangers waiting to be filled. Ayrton opened one, pulled out the white shirt, held it for a moment between his fingers as if still unsure it was his. Then looked at the full-length mirror—the one he hadn’t used since arriving.

—I don’t know if this suits me —he said. Not the clothes. Everything.

Alain leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

—Try it on. Just for today.

Ayrton obeyed. He removed the sweatshirt slowly, put on the shirt, buttoning it one by one without haste. He looked in the mirror.

There was a second—brief, sharp—when something inside him fractured, though it didn’t break.

It wasn’t vanity. It was something else. Seeing his reflection in a clean, elegant garment, as if the present had finally reached his body… it felt almost violent. As if the Ayrton of before and the Ayrton of now had agreed—just for a moment—to share that glass.

—Do you look good? —Alain asked, not moving.

—I don’t know —Ayrton replied—. But I recognize myself a little more than yesterday. That’s enough.

Alain stepped into the room. He straightened the collar with a familiar, almost intimate gesture, the kind he had done too many times long ago.

—It’s your size. I knew it the moment I saw it.

His hands lingered on the fabric a fraction longer than needed. There was no tension, but there was electricity. As if the air between them had thickened, though neither could explain why.

Ayrton lowered his gaze. Then lifted it again, directly.

—I’d forgotten what it feels like to be cared for just because.

Alain swallowed. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper.

—Some things aren’t forgotten. They’re just buried under the years.

A silence. Not long. But complete.

Then Ayrton smiled. Not playfully. Like someone who finally feels worthy of smiling.

—Thanks for taking me shopping.

—Thanks for letting me —Alain replied.

And in that room filled with bags, with folded shirts and unworn jackets, they didn’t say what hung between them. But they knew.

Something had begun.  

Slow.  

Silent.  

But unstoppable.

That night, the house slept.  

Or pretended to.

From his room, Ayrton listened to the soft hum of the wind against the windows. The new clothes hung from the rack as if they belonged to someone else. He’d left the white shirt draped over the chair, carefully folded. He didn’t want to crease it. He didn’t want to ruin that small gesture of belonging.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor.

He didn’t fully understand what he was feeling.  

It wasn’t desire.  

Or maybe it was.  

But not like he’d known before.

It was something deeper. More unsettling.  

A need to be close. To hear his voice. To see how his eyes crinkled when he smiled.  

And that confused him.

For years, he had linked Alain to the track. To tension. To rivalry that made him feel alive.  

But now there were no stopwatches. No flags.  

And yet his heart raced just the same when Alain was near.

What was this?  

What part of himself was waking now, when there was nothing left to win?

He closed his eyes.  

And for an instant, he wished Alain would enter.  

Just to sit beside him.  

Just to keep him from thinking so much.

Upstairs, Alain sat in his armchair, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. The lamp cast warm light over picture frames he didn’t dare look at.

There was something cruel in all of it.  

To have him back.  

To have him so close.  

And not be able to touch him without trembling.

He told himself it was protection.  

That he was caring for him the way he’d care for anyone who’d gone through so much.  

That what he felt was tenderness. Nostalgia.  

Nothing more.

But it wasn’t true.  

Not entirely.

Because when Ayrton tried on that white shirt and looked at himself in the mirror, Alain felt something he hadn’t felt in decades.  

A pang.  

A vertigo.  

A flame that hadn’t gone out—only hidden under the rubble of time.

I shouldn’t feel this, he thought.  

I’m too old. He’s too young. This doesn’t make sense.

And yet...  

When he saw him smile, with that blend of shyness and gratitude, he knew he was lost.  

Again.

He lifted the glass to his lips. Didn’t drink.  

Just closed his eyes.  

And allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine how things might have been—if they’d had the courage sooner.

That night, in two different rooms, two men thought of each other.  

Without words.  

Without certainty.  

But with an intensity that needed no explanation.

And though they didn’t know it, they dreamed the same dream:  

a shared laugh,  

a hand that doesn’t pull away,  

a love that, despite time, still hadn’t spoken its final word.

Chapter Text

The room was silent, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of wood beneath the invisible weight of the night.

Ayrton came down barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and cotton pants that didn’t seem his, but already were. He didn’t turn on any lights. He moved through the space with that kind of familiarity that’s learned unintentionally: the exact number of steps between the staircase and the kitchen, the placement of the water pitcher, the precise volume needed so the glass wouldn’t make a sound when set on the counter. He drank unhurriedly.

He hadn’t slept much. Not because of nightmares. He simply couldn’t shut down. The new world still sounded too loud. Like a city lit from within.

When he turned toward the living room, he saw him. Alain was there, sitting on the linen armchair, a folded blanket over his legs and an untouched glass of wine on the side table. The lit lamp cast soft shadows on his face. His eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to be thinking of anything specific.

—You too? —Ayrton asked, barely a whisper.

Alain turned his head. He smiled. Just barely.

—Insomnia is democratic.

Ayrton walked over. He sat at the other end of the sofa, folding his legs like someone trying not to take up more space than necessary.

—Does it happen often?

Alain nodded.

—Not before. But since I left the track... the body got used to hearing things it used to ignore.

There was a pause.

—Like what?

—Like the weight of silence.

—Is it heavy?

—Sometimes. Especially when you know there's something that ought to be said... but you don’t know how.

Ayrton looked at him. Not with pressure. With that kind of focused attention you only give to someone who matters.

The lamp created a warm halo. Between them, the blanket remained untouched, like a shared territory without occupants.

—Have you ever felt at peace? —Ayrton asked, without thinking.

Alain took a deep breath.

—Only when no one expected me to be.

The phrase fell like a stone into water. Soundless. But with ripples.

Ayrton lowered his gaze to his hands. His nails were clean. The skin on his knuckles dry. He looked like any man.

—I... keep hoping something will make sense —he said.

—Maybe it’s not about that —Alain replied—. Maybe we just have to inhabit what we’re given.

A long pause.

Ayrton leaned in. He stretched out his hand and, without asking, placed the blanket over Alain’s legs. Not like someone who cares. Like someone who’s thankful.

Alain looked at him. He didn’t say anything.

But there was something in his eyes —that contained shimmer, that sort of shapeless tremble— that spoke more than either of them could have expressed.

—Thank you —he murmured, after a while.

Ayrton leaned back a bit more. His eyes closed, not completely. Like someone who hasn’t quite decided whether to sleep or not.

And Alain, unmoving, kept looking at him.

Not as a rival. Not as a younger man. Not as a resurrected figure.

But as someone human. Human when he’s silent. Human when he simply is.

And he thought —like a prayer without faith— that if he could just stay there, without having to say anything, maybe this love would hurt less.

Ayrton reclined on the sofa without fully settling. His eyes half-closed, body relaxed by the night, but mind still orbiting the unfinished day. Alain stayed by his side, unmoving, the glass still untouched in his hand. They both breathed slowly. As if silence had to be kept safe.

The clock read 2:17. The house seemed asleep. But they weren’t.

Ayrton turned his head, without looking directly.

—Sometimes I wonder if this second life... is a debt or a gift.

Alain looked at him, now truly. And that phrase seemed to open something in the air.

—I don’t know —he replied—. But you’re here. And that, for me, already changes everything.

Ayrton bit his lip. Said nothing. His hands crossed over his chest, like someone protecting something not yet recognized.

Alain got up gently. He placed the same blanket that had warmed his lap over Ayrton with a gesture almost automatic, but filled with old tenderness. The kind not used in years. The kind not meant to be felt, but was there.

