Rafito el Varado and the Stairway of Lost Footsteps

More about Rafito el Varado and the Stairway of Lost Footsteps

Rafito el Varado arrived in Costa della Breva, a cliffside village that looked as if it had been carved by a sculptor who kept changing their mind halfway through. The homes perched over the sea in a slow cascade of ochre, cream, and faded coral. Cypress trees pointed upward like exclamation marks, as if the entire village were constantly surprised by its own beauty.

He came for the sunset, but he stayed because of the stairway—the impossible one.

He first saw it while wandering down toward the small beach tucked beneath the giant archway that held half the village up like a forgotten miracle. A staircase wound along the cliff face, narrow as a whisper, leading from nowhere to nowhere else, with landings that seemed to vanish when you blinked. Locals pretended it wasn’t there.

Which meant Rafito absolutely had to climb it.

He started at the bottom, where the turquoise water lapped against sand as soft as sifted flour. A few children were building crooked castles, ignoring him in the way children do when they’re secretly watching every move. Rafito placed his foot on the first step, and instantly felt the odd sensation that the staircase was slightly warmer than the cliff around it—as if it had been walked recently, despite no one being near it.

Up he went.

Every few meters, the view opened into a new impossibility: balconies carved into the rock, tiny terraces with forgotten chairs, ancient doors sealed by time. He found faded frescoes of ships sailing through clouds, and niches where broken lamps still smelled faintly of olive oil.

Halfway up, he heard footsteps.

Not behind him. Not ahead. But through the stone.

Soft. Rhythmic. As if someone was walking parallel to him on a staircase that no longer existed.

He stopped. The footsteps stopped.
He continued. They continued.

By the time Rafito reached the highest landing, the sun was sinking into the sea like a slow, golden coin. The village glowed in peach and violet tones. The air held that stillness that comes only once a day, when the world hasn’t quite decided whether to end or begin again.

There, carved into the stone wall, he found a small inscription worn nearly smooth:

“For those who climb what others refuse to see.”

Rafito placed his hand on the wall. The footsteps on the other side paused, as if waiting. For a moment, he considered knocking—asking whoever had walked this path before him what they were looking for, what they found, and whether they were still climbing somewhere just out of reach.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he whispered, “Good luck,” turned around, and descended toward the glowing village.

Below, the waves continued their eternal applause, and the mysterious footsteps resumed—faint, steady, keeping pace with him, step for unseen step.

Rafito smiled.

Some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved. Only accompanied.