The streetlamps blinked awake one by one as Luca turned the last corner, their soft glow stretching across the quiet road. His pace slowed when his house finally came into view.
Inside, the familiar scent of old books and polished wood floated from the study.
A faint pool of lamplight spilled through the half-open door, brushing over the slope of his father's shoulder as he bent over his desk, pen moving steadily across paper.
Luca slipped past without a word, his footsteps barely whispering against the gleaming floor.
He didn't pause or greet him, just climbed the stairs, the soft creak of the wood following behind.
His room waited at the top—still, untouched, like it had held its breath until he returned.
For a moment he lingered in the doorway, fingers brushing the frame as if to confirm he was really home.
Then he crossed inside, moving with a quiet he didn't quite notice.
In the bathroom, the tap ran warm over his hands, steam curling up as he brushed his teeth.
