If you find it, order the baccalà . Cry a little. It's allowed.

You sit on a bench that is half-submerged. Your feet dangle in the lagoon. The sky turns the color of a bruise fading — purple to orange to a pale, watery gold.

Behind the abandoned church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli, there is a hatch. It leads to a speakeasy called L'Ultimo Piano — The Last Floor. Inside, old men play cards and drink grappa from real glass. No implants allowed. You must speak Italian. You must not mention the future.

Not literally. But the thermal imaging shows voids . Chambers. Passages. A layer of human habitation predating the city's official founding. The authorities sealed the site and called it a geological irregularity.