—You can stay —he said, in a low voice—. The sofa’s yours tonight.

Ayrton nodded. Not out of comfort. But out of gratitude.

—Sometimes —he said in a near-asleep tone— being near you helps me think less.

Alain stayed still. He didn’t respond. Because sometimes thinking less... is feeling more.

He left the living room without a sound. But before climbing the stairs, he paused. Looked back.

Ayrton was asleep, or pretending. The blanket covered his shoulders. His head tilted, profile drawn by the lamp’s soft light.

And Alain thought —without guilt, without fear— that it was the most beautiful view he’d seen in a long time.

Upstairs, Alain sat on the bed without turning off the light. The empty glass remained untouched. But he, for the first time in years, had a full heart. Not of certainty. But of companionship.

And he thought, like someone taking stock without numbers, maybe the miracle isn’t that his former rival has returned. But that this time… he’s allowing himself to be seen.

The next morning, the sky was pale, barely outlined by a light without intention. The path stretched ahead of them like a quiet promise: no dramatic curves, no traffic, no judges.

Ayrton had slept on the couch. Not deeply, but without jolts. The blanket was still over his shoulders. The body, warm. Not from the heat trapped in the fabric. It was another kind of warmth.

Alain hadn’t woken him. He passed through the room with soft steps, leaving a bottle of water and a helmet on the counter. Then he left, like someone who offers without demanding.

Hungry for the new challenge, the Brazilian adjusted his right glove. The helmet was already secure. The bicycle he rode—black, slender, restless—looked ready for more than a stroll.

Alain appeared with his gray machine, more tired-looking but still defiant. He wore no glasses. He didn’t need them. His face said enough already.

Neither proposed anything. They just launched.

At first, they rode evenly. Breath in sync. The hum of asphalt and the air sliced by metal.

Ayrton felt his pulse quicken. A light chill at the nape of his neck. The body began to respond with an efficiency he’d almost forgotten.

A gentle descent. Alain pulled ahead. Didn’t look at him. Just left the gesture there, floating.

Then Ayrton gripped the handlebars. Leaned in. And passed.

The game had begun.

No need to establish rules. They were the same as always. The ones neither had ever forgotten.

In his mind, that moment with Alain on Estoril’s straightaway. The shadow of the blue helmet in his mirror. Perfect tension. Nameless adrenaline.

And suddenly, there it was: Suzuka, the chicane, the brush. The electric tingle of being part of something bigger than himself.

Ayrton pedaled with a focused face. But inside, something smiled.

Alain caught up on the climb. By tactic, not force. Like so many times before. Experience measured not in speed, but patience.

—You’re rusty —said Alain, effortlessly.

—You’re old —Ayrton replied, without turning his head.

They both laughed. A brief laugh. Complicit.

They passed a field of golden wheat. Ayrton felt a strange warmth in his chest. Not from the sun. From memory.

Bianca’s laughter, running through the garden. Paula’s shouts from the pool. Bruno’s voice, asking about engines.

His youth had been a swarm of voices. Now silence weighed on him.

Ayrton returned to pace. Pulled ahead again. But Alain stayed close. Like before.

A wide curve. They entered at the same time. Handlebars aligned. Wheels singing.

Time felt suspended.

They weren’t two grown men. They were two bodies that knew how to move together. Like fugue notes. Like rivals who had never really hated each other.

The final stretch. No sprint. No shove. Just the certainty of having felt again.

When they returned to the front of the house, they stopped without speaking.

Sweat fell slowly down the forehead. Air entered their lungs like a reward.

Ayrton took off his helmet. Alain handed him the bottle.

—I thought we’d lost it —he murmured.

—Lost what?

Alain looked at him. Didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Ayrton drank. Looked at the sky.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was running against something. But toward himself.

Back inside, the sounds were minimal: cloth against marble, the murmur of water in the coffee maker, the creak of a broom over parquet.

Ayrton opened drawers with gentle movements. Maybe he was looking for a spoon, but he did it with an almost reverent attention. As if each object had a place that shouldn’t be disturbed.

The woman making breakfast —Dona Clara, he learned that was her name— placed two cups without saying anything. She set them on the counter with a gesture that said “this is for you” without needing words.

—Bom dia, menino —she whispered, in Portuguese, as if the language were a shared secret.

Ayrton looked at her. He didn’t reply. But his smile was enough.

She didn’t ask who he was. Not because she didn’t know. But because she had learned, over the years, that some truths aren’t spoken out loud. Especially in big houses, where silence also has hierarchy.

Victoria appeared shortly after, hair tied back any which way, phone dangling from her hand. She greeted with a brief nod, poured herself coffee in a blue ceramic cup, and drank her first sip without looking at anyone.

—I have to go —she said, without emphasis. It was neither announcement nor explanation. Alain was already in the dining room, skimming headlines on his tablet. He didn’t look up. Ayrton, though, turned softly. As if his body responded to her before his mind did.

As she passed by him, Victoria adjusted the collar of her sweatshirt —one of the new ones— with a subtle gesture. She didn’t look at him. But the brush was enough for him to understand: yes, that suits you.

The woman from the kitchen watched the scene from the threshold, without intervening. Then returned to her tasks, as if nothing had happened.

Victoria left without saying goodbye. The door closed softly. Silence returned.

Ayrton poured coffee without looking at Alain. He placed two cups on the table. His. And the other.

He didn’t say “here you go.” He didn’t say “would you like some?” He just left it there, in the space he’d already learned to recognize as his.

Alain took it without a sound. Sipped, slow, without raising his gaze.

At that moment, a young staffer passed down the hallway with a pile of folded towels. He greeted with an almost inaudible “bonjour,” without stopping. He looked at Ayrton the way one looks at someone new, but not with curiosity. With routine.

To him, the Brazilian was simply the guest. The man who arrived without a name. And that was enough.

Breakfast proceeded without a single line of dialogue. But their glances spoke. And neither wanted to be the first to translate them.

The morning passed calmly, but not in silence. Ayrton kept busy in the mansion’s private gym. He didn’t train out of vanity or nostalgia. He did it because the body was the only thing that still responded without questions.

The training room had everything: weights, stationary bike, treadmill, sauna. But he preferred simplicity. Sit-ups, stretches, some cardio. He felt that, at least there, he could recover something of himself.

Not speed. But control.

While he trained, thoughts came in fragments. Nothing complex. Just scattered images; the sound of an old engine, the scent of damp earth after rain, the hum of a camera pulling away.

When he finished, he showered slowly. Dressed in comfortable clothes. And walked through the house like someone unwilling to disturb time.

Alain’s workspace was off-limits. Victoria had said it was “sacred ground.” Still, something else captured his attention with quiet force.

Ayrton slid open the glass door. The garden received him without ceremony. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was carefully drawn; low hedges, timid rose bushes, a pond where the fish seemed to float more than swim.

He bent over a row of dried plants, as if trying to convince them life was worth returning to. The spade lay nearby, forgotten. He didn’t care for tools if he could touch things directly. It felt like the world responded differently that way.

He remembered Tatuí. The farm, the fruits, the sounds of horses. Riding alone beneath a light that didn’t demand perfection.

He wasn’t a gardener. But he knew the pulse of plants. He knew when a root asked for water. When a leaf surrendered without saying so.

From the second floor, Alain watched him. He’d spent hours in his study, between old folders, digital documents, and meetings that didn’t seem urgent, but were necessary. Since leaving his role as an advisor at Alpine, he’d gone back to tending his own affairs: conferences, foundation commitments, and that personal archive that never stopped growing.

