Alice March walked down the cobblestone street, her little brown backpack bobbing along with her. She stopped in front of the towering white church. She looked at the guidebook in her hand, then at the church, then around at the people on the street.

She walked past the various groups of tourists sitting on the stone stairs in front of the church. No one looked at her.

Except one.

“scusami bambina,” The man with olive skin and a dark mustache asked.

“Oh,” Alice beamed at him, “You can see me!”

“Yes,” he said. “From one ghost to another. But you look lost.”

“Well, I am sort of… I’m Alice March,” she said.

“Piacere di conoscerti, Alice March. I am Gregorios Adamos. Perhaps I can help? What are you looking for?”

“Who. It’s who I’m looking for. I’m looking for Michelangelo.”

“Oh my dear child, you would be better off in Rome where he lived most of his life.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. I went there first, actually. I didn’t find him. But I’d read that he’s buried here at Basilica of Santa Croce and thought I would come see.”

“Ah,” the man said smiling and waving a finger at her, “You’re quite smart, little girl. Why are you looking for Michelangelo?”

“I want his autograph,” she said, pulling her autograph book out of here backpack.

The man regarded her curiously. “You are looking for autographs?”

“Yes,” she said brightly.

“But… you’re dead?”

“I am. I never had a chance to travel in my life,” she explained. “Now I can go anywhere, and I meet a lot of really interesting ghosts.”

“Perhaps you would like my autograph then?”

“Maybe, Mr. Adamos. I don’t know what you did.”

“Yes, my contribution to civilization is rather lost to history, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Was the first to milk a cow.”

Alice stifled a laugh. “The first to milk a cow? Really?”

“The first!” he declared solemnly.

“What about other animals? Goats? Sheep?”

“Copycats!” he said dismissively. They knew of the greatness of Gregorios Adamos and they wanted in their part! But everyone knows cow milk is so much better!”

“What made you think to milk a cow?”

“Well…” he started, “It started out as a joke. And it went badly… and then it went really well!”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she pulled her autograph book out of her backpack and said, “Could you draw a little cow next to your name?”

“Of course,” he said, and opened to a page with a little room. Beneath Albert Einstein and squeezed between Joan of Arc and Leo Tolstoy he signed “Gregorios Adamos” with a flourish and a little smiling cow with little horns and – crucially – heavy udders.

“Thank you, Mr. Adamos,” she said taking the book back.

“You are very welcome. And good luck finding Michelangelo. He was a great man, sure…. But was he responsible for you having milkshakes?”

Alice giggled as Adamos walked down the street.