The first slice falls in silence. Then the room erupts in warmth, laughter, and the clink of glasses. On a worn wooden stand, a whole leg of prosciutto waits, glistening, almost sacred. It’s not just meat. It’s memory, migration, survival, love. A relic of peasants and princes, weddings and wakeful midnights, this humble rack holds more than ham; it cradles stories, secrets, centuries of hunger and hope, all balanc… Continues…
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