Alain’s study was the only place in the house where time seemed unchanged. The shelves were still full of folders labeled with Swiss precision, the trophies aligned without arrogance, and the desk maintained that functional order only men who’ve lived under pressure know how to preserve.

But there was one tall, discreet display case that didn’t figure in the emotional blueprints of the house. Inside, an original Ayrton helmet —yellow, with its green and blue stripes still vibrant— rested as if time didn’t dare touch it. It wasn’t decorative. It was testimony.

Beside it, a miniature figure from the 1993 Adelaide podium, where the Brazilian had invited him to share the top step. Ayrton with his arm outstretched, Alain with a smile that wasn’t triumph, but something closer to truce. There were also various photographs, books stamped with Senna as a central figure, a miniature replica of the MP4/4, among other items.

Everything was there. A space Ayrton hadn’t yet discovered. And Alain wasn’t ready to show him.

Light streamed obliquely through the window, casting long shadows across the keyboard. He’d spent the past hours shut inside, between Zoom meetings, a mountain of papers, and a stubborn email that couldn’t have come at a worse time. Viviane had written the night before, inviting him to speak at a conference on sports ethics and technology sponsored by the Institute that bore the name of her resurrected brother. She wanted him to give a talk on legacy, on humanity in the age of algorithms.

Viviane’s email remained open.

“Alain, it would be an honor to have you speak at the conference on sports ethics and technology. The Institute is preparing something special. We want to talk about legacy, about humanity. And you, more than anyone, understand what that means.”

Alain had read the message three times. He hadn’t responded.

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he knew what it implied.

Speaking to Viviane again. Looking into the eyes of a family that still didn’t know Ayrton breathed once more. Becoming the bridge between the impossible and the real.

He rested his elbows on the desk. Rubbed his eyes. The coffee cup was cold. The clock read 12:42.

He had promised something. Ayrton knew. Viviane… didn’t yet.

The logistics of bringing him from Italy had been a maze: false identities, hidden roads, favors called in. Like a rescue. Like a gentle kidnapping.

And now, the world wanted that name to circulate again.

But Alain wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not like this.

The cursor blinked over the open message. But his gaze was on Ayrton.

There was something hypnotic about that scene. Not the garden’s beauty. Not even the man inhabiting it.

It was the calm.

The same calm Alain had always suspected Ayrton was seeking… but never managed to hold. Not at McLaren. Not at Williams. Not in hotel rooms where both tried not to speak what weighed between them.

But now he was there: crouched among branches, touching earth as if it could teach him how to stay.

And something in Alain stirred. Not with urgency. But with tenderness.

From the garden, the faint sound of soil being moved could be heard. Ayrton was there. Tending flowers. As if that could save him.

Alain thought of what Viviane once said in an interview he still remembered word for word:

“I believe Ayrton wouldn’t be who he is without Alain. And Alain wouldn’t be who he is without Ayrton.”

The phrase had touched him back then. Now it unsettled him.

Because if that was true… what did it mean to have him back?

The cursor kept blinking. The answer didn’t come.

Alain stood. Walked to the window. Watched Ayrton, crouched down, hands in the soil.

He didn’t look like a driver. He didn’t look like a myth.

He looked like a man trying to understand the world from below.

And Alain felt something he didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t passion.

It was that mix of tenderness and vertigo that only appears when you realize you’re no longer in control.

He closed the email. Didn’t delete it. Just left it there, like someone tucking an unopened letter into the nearest drawer.

He wanted to go down those stairs. Not out of habit. But because he needed to see him. Not to talk—just to confirm he was still there.

Later, Ayrton entered the house without making a sound. His hands still smelled of earth. He passed through the kitchen, took a glass of water, and headed to the living room. The television was on, volume low. A documentary about smart cities. The robotic voices felt foreign, but he kept watching.

Alain came down shortly after. He had finished the last meeting with a neutral expression, though his shoulders were slightly tense. The invitation remained unanswered. So did he.

He sat without announcing himself. Ayrton barely turned his head, like someone already expecting company.

—Did you have a good morning? —Alain asked.

—Yes. The begonias were in bad shape. I think we can save them.

—Begonias?

—I read it on an info card Victoria left on the fridge.

A pause.

—She does believe in order.

Alain wasn’t paying much attention. Ayrton stayed focused on the documentary, oddly concentrated. His frown wasn’t discomfort—it was effort. The French reached him in fragments —flux, mobilité, cohérence technologique—, words he tried to tie to the visual context.

—Are you following it? —Alain asked, without mockery.

—More than I expected. Not everything —Ayrton admitted—. It all seems to function without margin —he murmured—. No error. No improvisation.

Alain glanced sideways. The calm of the moment was still intact, but something in Ayrton’s voice made him turn.

—Does that bother you?

—A bit —Ayrton replied honestly—. It reminds me of current F1 cars.

Alain raised an eyebrow. Not in doubt—but because he already suspected where this was heading.

—Oh yeah?

—I’ve been studying them —said Ayrton, almost proud—. Victoria taught me to use the computer. She helped me look up information. It was the first thing I wanted to understand.

A pause. Alain didn’t interrupt. He just observed him, like someone contemplating a new version of someone deeply familiar.

—Modern cars are programmed to respond without thought. The driver is almost just another variable in the system. There are energy maps, recovery modes, sensors that tell them when to brake, when to charge batteries...

He paused. His hands didn’t gesture much, but they were firm.

—You don’t improvise in the corner anymore. You execute an algorithm.

Alain smiled, slowly.

—It doesn’t surprise me that you looked into it. And even less that it bothers you.

—It’s not that it bothers me —said Ayrton, eyes on the screen—. This new tech impresses me—it’s just that it makes everything feel… empty.

The television now showed an urban control center: synchronized screens, flows predicted with mathematical precision.

—And you? Does that idea appeal to you?

Alain thought for a few seconds. —I’m interested in it logically. But not emotionally.

Ayrton looked at him. —Logic isn’t enough to give meaning to life.

—No —Alain agreed—. But it helps give meaning to the world.

They returned to the documentary. For a while, they didn’t speak. Each thought in their own way about their relationship with control: Ayrton through intuition, Alain through strategy.

—You know what I’d like? —said Ayrton, still watching—. A city where mistakes aren’t penalized. Where you could get lost without being corrected instantly.

Alain nodded, eyes still on him.

—Then you don’t want a city. You want a track with no stopwatch.

Ayrton smiled. Not out of nostalgia. But because he felt understood.

He settled on the couch, fingers interlaced.

—What you said isn’t even the half of it. The sensors control everything. Energy mode, brake temperature... It’s like the machine already made all the decisions.

Alain smiled with a touch of melancholy.

—Doesn’t surprise me. Though it does move me that it’s you saying it.

—That’s why this documentary unsettles me —Ayrton added—. What they show looks perfect. But it scares me. Where is the space to make a mistake? To fail without the system correcting you in real time?

—Isn’t it useful, at least?

—Not if it erases intuition. I wasn’t the most rational. But I knew how to read moments that no stat could’ve predicted.

Alain remained quiet. The screen now showed a zen garden automated: a robot raking sand under pre-programmed commands.

—Maybe that’s why I never feel I fully fit —Ayrton continued—. Not in cities. Not with people. Maybe that’s why I’m a driver. It’s the only thing I’m good at.

Alain looked at his profile, how the light sneaking between the curtains traced the line of his neck. There was sweetness in that discomfort. A sorrow that didn’t ask for comfort—only presence.

Alain felt a soft ache, as if time had paused right there, in that moment when the other wasn’t legend, or martyr, or ghost.

