Irene is gone.

Summer in Italy always has the texture of oil painting, and the sun lazily sprinkles on the cobblestone road of Cortona. A year ago, I came here to learn how to make high-end handmade leather goods and learn from the masters in the town. Life is simple and plain. Apart from hammering and banging, there is no smell of leather and wax. In addition to staying in the master’s studio to learn, the place I go most often is the bakery not far from the studio.

This is where I first met Irene. That afternoon, I walked into the bakery as usual, and the cashier at the counter had a new face. Yes, this newcomer was Irene. If she hadn’t dropped the 5-cent coin on the ground when she was giving change, I think we would never have had any intersection. She said sorry, picked up the coin from the ground and handed it to me, her voice as thin as the wind blowing over wheat awns. As time passed, I visited the bakery more and more often, and we gradually became familiar with each other. Later I learned that her fiancé died in a car accident, and she had been immersed in the pain of losing her lover for a year. She escaped from the sadness and came here like a drifting boat. When I learned about her experience, I was shocked and sorry.

Gradually, during lunch break every day, I sat on the rattan chair at the door of the bakery for longer and longer periods of time, and the two cups of Sri Lankan Ceylon black tea on the round table in front of me slowly ran out. Yes, Irene was there too. I often told her interesting stories about China, and slowly she began to like Chinese culture, and the light in her eyes rekindled, and she gradually stopped looking around like an isolated island. Later we fell in love. When we were not at work, we took a walk on the cobblestone road in the town, listened to the church bells, fed pigeons in the square, and watched the sunset dye the walls of the house golden. She took me to eat delicious food and see the scenery. I taught her Chinese, but she always felt that Chinese was difficult to learn and could never speak it well. Perhaps happiness is like this, her laughter is as solid and warm as the sunshine in Tuscany.

During the Chinese New Year, I planned to return to China to share my experience with my family. The night before I returned, I met with Irene at a restaurant we often go to. I looked at her and promised her solemnly, “Let’s get married when I come back!” The tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes were crystal clear, and even brighter than the lights of the entire town. She then pouted her lips again and complained childishly, “But I don’t know Chinese. How can I communicate when I go to China in the future?” The tail tone of her slight anger still lingers in my ears, like an lingering sound.

During my time in China, I made a handbag for Irene using Song brocade and cowhide, which are very luxurious in China. The peony on the brocade bloomed gracefully, just as beautiful as Irene’s smile. I imagined her carrying it out of the house, with light steps, as if she was carrying the whole spring.

Just when I thought everything was going well, an accident happened. When the plane to Italy arrived at the airport, I received a call from the police, who lamented that Irene had a car accident on the way to the airport. The car that went off the track on the opposite side shattered all of Irene’s expectations, and also shattered my heart. Fate is so cunning and violent, it generously gave us a whole spring, but stingily took back every green leaf.

Irene passed away and left me forever. Everything happened so suddenly. I opened the Song Brpcade handbag that had not been given away yet, and there was a note written in Italian: I need your participation in my life.

Now, I have returned to China and opened a Chinese-style handbag store called “IVORREI'” and launched the website “ivorrei.com” online. In Italian, this word means “I want”. I put the gift that was supposed to be given to Irene in the most conspicuous place on the counter. Every morning, when the first ray of sunlight shines through the window on the Songjin bag, the blooming peony is like Irene smiling at me in the sunshine of Tuscany.

The doorbell of the store is recorded with the bell of an Italian church. Whenever a guest pushes the door and enters, the familiar bell will make me look up in a trance, and I always look forward to it. Wait, maybe in the next second, Irene will appear at the door, with the Tuscan morning dew on her hair, and say to me with a smile, I’m here to pick up the belated gift.

Customers often say that the bags in my store have a special warmth. They don’t know that every stitch is sewn with a promise that can never be fulfilled, and every thread is entangled with an unfulfilled life.

In the story, IVORREI is not only the name of the store, but also an unfulfilled wish:
I want an ordinary reunion, and hand the Song Brocade handbag to her personally.

The reason why regret is beautiful is because love once existed so truly.