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February morning. My husband and I are at the Bologna train station. Our express to Florence leaves in half an hour. Cosy suburban villa surrounded by Tuscan cypresses, Medici palaces and Caravaggio's Medusa are awaiting. Italy is the best choice for honeymoon, isn't it? The clock says 10:25. The exact time of the explosion. It's been almost forty years since the deadliest post-WWII terrorist attack in Italy took place here. The bomb left inside a suitcase in the waiting room of the station went off. Eighty-five people killed, more than two hundred injured. Despite the causes célèbres and convictions, the masterminds of the attack are still unknown. It was a long time ago. The Years of Lead full of right- and left-wing violence had been coming to an end. We walk around the station and talk about different stuff. Forty years. Everything has changed here – and yet there is something that never changes. People. They are all the same, still in a hurry. Some are going on a trip, others are returning home. Life goes on. Do not be afraid. The sun is shining. Such a nice day. Too warm even for a Mediterranean winter. They say this is due to global warming. They say that it often rains in Bologna, but we are so lucky with the weather today. Sometimes it seems to me that the most terrible things happen like this, in the blinding light of day. It was sunny as well when the bomb exploded. Do not be afraid. Forty years. The wounds healed, rare silent witnesses – the piece of a bombed wall, the pierced floor tile, the station clock stopped at 10:25 in memory of the victims – are all lost in the hustle. And yet I do feel fear. It's not only mine – it's shared and diffused. The new fear has a different face, wears a different mask. White medical face masks, I see them everywhere. Several hundred infected throughout the country, not many, but the number is growing rapidly. Anybody can be a disease carrier. Do not be afraid. My husband takes me by the hand, we go down the escalator. The past mixes with the present; time stands still and moves on, people walk by and disappear. Big scary bomb in my mind shrinks to microscopic size, obtains crownlike spikes. Small flexible time bomb, COVID-19. It can hide inside a young woman leading a child. Inside a guy talking loudly on his smartphone. Inside that old man who is coughing badly against the wall. I know: there is a slim chance that I'll become infected, but the brain producing the worst-case scenarios is unstoppable. Our fears are irrational. They emerge from the darkest depths of the unconscious when least expected. I lift my head, pull myself together. No. I will not let our honeymoon turn into a nightmare. Today, now, at this place on this sunny morning – I will not be afraid. I won’t. Somehow this insistent mantra works. Bombs in front of my eyes, large and small, are beginning to fade, lose their colours and contours. Staying on the platform I confidently press my husband's hand. “Our train,” – he says, smiling.