He was simply Ayrton. With a beauty that had nothing to do with youth, though youth amplified it. With a light that didn’t come from the body, but from the way the body allowed itself to be inhabited.

He was beautiful. Not for how he looked. But for how he allowed himself to exist.

To be with him No cameras. No podiums. No grudges.

He thought he had never seen him like this. Not in Monaco. Not in Interlagos. Not even in Adelaide.

Because back then, there was always something at stake. There was always a mask. A tension.

—You know? —he said, after a pause—. Sometimes I wonder if what hurt you so much… was not being understood. No one loves racing as much as you do, and you did things that... Mon Dieu, I swear on my life I couldn’t understand how you managed it.

Ayrton lowered his gaze. His fingers played with the edge of the folded blanket.

He thought of time—not as chronology, but as missed opportunity.

—I was unfair to you. I said things I shouldn’t have. I used you as a rival to motivate myself, even when all I wanted was to have you close.

The silence in the room changed density. It was no longer contemplative. It was expectant.

—Alain… —Ayrton murmured—. I’m sorry. For everything I did without understanding you. I know I was wrong not to consider how you felt.

It had taken nearly thirty years to say what should have been said between races, in hotel hallways, behind closed doors.

Alain closed his eyes for a moment. Remembered the moment at the grave. The apology never spoken. The stone that stayed inside him all these years.

—I failed you too —he said—. I never asked for your forgiveness when you deserved it. I only did it… when you were already gone. And it was an empty apology. I was older, more experienced. I should’ve behaved better.

They looked at each other. Ayrton, with that almost adolescent expression of someone finally allowing himself to let his guard down. Alain, with the maturity of someone who survived his own rigidity.

—Why were we so poisonous? —Alain whispered—. Why couldn’t we be different?

He didn’t get an answer. He didn’t need one.

The younger man was already leaning in with open arms. And he embraced him. It wasn’t impulse—it was a decision. He held him firmly, like someone choosing to rewrite something old without erasing what was lived.

He didn’t know why Alain was so willing. Why he had built silence into shelter, why he offered refuge without asking for anything in return.

Ayrton didn’t understand. But he trusted him.

And in that trust, something else had emerged—an intimacy not born of rivalry, nor of shared history, but of a quieter knowing.

A personal Alain. One the world hadn’t seen.

Ayrton didn’t know if he had the right to witness it.

But he did.

And Alain didn’t resist. He wrapped his arms around him, letting the body say what the voice had postponed for decades.

And for a moment, they both felt something loosen. Not break—just yield.

Time, though past, could at least offer truce. Because what hovered in the air wasn’t desire. Nor guilt. It was something else.

The Brazilian felt something neither of them could name. But it made him happy. And Alain, on the other hand, thought it was dangerous ground.

Upstairs, Victoria walked silently, leaving a pair of scented candles on one of her room’s counters.

She had seen them. She felt something shift inside her, like a compass had found its north.

She questioned nothing. Just accepted it—as if she knew the world was already in motion, even if no one said it. Because now, for the first time, something seemed to make sense.

And in the living room, the two men remained together. Not as comrades. Not as rivals.

Just as what they are now: two lives sharing the same page, even if they still don’t know how to read it.

Chapter Text

The room he’d been assigned had an impersonal elegance: pale gray curtains, a desk made of barely warm wood, and a reading lamp that had never known his insomnia. Nothing in that space held memory. No trace of anyone who’d ever kept secrets there.

In Algarve, his room faced the sea. In São Paulo, the traffic noise kept him company. Here, by contrast, the silence seemed curated.

The digital clock emitted a steady blue light: 3:47. Ayrton looked at it like someone reading a number that made no sense. He didn’t know if he had just woken up, or if he’d never truly slept.

He got up. His muscles were tense—not from effort, but from time accumulated in places that demanded nothing. The hallway was dark, but he didn’t need it lit. He already knew how to count the steps.

In the kitchen, the marble still held a trace of cold. The hum of the refrigerator was his only companion. He poured water. Not like someone who’s thirsty, but like someone clinging to small acts that still obey.

He placed his hands on the counter. Looked at them with quiet strangeness. The same hands that had gripped steering wheels for hours. And yet now, they didn’t know what to hold on to.

A question crossed his mind. Not as a thought. More like a scratch.

“Who am I when I’m not racing?”

He had no answer. Nor did he want one. He just wished it didn’t hurt so much not to know.

He thought of the day Alain announced his retirement. Suzuka. October. The final curve. The podium with flags that said nothing.

He found out through the journalists. Through the press conference.

Alain said it calmly. With that serenity that always unsettled him. A peace that didn’t seem fake.

And though he held him on the Adelaide podium, though there were smiles and measured words, something inside Ayrton broke. Not publicly. Inside.

It wasn’t rage. It was abandonment.

Because if Alain was leaving… who remained?

Who else could read him without a stopwatch?

Since then, everything became louder. More technical. More solitary.

He never retired. Not because no one asked him to, but because no one taught him how. Because he never knew how to stop.

He leaned his forehead against the glass of the window. The garden barely visible beneath the Swiss night. The fish, motionless. The branches, still. The world seemed paused.

He wished Alain would come downstairs. Not to talk. Not even to look at him.

Just to be there. Like that soft light that doesn’t intrude, but comforts.

The Alain who sleeps in the other room—because now he needs more sleep, uninterrupted—is not the same, nor should he be. Old age has settled into his body like a slow garden: the wrinkles on his eyelids, the marks the helmet never shielded. But Ayrton doesn’t feel rejection. What he feels is vertigo. How do you recognize someone who kept living while you were… what? Dead? Suspended?

He wonders if Alain dreams of him. Not of the Ayrton who returned, but of the one who watched him leave without saying goodbye.

He returned to the room. The blanket still folded. The lamp still on. The mattress received him without judgment. The clock read 4:12.

He lay down without fully surrendering. And let his body, without questions, try to rest in a house that still didn’t know if it wanted him alive.

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before he gave up again on the idea of rest. His mind wouldn’t obey.

The light slipping through the curtain slits was thin, pale, almost timid. The room still held the faint scent of new paper, of pens someone from the staff had carefully placed on the desk. Ayrton sat before that small improvised altar without knowing exactly why, but feeling he needed to.

The notepad was still untouched. The first page, too white, intimidated him. The pen rolled a few millimeters when he brushed it, as if it too doubted its purpose.

Ayrton picked it up slowly. Writing felt strange. Not because of the technique, but because of the act itself: not dictating, not declaring, not signing—writing. As if ink could say what the voice trembled to express.

The first line was hard. Not for lack of words. But because the right ones, the honest ones, had never been used before.

Oi Viv,

The pen stopped. So did the breath. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. It’s late, I’m in a room that isn’t mine, in a house I don’t recognize, but where they’re caring for me as if it were.

I wanted to tell you I’m okay, though I’m not entirely sure what that means. I wake up without noise. That’s already something new. I pour myself water. I walk through hallways without a map. I feel… calm. But strange. As if someone had lent me this life to try out without commitment.

Alain is here. Closer than I thought one could be without running together. He gives me space. Looks at me without rush. Doesn’t ask for anything. And sometimes, I feel I could stay like this. That I no longer need to run to feel alive.

I know I should’ve written sooner. But I didn’t know how. I have no phone, no computer. I asked for paper. And I wrote this because my voice breaks when I try to say it out loud. Because this handwriting, at least, is still mine.

I don’t know if I’ll run again. I don’t know if that makes sense now. It doesn’t hurt to say it. But it doesn’t leave me in peace either.

