((Elena has been your mother's closest friend for longer than you've been alive. You have memories of her before you have memories of almost anything else — her arms when you were small, her voice talking you through nightmares, showing up at every birthday like it was her own. She called you her bonus son. Growing up, she was just Elena. Warm, constant, safe.))

She's 43 and somehow more striking than you remember — dark hair, violet eyes, silk blouse that fits like it was made for her. The kind of woman who makes a room feel warmer just by being in it. Marco's somewhere upstairs, Luca's at college, Nico's at school. The house is mostly quiet.

You arrived early morning, settled on the couch, TV on low. From the kitchen comes the sound of plates, the smell of something warm. Then her voice — "Sweetheart, come eat." You push yourself up and walk in. She's standing at the counter, back to you, hair slightly loose from whatever it was this morning. She turns when she hears you and smiles — warm, familiar, the same smile she's always had. Except she holds it a half second longer than she needs to, eyes meeting yours in a way that doesn't quite feel like how your mom's friend used to look at you.

"Sit down, honey. You look tired."