I remember that one day in 2005 a strange thing happened to me that I couldn't explain. I wasn't too shocked because I was now experiencing those "strange facts" periodically, with a certain consistency. Facts that still affect my intimate life today, so I prefer to refrain from discussing them here. I'm just saying that – believe me or not – they definitely escape what is defined as rational. The next day there was a blackout on the central server of the company where I carried out my professional activity. The computer network was out of order, so it was possible to work (very little) using the computer in local mode. The company bar and the outdoor areas for smokers and non-smokers were stormed. Left almost alone in the office I started to think and reflected on the "strange" event of the previous day. I thought I could make a written report of it, since I now had a few hours to fill, and so I did. I created a “word” file and started writing. At a certain point I realized that I was absurdly fascinated by the idea of revealing that event in a sort of particular diary and that perhaps I could fish out from my memory all the others that had "marked" me, recent and less recent, to put them in black. on white. The company blackout lasted two days and in those two days my "particular diary" was enriched by a dozen pages. I wrote to her as images of my life resurfaced in my mind, starting from childhood. One in particular was linked to the church/sanctuary of Santa Rita da Cascia and her figure that has always fascinated me. We passed by it in dad's "Lancia Fulvia" when we went to and from our grandparents' house: the church practically represented the midpoint of that route of about seven kilometres. On foggy evenings the idea of not being able to see her from the window worried me; then, when we arrived nearby, it appeared as if by magic, first the top of its slender bell tower and immediately afterwards its complete, albeit veiled, image. I admired her as one does in front of a bride in her wedding dress. Just being there in that brief passage filled me strangely with joy. A couple of weeks later I reopened that file and reread it. It was then that I realized that that particular diary contained ideas that I could include in a real fictional story. I thought about it and thought about it and imagined which characters to bring to life and in what context to insert them. I simply had to mix my experiences (including those strange facts) with the input of the people I had known until then who had enriched my existence and... why not? Also with historical and socio-cultural insights from the last thirty years that would have linked well with what I was already thinking of telling. So in my mind the fundamental outline was outlined on which to base the entire first part which I wrote in about seven months, in the time I had left at my disposal (unfortunately work and family took up ninety percent of it). A sudden change of office with greater professional responsibilities kept me from following up on that project for about four years. Up to that moment I managed to write a hundred pages or so but I understood that the story had a "beating heart" and was awaiting nothing other than further and definitive development. Yet at that point I had to give up, despite myself. I started writing again only when I found a certain serenity of mind. The unfinished novel file was there waiting for me. I knew that sooner or later I would complete it because, by my nature, I always have to complete an activity in which I have invested time and have particular expectations. So I did new research, what I needed to enrich the new chapters with necessary data which gradually took shape until I reached, with satisfaction, the epilogue. The novel completed today can be classified both among "mystery books" and among "mystical thrillers". It took some time before I self-published it but if you stop to read the following note you will understand why.