The afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of what had once been a guest room.
Now it was Victor's—scattered textbooks across the desk, art supplies in careful rows, a half-finished charcoal sketch pinned to the wall.
A self-portrait, though the eyes weren't quite right yet.
Victor sat cross-legged on the floor, acceptance letter spread before him like a treasure map.
University of Rome. Faculty of Arts. We are pleased to offer you admission...
He'd read it seventeen times. It still didn't feel real.
A knock at the door. "Victor?"
"Come in, Zio."
Don Luciano entered, carrying two espresso cups.
He'd taken to doing this—bringing Victor coffee in the afternoon, sitting with him while he studied.
Never hovering, just... present.
"Still staring at it?" Luciano handed him a cup, then lowered himself into the armchair with a slight grunt.
Getting older, though he'd never admit it.
