In the courtyard of her auntâs house, behind the white wall with green shutters, there was an old wall covered with jasmine.
By day it looked like an ordinary wall. By evening, when the flowers gave out a stronger scent and the village lowered its voice, the wall changed. Among the leaves, tiny lights appeared: fireflies, one here and one there, like little stitches sewn into the night.
Gelsomina watched them from the straw chair. She wanted to go closer, but there was a high step, then a low wall, then a dark corner near the lemon tree. To her it looked like a very long journey.
âCome on,â said her cousin. âItâs nothing.â
But for Gelsomina it was not nothing. It was darkness, height, uncertainty, and a heart that beat too fast.
One evening she remained in the courtyard with her grandmother. The fireflies arranged themselves in a line, from the basil pot to the wall. They looked like a glowing ladder.
The first firefly blinked.
âOnly as far as me,â it seemed to say.
Gelsomina looked at her grandmother.
âCan I stop whenever I want?â
âOf course,â said Grandmother. âCourage is not a rope that pulls. It is a hand that walks beside you.â
Gelsomina took one step. She reached the first firefly. Then she breathed.
The second firefly lit up.
Another step.
The third one was near the high step. Gelsomina stopped. Her heart beat loudly. The jasmine smelled like a blanket.
âI do not have to arrive all at once,â she whispered.
Grandmother nodded.
So Gelsomina climbed the step calmly: one hand on the wall, one foot, then the other. The fireflies did not laugh and did not call her slow. They waited.
When she reached the jasmine, a white flower opened in front of her.
Inside the flower there was a small light, softer than the others.
Gelsomina smiled. She had not conquered the wall. She had reached it.
From that evening, whenever something seemed too difficult, she no longer said, âI canât.â She said, âWhere is the first firefly?â
And she looked for the first step, not the last.
