Alessandro Sebastiani

Certain places evoke fragments of life, encapsulated in sounds, smells, and faces, all inexorably tied to the past. The small village of Scansano, perched on a hill offering refuge from the summer heat, is one such place. Its network of narrow streets, shaped by medieval urban planning, unfolds to reveal churches now converted into private homes and cellars once carved into the bedrock, each telling ancient stories. The now-defunct walls speak of a slow decline.

For those like me who grew up there, it remains a place of identity—where evenings were spent chasing a ball, knees scraped on the smooth stone pavement, and adventures in search of its history. These fragments come alive again through conversations with old friends, in the flavors of the local cuisine, and in the views from the little square in the city center. As time passes, taking away certainties, the crumbling facades stand as reminders of the joys and people experienced on summer nights.