The dust from the power plant got into everything – my hair, my nails, even my thoughts. Every day I came home covered in that gray layer, like a second skin that marked and defined me. As soon as I walked in, the phone rang.

« Benedetto, it’s the sheriff. Come get your son. He’s here again.»

I stood under the shower with my eyes closed, hot water flowing over my tired body, washing away the day’s fatigue but not the anxiety pressing down on me. I dried off quickly, put on clean clothes, and left the house, heading to the station. The city lights passed by like blurry shadows, reflections of a world I felt increasingly alienated from.

I climbed the stairs and saw him there, sitting on a bench, handcuffed, his gaze defiant with silent rage. Asshole, I thought, but the words didn’t come out. I nodded to the officer, indicating I was there for him.

On the way home, the silence was heavy, like a storm barely held back. I glanced at him occasionally, trying to recognize the boy who once got excited about my stories of work and the electricity that had come to our village of poor farmers.

« You can’t keep doing this, Andrea,» I said. «These protests aren’t solving anything. You’re just putting yourself in danger.»

«Dad, you don’t understand,» he replied, with a passion that cut through me like a knife. «The plant is destroying everything. We can’t just stand by while the world changes.»

His words hit me like stones. I saw only the work that put food on the table. He saw beyond that, a threat, a battle to fight.

In that moment, my mind drifted back to many years before, when the plant first opened. I remembered my father’s arguments, a farmer who had staunchly opposed the industrialization of our land, ending up at the sheriff’s several times. Each time, my poor mother and I would go fetch him. He walked ahead of us, but I hadn’t followed. I had adapted, choosing the easier path.

«I know you want to do the right thing,» I said, struggling to find the words. «But there are safer ways to do it. I don’t want to see you end up in jail or worse.»

Andrea looked at me, and for a moment, I saw the child he once was, with his vulnerability and determination. Then his gaze hardened again.

We spent the rest of the drive in silence, a silence that spoke of our different lives, our hopes, and fears. When we got home, André locked himself in his room without a word. I stayed in the kitchen, staring into the void before me.

The night passed slowly, filled with troubled thoughts and memories of better days. As the sun began to rise, I made up my mind. I called Nazareno, the lifelong friend with whom I had once shared hopes for change and a better future.

The phone rang several times. Finally, a weak voice on the other end.

«Benedetto, it’s five in the morning. I just finished the night shift. What’s happened?»

«He’s really fighting for what he believes in, Nazareno. And he’s right,» I replied softly, feeling the weight of my words.

He was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, as if speaking to himself, he said, “Ideas don’t die, Benedè. Maybe it’s time to revisit ours. Remember? There’s plenty of land here, and folks trust us because we were born here and we know how to handle electricity. Listen to me.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me, and we agreed to discuss the details over a good coffee at the club bar.

With a lighter heart, I walked toward the window and looked out at the rising sun on the horizon.

They had just finished installing the solar panels at Aunt Caterina’s house too.