OSWALD sat heavily on the old floral sofa, the wooden frame creaking beneath him as though the furniture itself sensed the weight in his chest. The room around him felt smaller than it truly was, a humble living room, modestly furnished, smelling faintly of the aroma coming from the kitchen, lunch probably, so normal yet now the battleground of all his swirling thoughts.

His elbows rested on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor but seeing nothing. Vincenzo, standing a few feet away, watched him silently, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other resting thoughtfully on the back of Oswald’s seat....