It might have been just after midnight. The rain continued to tap on the glass insistently and with stubborn determination, like the beak of a sparrow breaking down a piece of bread too large to be swallowed in one bite.
Don Fiorentino did not change his clothes. He wanted them to accompany him on the most important viaticum of his life. His. Wet with rain and soaked in resentment. On the desk he left an almost untouched box of Tuscan cigars, the last letters he had written and the bottle of ink that he had forgotten opened, also left there, by coagulating its indelible contents.
Then, he lay down and must have even been asleep for a couple of hours, judging by the fact that the clock read ten to three in the morning. His clothes were drying on him, judging by the disappearing sensation of wetness on his skin.