
A Love Story in Vallumora
Listen to story
May 27, 2026
Stories are AI-generated with editorial curation.

Listen to story
May 27, 2026
Stories are AI-generated with editorial curation.

When Vito was three years old, he noticed that the Moon had a hole. At least it seemed that way — every night the Moon looked smaller and smaller, as if someone was taking bites out of it. "Mama, the Moon is breaking!" he shouted one night. Mama laughed. "Those are just phases, Vito. The Moon isn't breaking." But Vito wasn't convinced. He packed glue, tape, cloth, and a flashlight into a small backpack. "I'm going to fix the Moon," he declared. His father, sitting in the living room reading the newspaper, lowered his glasses and looked at his son. Most parents would have said, "Don't be silly," or "Go to sleep." But Vito's father wasn't like most parents. "Alright," he said. "But you'll need help. I know someone who tried the same thing once." Vito looked at him with wide eyes. "Who?" "Me. When I was your age, I wanted to fix something that couldn't be fixed. Come, I'll tell you what happened..."

Pino and Vito jumped out of the car and ran towards Luca's farm. The tall grass glowed yellow-green under the sun, and somewhere in the distance, the bray of the donkey Berto could be heard. "Why does the donkey shout so loudly?" asked Vito, his eyes wide. Pino chuckled as Luca waved from the barn door. "Come on, I'll show you everything!" shouted Luca. But Jole stood frozen under the old fig tree, staring at the approaching goat. "Dad, what about Jole?" Pino asked.

On the terrace of the family house, under the light of the setting sun, Grandpa Otto gathers his grandchildren around him. His hands, strong and skillful, have shaped thousands of wooden creations, but now they hold only a cup of tea. "I want to tell you a story about a teacher," he begins, and Pino leans forward, his eyes filled with curiosity. Hana sits quietly, while Jole lies beside the children, occasionally lifting his head as if he's following the story too.

In the neighborhood by the river, there lived a dog that everyone called Jole. He was brown, with one white ear, and as far as anyone could remember, he had always been there. The old women claimed they remembered him from their childhood. "Impossible," the young ones said. "Dogs don't live that long." But Jole was different. He had a scar on his paw, limped on his hind leg, one eye was closed, and he had a knot on his tail. Each injury had its own story. Little Filip, who had just moved to the neighborhood and had no friends, sat every day on the steps in front of the building, watching Jole pass by. One day, the dog sat next to him and — Vito could swear — looked at him with that one eye as if he understood him. "Everyone says you've lived nine times," Filip whispered. "Is that true?" The dog barked. Old Mrs. Maria, who lived on the ground floor and had heard everything, opened her window and said, "Jole hasn't lived nine lives, boy. But nine times he almost died. And each time, he learned something people don't know..." From the window, Loli watched the scene with her green eyes, as if she knew the secret herself.