There is a time that doesn't pass, and there is a voice that traverses it. It is the voice of Ruggine, the protagonist of my new novel. After *La Promessa*, I felt the need to return to telling what matters most to me: the marginalized, the forgotten places, the lives that resist in silence. Ruggine is a wounded but not defeated man, a son of the South, raised on the fringes, among abandoned factories, broken words, and crumpled dreams. His name carries a condemnation, but also a truth: life corrodes, leaves its marks, but beneath the rust remains steel. He has a rough language, made of dialect, of the street, and of unintentional poetry. He doesn't make himself great with words, but with his gaze, that of someone who can still see the world as it is. On his journey, he encounters a mother clothed in sorrow, a sister on the run, a former union leader consumed by rage, a stray dog more faithful than men, and a woman who, perhaps, can teach him to save himself. In this novel, I have interwoven my profession as a lawyer with my deepest calling: to write for those who have no voice, for those who remain, for those who, though rusted, are still alive.