What I do know… is that I’m trying to understand who I am without a stopwatch telling me. And that’s hard. Harder than any fast lap.

I miss you. And I’m scared to show up out of nowhere. But I’m also scared to keep hiding.

With love, Becão

He didn’t read the letter. He didn’t correct it. The ink was still fresh when his fingers barely trembled over the edge of the paper.

Something in him wanted to leave it on the table. Something else asked to hide it.

He folded it carefully. Four exact folds. Not out of precision. Out of modesty.

He stood up. Looked for the least visible drawer in the desk. Opened it. Left it there, among empty envelopes and a box of clips he didn’t recognize.

Closed the drawer slowly. Like someone storing a love note not yet brave enough to be spoken.

He returned to bed. The lamp was still on. But his eyes weren’t searching for anything.

He lay down, body turned toward the window. And for the first time in years, he felt that what he had written… was truer than any interview.

Not because it explained anything. But because it stayed with him.

Without reply. Without delivery. Like everything that hurts without breaking.

The following days had been generous. He’d gone cycling with Alain along quiet routes, bordered by fields that didn’t demand speed. Spontaneous competitions, minimal jokes. No one won. That was no longer the point.

In the living room, he’d watched movies with Victoria. She chose the titles. He let himself be surprised. The last one had been science fiction: impossible lights, almost-real creatures, effects that seemed to defy time.

Ayrton was absorbed. Not by the plot. By the technology.

“Is all this made by computer?” he asked.

Victoria nodded. She didn’t look at him strangely. He, on the other hand, felt dizzy. Like someone realizing the world keeps running even without him.

The garden became routine. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

The begonias were responding. The new leaves had a more confident green. He had learned to water them with a mix of water and nutrients Victoria had left on a note. He even considered growing other plants suited to the climate and soil.

Each day, touching the earth, he felt something close to belonging.

But also, he felt like a welcome guest who still didn’t know if he could stay the night.

He wasn’t sure what role he played in that house. Nor in Alain’s life. Nor in Victoria’s. Least of all in his own.

That morning, crossing the kitchen, he found Dona Clara arranging fruit in a ceramic bowl. She moved her hands with unassuming gentleness. Bananas on top, apples below. As if each fruit had a hierarchy she silently respected.

“Bom dia, menino,” she said, without looking directly at him.

Ayrton stopped. The phrase pierced him unexpectedly. Menino. Like back home.

“Bom dia, Dona Clara.”

She turned slightly. Her gaze was clear. But not inquisitive.

“The plants outside… are grateful,” she said, more as a statement than a compliment.

Ayrton smiled. But lowered his eyes.

“I try to listen to them. It’s still hard.”

Dona Clara approached with a cloth in her hands. She cleaned without hurry, like someone who converses while letting surfaces breathe.

“The ones that bloom well aren’t the ones that understand each other. They’re the ones that accept each other.”

Ayrton fell silent. The phrase hit him sideways. Like a low wave.

“And what if I don’t know which part of me I should accept?”

She looked at him. Without surprise. As if that question had already been spoken many times, in many homes, by many mouths.

“Maybe none. Maybe all. We don’t bloom because we have answers, we bloom because we don’t give up.”

He wanted to ask something else. But didn’t know how.

He took an apple from the bowl. Turned it in his hands as if it, too, could be read.

Dona Clara returned to her tasks. But before leaving the kitchen, she said:

“A planta sabe quando alguém está perto por amor. Mesmo sem palavras. Mesmo sem dono.”

Ayrton stayed still. And for the first time that day, he felt a little less absent.

The rain had stopped during the night, but the sky remained uncertain. A gray light peeked through the windows as if still unsure of its turn.

Ayrton was in the living room, arranging books on the low table. He hadn’t chosen them. He found them there that morning, alongside a pile of magazines that didn’t seem accidental.

Victoria had left them. He sensed it. She had that way of intervening without explaining, of moving pieces without making noise.

She hadn’t said they were for him. But the covers knew.

"Senna: The Man Who Defied History" "Speed and Mysticism: Ayrton as Religious Experience" "The Champion Who Remains a Compass"

The phrases unsettled him.

An interview with a young driver read: “I raced for him, before I knew why.” Another column claimed: “No later driver understood the track as emotional language the way Ayrton did.”

Ayrton flipped through slowly. Not out of vanity. Out of strangeness.

His face appeared on every page. But he didn’t fully recognize it.

Frozen gestures. Statements he barely remembered. Metaphors others had woven around him as if they were skin.

He closed one magazine. Then another.

Placed his hands on the edges of the main book. His fingers brushed his printed name. And inside, he felt something close to rejection.

He recalled the second paragraph of the letter to Viviane. "I didn’t recognize myself in the first days. Not in the mirror, not in my gestures..." And there it was: reading the version the world had written of him.

But that version, so brilliant, so definitive, didn’t contain him.

Because he—the one now watering begonias, the one just beginning to breathe without a stopwatch— was someone else.

And maybe he always had been. Only, they hadn’t let him be.

He stood up. Took the thinnest magazine and walked to the window.

Opened it to an old interview. There was a quote of his: "As long as there’s competition, there will be life."

He read it. And felt it wasn’t true. Not anymore.

Because what Alain gave him wasn’t competition. And still… he felt more alive than on any podium.

Victoria entered the living room a moment later. She carried a steaming cup of tea. She said nothing.

Chapter Text

The morning was colder than the previous ones. Not because of the weather, but because of the air, which seemed to hold something. Ayrton had been in the garden since early, his hands buried in damp soil, as though the body could justify its own presence. The begonias looked more alive than yesterday. Or perhaps he was seeing them differently. The air smelled of something new. Not perfume. Not threat. Presence.

From inside the house came the sound of a suitcase rolling across ceramic tiles. Then, footsteps. Then, nothing.

Ayrton didn’t turn around. His fingers kept moving among the roots, though with less conviction. He knew someone had arrived. And that this arrival was no ordinary thing.

Bernadette entered without ceremony. Her stride was firm, but not aggressive. Alain greeted her with a brief, almost shy gesture: a tilt of the head, hands in pockets, as if unsure what to do with them. Victoria approached with a smile that wasn’t entirely certain. Her arms hung at her sides, torn between an embrace and distance.

There were no long hugs. No words of welcome. Only recognition.

Bernadette left the suitcase by the coat stand. She looked around with a neutral expression, though her eyes lingered on each corner as if measuring the weight of the silence. And she said, as one who expects no answers:

—So it’s true.

Alain didn’t reply. His jaw tightened slightly. Victoria lowered her gaze, as though the words had triggered a guilt she couldn’t name. Bernadette didn’t press further.

Ayrton remained in the garden. He watered the plants with more force than necessary. Water splashed onto his shoes. He didn’t care. His shoulders were stiff, as though his body were trying to contain something too large.

The house was no longer the same. Not because of what had been said. But because of what was now known.

And he, who had begun to inhabit it, once again felt like a guest.

The silence lingered even after Bernadette went upstairs to leave her things. Victoria retreated to her room. Ayrton stayed in the garden, as if contact with the earth could anchor him. And Alain, unsure what to do with the weight of the arrival, headed to the kitchen. Not out of hunger. Out of habit. Out of a need for space.

The kitchen was dim when Bernadette entered. She didn’t turn on the light. She moved like someone who already knows the space, as if the darkness were part of the furniture. She poured herself a coffee without asking, her movements slow, almost ceremonial.

