No ballroom was needed. The garden was enough.
When we arrived, the table was already set: linen, white flowers and every name written by hand. Outside, a garden with red roof tiles, a tree with long branches and banana leaves under an overcast sky — that even light that asks nothing of anyone.
Emiliano came to the door with a bouquet, and the embrace lasted as long as it needed to. Before the ceremony we walked the garden with them: a twirl beneath the tree, an embrace from behind among the leaves and a burst of laughter from Chini that cannot be asked for twice.
Then, seated hand in hand, they listened. She signed while he watched her; their own signed too; there was a kiss on the cheek, congratulations one by one and a toast with hand-painted glasses. A civil wedding fits into an afternoon. What happens around it is what we came to keep.
