Evening fell slowly over Long Island, tinting the walls of the Corleone house copper. In the kitchen, the scent of fresh tomatoes and basil filled the air as Elena, sleeves rolled up, helped Carmela Corleone prepare dinner.

The warmth of the oven and the murmur of pots and pans barely managed to distract her from the unease that had been brewing in her chest since she learned Michael was leaving for the front.

The door opened gently, and Michael entered the house with his usual easy gait. He greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek, then Elena with the same politeness as always: a "good afternoon" that sounded almost like a sigh. But this time, when he looked at her, his eyes lingered for a second longer than usual. It was barely an instant, but long enough for Elena to feel the weight of everything left unsaid.

That evening, the table was full. Laughter, voices overlapping, glasses clinking. Michael ate in silence, barely responding, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the dining room lamp. When everyone had left, he went out onto the porch, seeking air in the stillness of the night.

Elena, without saying anything, made two cups of coffee and followed him. She sat down next to him, and finally, in the warmth of that shared moment, the real goodbye began.