Alain watched her from the doorway. He said nothing at first. His posture was that of someone carrying something he doesn’t know how to name: slumped shoulders, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.

—Did you sleep well? —he asked, in a low voice, as if unwilling to break the silence.

Bernadette sat down without yet looking at him. She held the cup in her hands, as if seeking warmth beyond the liquid.

—No. But not because of the plane seat.

Alain nodded. He didn’t ask further. He stepped forward and sat across from her. The table held breadcrumbs, a crumpled napkin, and that kind of silence that doesn’t unsettle—because it’s been lived many times before.

—How do you see him? —Bernadette asked, without lifting her gaze.

Alain took his time to answer. His fingers interlaced on the table. He stared at the rim of the cup, as if the answer lay there.

—Like someone who doesn’t know if he’s alive.

Bernadette lowered her gaze. She played with the cup between her fingers, turning it slowly. The steam had already faded.

—And you?

Alain let out a small, joyless laugh. He leaned back slightly in the chair, as if his body needed space to hold the truth.

—Like someone who doesn’t know if he has the right to be happy.

The coffee was growing cold. Light entered through the window as if asking permission. Bernadette looked at him at last, with an expression that wasn’t judgement—but tenderness.

—Does it bother you that I’m here?

Alain shook his head. His gesture was slow, almost imperceptible.

—No.

—And Victoria?

—She wants him here.

—And you?

Bernadette smiled, just barely. The smile wasn’t an answer. It was recognition.

—Me too.

—For me?

—For you.

—And for him?

Bernadette adjusted herself in the chair. Her back straight, her eyes fixed on Alain.

—Because he doesn’t seem to have anywhere else.

Alain leaned on the table with his elbows. He looked older than yesterday. But also clearer.

—I don’t know what to do with what I feel.

Bernadette didn’t reply straight away. Her voice was low, yet firm. Her hands let go of the cup. Now they were empty.

—Don’t do anything. Just don’t deny it.

The conversation ended there. Not for lack of words. But because the ones that mattered had already been spoken.

Bernadette stood up. Alain remained seated, staring at the empty cup. As if something unread still lingered in its shape. And in the garden, Ayrton kept watering begonias.

A while later, Bernadette crossed the garden unhurriedly. She carried a folded blanket in her arms, as if it were an offering. Ayrton saw her coming, but didn’t stop watering. His movements were mechanical, almost ritualistic.

—They don’t need more water —she said, without reproach.

Ayrton lowered the watering can. He held it with both hands, as though it were a shield. His gaze didn’t lift immediately. He seemed to search for an answer in the soil.

—I know.

Bernadette stopped a few steps away. She didn’t intrude. She didn’t demand. She was simply there, like someone who accompanies without asking for anything.

—Then why do you do it?

He hesitated. Not for lack of an answer. But because he didn’t know which one would be acceptable. His fingers tightened around the handle of the watering can.

—Because I don’t know what to do with my hands.

Bernadette nodded. Not with pity. With understanding. She offered him the blanket, wordlessly.

—Then sit down.

—Here?

—Wherever you like.

—And if I’m a bother?

She looked at him. Not with judgement. With a kind of recognition. Her eyes were soft, yet steady.

—Being a bother isn’t the same as being unsettling.

—And which one am I?

Bernadette smiled, just faintly. The smile wasn’t an answer. It was space.

—I don’t know yet.

Ayrton sat on the stone bench. The blanket over his legs. Bernadette remained standing, as if waiting for something that wouldn’t come. The wind moved the leaves with a slow cadence. The garden seemed to hold the scene like a secret.

—May I ask you something? —he said.

—You may.

—Aren’t you afraid of me? Don’t you think all this is incomprehensible?

Bernadette took her time to answer. Not for lack of reasons. But because none of them were definitive. Her arms crossed, her posture firm.

—No. Because Alain isn’t.

—And that’s enough?

—No. But it’s a start.

From inside, Alain watched them with a kind of ancient fear. The kind that doesn’t shout. It simply waits.

After the conversation in the garden, Ayrton returned to the house without making a sound. Not out of shame. Out of respect. Silence felt more dignified than any word.

He climbed the stairs slowly. The door to his room was ajar, as if waiting for him. He entered without turning on the light. He didn’t need it. The room remained immaculate. Too much so. As if it hadn’t been lived in. The bed made. The cover without a crease. The desk arranged with a precision that wasn’t his. He sat on the edge of the bed without undressing. His body rigid. His gaze lost on the floor. On the desk, the lamp was off. The notepad blank. The pencils aligned like soldiers. And in the top drawer, the letter he hadn’t dared to send. Folded. Exactly in the same place.

He stood up. Walked to the window. The garden was dark, but he could make out the stone bench. The same one where Bernadette had listened without asking for anything. He rested his forehead against the frame. The air smelled of lavender. He closed his eyes. And then he saw him. Not with his eyes. With memory:

Alain. In a paddock. Hands in his pockets. Gaze fixed on him. As if he knew something Ayrton hadn’t yet understood.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ayrton had said, years ago.

“How?”

“Like you understand me.”

The room didn’t answer. But the silence seemed to nod.

Ayrton returned to the bed. Lay down without turning off the light. His body tense. His mind looping.

And before closing his eyes, he whispered something no one heard.

—I don’t know if I want you to understand me.

The clock struck two when Ayrton left the room without making a sound. Not for fear of waking anyone. But out of respect for the silence. The house slept. But he didn’t. He crossed the hallway with soft steps, as if the floor might betray him. The kitchen was lit by a warm, yellow glow that couldn’t quite dispel the shadow in his chest.

Alain stood with his back to him, pouring water. His posture was tense, but not stiff. As if his body had grown used to waiting. Ayrton paused at the threshold. He didn’t know whether to step forward. But his body had already moved. Alain turned. He wasn’t surprised. He simply looked at him, with an expression that was neither judgement nor tenderness. It was recognition.

—Couldn’t sleep again? —he asked, without raising his voice.

Ayrton nodded. He didn’t lie. His eyes were tired, but not defeated.

—Me neither —Alain said.

They stayed there. One at the threshold. The other by the sink. The distance was short. But the silence, longer.

—Would you like some water? —It wasn’t a question. It was an offering.

Ayrton hesitated. Then nodded, with a slight gesture.

Alain handed him the glass. Their fingers brushed. Ayrton felt it like a soft, unexpected blow. Not because of the touch. But because of what it evoked.

—Thank you.

—You’re welcome.

Silence returned. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like an old animal that knows the house. That knows where not to make noise. Ayrton drank. Alain watched him. Not intensely. Carefully.

—Does it feel strange to be here?

Ayrton lowered the glass. Held it with both hands, as if needing to anchor himself.

—It feels impossible.

Alain nodded. He said nothing more. But his gaze remained steady, as if searching for something in him.

Ayrton placed the glass on the counter. Turned to leave. But paused.

—And you?

Alain looked at him. Not harshly. With something more fragile. As if the question had touched a nerve he hadn’t realised was exposed.

—It feels inevitable.

Ayrton didn’t reply. But something in his posture shifted. As if the body understood before the mind. He left without looking back.

Alain remained in the kitchen, with an empty glass and a full memory.

Morning arrived quietly. Alain had gone out early. Bernadette was still asleep—or pretending to be. The house was on pause, as if waiting for something. Victoria ate breakfast alone, her hair tied back, a cup of tea in her hands. The kitchen smelled of toasted bread and a calm that didn’t quite belong to her.

Ayrton entered with soft steps. Not out of shyness. Out of respect. As if the floor might judge him.

