The Summit on Legacy

When we entered the new International Cultural Alliance Center's rooftop garden, the rain had just stopped.  In the early afternoon light, water still clung to the glass fences and flowers, glistening like diamonds.  The expansive and lively city of Florence lay beneath us.  It seemed appropriate that the center of Italy, where the discourse of art had traditionally been most audible, would hold this summit—our summit.

Despite without having a taste, my fingers were around the stem of a champagne flute.  I was observing the arrival of the visitors.  Dark-suited diplomats.  Artists in linen and flowing scarves.  innovators.  activists.  bearers of legacy.  Building the connections necessary to get these folks together had taken years.  However, they were present.

Damon was adjusting his cufflinks next to me, but I could see he wasn't paying any attention to his sleeves.  He was observing the security crew along the perimeter of the event.  He never really broke the habit.

"If you look at the guards for a long enough period of time, someone will think we're hiding something," I whispered, whispering so only he could hear.

He gave a little grin.  “Aren’t we always?”

I looked at him, but his sense of humor made me feel less tense.  It was a responsibility as much as a dream to host the Legacy Summit.  The whole globe was watching.  Once founded on nothing but sorrow and hope, our foundation was now at the forefront of international discussions about innovation, culture, and healing.

The welcoming session began with the chiming of a bell.  After kissing my hand, Damon went inside to talk to the media crew.  After lingering for a few periods, I followed him through the huge glass doors.

A masterwork of contemporary architecture and antique themes, the enormous hall glistened with light.  The perimeter was lined with murals created by kids from around the globe, all of which had as their central theme "unity through expression."  Everyone was reminded of our purpose.

I could feel the energy of the room as I sat on the stage next to Nobel Peace laureate Dr. Rafael Muñoz and renowned artist Leila Zhang.  All of the seats were occupied.  Cameras swung.  There was silence.

My voice echoed as I shouted, "Welcome," into the microphone.  “Today is not about speeches.  It’s about listening.  Making.  working together.  By working together, we are creating the foundation for a day when culture will be a force for peace rather than a victim of war.

The summit proceeded after polite applause.  Panels formed.  Across translator headsets, languages danced.  Ideas clashed and fused like fire and clay.  I navigated discussions with ease, soothing a heated argument over appropriation vs appreciation one minute and talking about AI's position in art the next.

Amira, a young Syrian filmmaker, took the stage in the afternoon.  In her documentary, which was completely recorded using a repurposed smartphone, she described how refugee children were reciting their lost culture via the creation of shadow puppets.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

During the break, I spotted Damon at the buffet, joking with the Ghanaian Minister of Culture.  I stood back and observed him for a minute.  Despite everything, he nonetheless shaped his chaotic house into a purpose.

Without turning, he continued, "You're staring."

"You experienced that?"  I teased.

He raised a brow and turned.  "I always do."

A staff member hurried up to us at that same moment.  She had large eyes.

Breathlessly, she continued, "Mrs. Blackwood, we have an unexpected visitor."  He claims that he is hesitant to give the final comments.  Lucien Thorne is his name.

I became cold.  So did Damon.

Thorne, Lucien.

The name was significant.  Five years ago, he vanished following a significant corruption scandal. He was once a media tycoon with dubious morals and a grudge against Damon.  We had heard rumors that he had gone underground and was changing his identity, but we never thought we'd see him again, not here.

With a stern, quiet voice, Damon whispered, "Tell him we weren't notified."  "And don't let him enter the main hall."

The employee paused.  One of the members of your advisory board has signed a pass for him.  We checked again.  It's real.

I felt sick to my stomach.  There is no way that this is a coincidence.

"Give him a chance to speak," I said slowly.  "But pay careful attention."

Damon looked at me, eyes narrowing.  "Are you certain?"

I responded, "I'd like to hear his thoughts."

The last session started as the sun began to drop over Florence, bathing the glass room in golden light.  After a strong finale by Leila Zhang, Lucien Thorne went onto the stage.  He was older now.  Grayer.  But his presence lingered