You return to look out over Portofiro.
Look around the tram. (Back.)
You turn towards the silent carriage.
Wait to arrive at the station. (Continue.)
You hear the first horns and yells of city traffic. A faint smell of petrol arrives on the breeze.
The city rises to greet you, a smoking mass of architecture overlaid by the crisscrossing rails of the tram network.
From this altitude, it looks like Portofiro has been caught in a web of dark yarn.
Goosebumps on the back of your neck. As if all those of absent, lifeless eyes have turned to watch you.