Alessandro barely noticed any of it.
For an entire year, every heartbeat had carried the weight of uncertainty.
Now hope—dangerous, fragile hope—had returned.
After several minutes, Emma stopped in front of a narrow blue-painted rowhouse tucked between two older buildings.
A weathered clay pot holding a single struggling geranium rested beside the entrance.
« This is my house, » she said.
She climbed the steps and knocked three times.
The door opened slightly.
A woman appeared, drying her hands on a kitchen towel.
She smiled at Emma…
…until she noticed Alessandro standing behind her.
The color vanished from her face.
The towel slipped from her fingers.
« Mama, » Emma said cheerfully.
« This is the man from the poster. »
Before the woman could answer, another voice called from somewhere inside the house.
« Rosa… who’s at the door? »
Alessandro froze.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it across breakfast tables.
Across whispered conversations in the middle of sleepless nights.
