Somewhere in the Sabine hills, hidden in the brambles, the ruins of an ancient church are slowly sinking underground. The building was abandoned when the limestone below began collapsing centuries ago. Crystal-clear water springs under the marble arches, and giant weeds have taken over the gutted walls where religious icons are now long gone. A short walk from the ruin, a deep sinkhole produced a round emerald-green lake, which is said to have held the temple of a mysterious indigenous goddess associated with fertility and water. Legends tell of a small island where the goddess received her sacrifices; it used to float in the middle of the lake, but has long vanished into the depths below. I’ve also learned that every Saturday night, from midnight till dawn, a procession walks unseen through the outskirts of Rome, praying to the Virgin Mary for the sick, the dying, and the heartless people of the world. We got to the sanctuary as dawn was breaking, and the pilgrims seemed to vanish as soon as the sun had risen above the horizon. The world this summer doesn’t seem to make much sense, and I find some comfort in the knowledge that some things are still allowed to disappear.