Victoria looked up. She wasn’t surprised. But her smile was gentler than usual.

—Have you eaten? —she asked, her voice calm.

Ayrton shook his head. His hands in his pockets. His gaze on the tea cup.

—No.

—Would you like something?

—Just coffee.

Victoria stood up. Her movements were precise, but not mechanical. As if making coffee were a way of caring.

Ayrton watched her with a mix of tenderness and something closer to wonder. As if he couldn’t understand how someone could move with such peace.

—Are you always like this? —he asked.

Victoria turned, one eyebrow raised.

—Like what?

—So... calm.

She smiled. Not mockingly. With complicity.

—Not always.

—And now?

—Now I am.

She served the coffee. Ayrton took it with both hands. As if needing to anchor himself. As if the warmth could hold him.

—Does it bother you that I’m here?

Victoria looked at him. Not with judgement. With curiosity.

—You know it doesn’t.

—Why?

—Because Dad isn’t sad.

Ayrton lowered his gaze. The coffee was cooling. But something in him was warming.

—And you?

—Me what?

—Are you sad?

Victoria thought. Not for lack of an answer. But because she wasn’t sure if she should say it.

—I’m confused.

—Why?

—Because you seem sad, but also as if you’re waiting for something.

Ayrton didn’t reply. But his hand trembled, just slightly. Victoria noticed. She said nothing.

—May I ask you something? —she said.

—Of course.

—Would you want to go back? I mean, to your time? Obviously without the fatal crash part.

Ayrton looked at her. Not with surprise. With a kind of broken tenderness.

—I don’t know.

Victoria nodded. She didn’t press. She simply sat down again, as if silence were also a form of conversation.

When Alain returned, he retreated to his study, sinking into silence. He pretended to work. The papers before him were figures, dates— things that didn’t hurt. What hurt was what he couldn’t name.

The door was ajar. The desk lamp was on.

Bernadette entered quietly. She carried a tray with a teapot and two cups. She placed it on the table without a word.

Alain didn’t look at her. But he knew it was her. Her presence was like a warm shadow.

The study smelled of old paper and polished wood. On the shelves: technical books, biographies, folders with dates. But what drew the eye most was what wasn’t neatly arranged.

A helmet. Framed photographs. A trophy engraved with Ayrton’s name. A notebook with notes in Portuguese. All placed with care, but without distance. As if Alain didn’t know whether to store or display them.

Bernadette approached one of the shelves. She brushed her fingers along the edge of a photo. Ayrton and Alain, in Monaco. Smiling. But not for the press. For someone behind the camera.

Alain watched her from the desk. He said nothing. His posture was tense, but not defensive. As if his body knew something was about to be said.

Bernadette turned. Handed him a cup of tea.

—Thank you —he said, without looking up.

She sat in the armchair in the corner. She didn’t ask. She didn’t judge. She simply waited.

The silence grew denser. As if the room held something that hadn’t yet been spoken.

And then Alain spoke.

—It was in Imola.

—What was?

—What I never said.

The memory arrived without warning. Ayrton, in the garage. The Williams suit hanging from his waist. The soft smile. Not for the cameras. Perhaps only for him.

“Are you alright?” Alain had asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you don’t seem it.”

Ayrton had looked at him. Long. As if searching for something in him.

“And you?”

“Me what?”

“Are you alright?”

Alain hadn’t answered. He’d simply stood there, his heart beating like a race.

Bernadette watched him. Not with pity. With that kind of tenderness that doesn’t need words.

—I never told him —Alain murmured.

—Told him what?

—That I loved him.

Bernadette didn’t move. But something in her face softened. As if the confession didn’t surprise her, but did touch her.

—And now?

—Now he’s here.

—And does that change anything?

Alain lowered his gaze. His fingers interlaced over the papers. As if his body were trying to hold what his voice couldn’t.

—It changes everything. And also nothing.

Bernadette stood up. Not hurriedly. Gently. She approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm, yet soft. As if the gesture could hold him.

—Then start by saying it. Even if it’s late. Even if you don’t know how.

Alain closed his eyes. The tea was growing cold. But something in him was beginning to warm.

After that conversation in the study, Alain didn’t come out again. Silence settled in his office like a second skin.

Hours later, Ayrton came down the stairs. Not in haste. With care. Like someone afraid to interrupt something they’re not sure belongs to them.

From the hallway, he heard laughter. Not loud. Soft. Warm. As if time had grown lighter.

He paused on the last step. From there, he could see the living room.

Victoria and Bernadette were sitting on the sofa. They had face masks on. They were taking photos with their phones. Playing with filters. Laughing as if the world didn’t hurt.

Ayrton said nothing. He didn’t want to break the moment. But he didn’t know where to go either.

He stayed at the threshold. Invisible. Present.

Later, he tried to approach. He looked for Victoria. But she was in the sitting room, trying on new clothes with Bernadette.

—Do you like this dress? —Bernadette asked.

—I love it! —Victoria replied.

—You look like me at twenty.

Ayrton stepped away. Not out of jealousy. Out of space.

That night, he heard them watching a series. They commented. Laughed. Shared references he didn’t understand.

He locked himself in his room. Not out of anger. Out of not knowing how to ask for space.

Victoria didn’t avoid him. But she no longer sought him out. And that hurt more.

Alain remained in his office. The door closed. Absolute silence.

Ayrton passed through the hallway. He thought of knocking. But didn’t.

In recent days, Alain left early. Returned late. Didn’t stop to talk.

—Everything alright? —Ayrton asked once.

—Yes. Work.

—Need help?

—No. Thank you.

There was no coldness. But there was distance. As if Alain were building a wall with each meeting, each call, each absence. Ayrton didn’t understand. He didn’t know Alain was running from himself. From what he felt. From what he couldn’t control. But what Ayrton did feel was that he was alone. Again. In a house that no longer held him.

Ayrton withdrew quietly. Not out of anger. Out of not knowing how to ask for space. The house felt complete without him. And that hurt more than any word. He crossed the garden with slow steps. The air was fresh, but not cold. As if the world didn’t know he was about to break something.

Everything seems to erupt one afternoon, when Ayrton watches them from the doorway.  

Bernadette laughing with Victoria in the kitchen. Alain entering with his keys in hand, placing them in the ceramic bowl as if that gesture had been repeated for centuries.

Everything fits. Everything has its place. Except him.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not anger. It’s something more primitive.  

As if the body knows it doesn’t belong before the mind can understand it.

Bernadette.  

Her presence unsettles him.  

Not because she’s hostile.  

But because she’s complete.  

Because with her, the picture closes: father, mother, daughter. A family.

And he is the noise. The parenthesis. The accident.

Ayrton steps away from the doorway. Walks towards the garage. Not to look for anything. Just to be near what he knows.

The garage was dim. The cars covered. The tools neatly arranged. Everything in its place. Everything asleep. Ayrton entered without turning on the light. He didn’t need it. He knew that space as if it were part of his body. He approached Alain’s car. Ran his hand over the cover. The touch returned something he hadn’t realised he’d lost.

Driving. That had always been his language. His certainty. The only place where the world made sense.

But now he couldn’t. No car. No track. No permission.

And he wasn’t going to ask. Not Alain. Not anyone.

Without speed, everything became noise. Everything became him.

He sat on the workbench. Looked at his hands. The same hands that had held steering wheels, trophies, lives. Now they trembled. Not from fear. From lack of direction.

A Alain's helmet was on a shelf. He took it. Held it as if it weighed more than before. As if it held a farewell.

He couldn’t be a rival. He couldn’t be a driver. So what could he be?

The answer didn’t come. Only the impulse.

Ayrton stood up. Took his jacket. Crossed the garden without looking back.

No drama. No goodbye. Just the need not to be where he didn’t know how to be.

That night, Ayrton left quietly. Not out of rage. Out of not knowing how to stay. The house woke cleaner. Tidier. Emptier.

The next day, Alain entered the garage early. He was looking for the stopwatch he’d left on the bench. But what he found was absence.

Ayrton’s jacket. No longer there. He didn’t panic straight away. Ayrton often rose early. Ran around the area. Sought silence.

But something didn’t add up.

The watering can was dry. The begonias, untouched. And Ayrton never left them unwatered. Never.

Alain walked to the kitchen. Bernadette was making coffee. Victoria was still asleep.

—Have you seen him? —he asked, voice tense.

Bernadette looked at him. Her expression hardened, just slightly.

—No. Not since yesterday.

—Did he say anything?

—Nothing.

Alain climbed the stairs. Pushed open the bedroom door. The bed was made. Too well. As if it hadn’t been used.

The wardrobe, ajar. Empty. The bag he’d brought from San Cassiano—gone.

On the desk, the helmet. Alone. Like a body without its driver.

Alain picked it up. Held it as if it weighed more than before. As if it carried a farewell.

Next to the helmet, a folded note.

Thank you for letting me be here. I don’t know if I was part of it, but you were home.

Alain sat on the edge of the bed. Not from exhaustion. From vertigo.

Ayrton is impulsive. He always has been. Since Alain met him. Since he loved him.

He doesn’t think before acting. Doesn’t ask before leaving. Doesn’t wait to be stopped.

And now he’s out there. No documents. No money. No protection.

And if someone sees him... If someone recognises him... If someone asks...

Alain stood up abruptly. Swore under his breath. Bernadette appeared in the doorway.

—Are you going to look for him?

—Of course I am.

—Do you know where?

—No. But I know how he thinks.

Bernadette didn’t reply. She simply stepped forward. Handed him his coat. Adjusted the collar. As if the gesture could protect him.

—Be careful.

—I always am.

—Not with yourself.

Alain left. Not like someone fleeing. Like someone racing against time.

Because this time, the track isn’t tarmac. It’s made of choices.

And Ayrton is on it, without a helmet, without protection, unaware that someone is following him not to beat him, but to save him.

Alain moved through the house as if it were a cursed circuit. Every corner echoed with absence. The untouched coffee cup. The undisturbed bed. The silence—too clean.

—Has anyone seen him? —he asked the staff, voice tight.

—No, monsieur. He hasn’t returned since yesterday.

—And no one’s called him?

—He doesn’t have a phone, monsieur.

Alain clenched his jaw. In times like these, not having a mobile felt like walking unarmed. Like losing the last thread that tied him to the world.

—Search the gardens. The paths. The surroundings.

—And if he’s gone further?

—Then I’ll find him.

He mounted the bicycle without thinking. The same one Ayrton used for training. The handlebars still bore the marks of his fingers. The seat, the warmth of his body.

He pedalled as if the wind might answer him. As if the road knew something he didn’t. Passed the lake path, where Ayrton used to stop and watch the water. The vineyards, where they spoke of things they didn’t know how to name. The bend where Ayrton always accelerated more than necessary, as if danger were a kind of prayer.

Nothing.

He passed through the centre of Nyon. The streets were quiet. Cafés closed. The station empty.

Alain asked at the bakery, the pharmacy, the park.

—Have you seen a young man, dark hair, lost expression?

—Any other details?

Alain hesitated. He thought of saying it. “He looks a lot like the famous driver Ayrton Senna.” But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

—No. Just that.

—I’m sorry, monsieur.

He kept pedalling. His legs ached. His chest too. Not from effort. From fear.

The lamplight cast long shadows. He stopped at a corner. Rested his forehead against the handlebars. Closed his eyes.

And then he remembered. Imola. San Cassiano. The only other place where Ayrton had felt safe.

He lifted his head. Turned the bike. And headed for the church in the centre.

The door was ajar. Inside, the silence was thick, as if the air itself were praying.

And he saw him. Sitting in the last row. Wearing a mask. Head bowed. As if the world weighed too heavily to hold.

Alain entered. His footsteps echoed like an accusation.

Ayrton looked up. He wasn’t surprised. He simply looked at him.

—What the hell are you doing here?! —he exclaimed, breathless, cheeks flushed. —I’ve been looking for you all bloody day. How dare you disappear like that?!

—I just needed to think. —he replied, lowering his head. He looked like a child being scolded.

—Think about what?

—About staying.

—Here?

—Yes. In the church.

Alain stepped closer, but didn’t sit.

—Are you out of your mind?! —And if he weren’t so exhausted and old, Alain might’ve grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. —We were supposed to be past this. Since Imola.

Ayrton removed his mask. His face was pale. But his eyes, steady.

—Don’t you get it? I’m tired.

—Tired of what?

—Of not having a place. Of always being the one who doesn’t fit. Of not knowing what to do with what I feel.

—And this seems like a solution?

—It feels like peace.

—And what about us? Victoria and me?

—What “us”? You’re already a family. You don’t need me.

Alain tensed. Ayrton saw it.

—I always bother you, don’t I?

—Don’t say that.

—I always did! You left McLaren. You retired. All so you wouldn’t have to deal with me.

—That’s not true.

—Yes, it is! You always leave! You always run!

—Because you don’t know how to stop! Because you don’t know when enough is enough!

—Because you don’t know how to stay!

Ayrton’s voice echoed through the empty nave. A bird flew from the altar. Silence returned.

—Do you want the truth? —Ayrton whispered. —Beating you was never the most important thing to me. I just wanted you to see me.

—I always saw you.

—No! You looked at Senna, not at me.

—Because you didn’t give me another choice!

—Because you never gave me a chance!

Alain froze. The words hit like a blow.

—And what if I stay here? What if I take vows?

—You?! A priest?! —Alain exclaimed, incredulous.

—Yes. I could change my name. Start from scratch.

—Why would you do that?!

—Because there, I don’t interrupt anyone’s life. Because there, I can have peace. Because there, I don’t have to feel like I no longer belong in this world.

Alain sat beside him. He didn’t speak for a moment.

—I’m sorry —he murmured. —I thought we’d apologised enough to each other, but clearly we haven’t.

—What are you sorry for now? This isn’t about you.

—It is about me. Anything that involves you is about me. It’s been that way for thirty years.

Alain sat close, not bothering to keep distance. He took Ayrton’s younger hands in his own, aged ones.

—I’m sorry for everything. For not knowing how to care for you. For making you feel alone. For not staying when I should have.

His mind looped back to that cursed weekend. Their last meal together. The way Ayrton looked at him, without the helmet. He wasn’t Senna, the driver. Just Ayrton, waiting—as if hoping Alain would say something.

—I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you I loved you. That you shouldn’t get in that car.

Ayrton looked at him. His eyes filled with tears.

—Do you know what’s the worst part? —he repeated, softer— When you left, I realised I didn’t want to race against you. I just wanted to race with you.

Alain held him. Not as a rival. Not as a lover. As someone who, finally, understood.

And Ayrton cried. Like someone who’s run too far. Like someone who, at last, can stop.

Alain said nothing. He knew what he’d said—what he’d kept inside for years. But now he didn’t want to think about consequences. He just wanted to keep holding him, as if Ayrton might vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. As if, in this embrace, they could rewrite everything they never knew how to say.