Elijah arrived at his bakery and immediately began preparing the day's fresh batches—fky croissants, soft dinner rolls, a few loaves of rustic sourdough, and sweet pastries filled with fruit preserves. The familiar rhythm of kneading dough and carefully watching the oven kept him focused. By 8 a.m., the small bakery was buzzing with customers, and the steady stream of orders filled his morning. The work kept his mind busy, leaving no time to dwell on anything else.

  As the lunch hour approached, Elijah closed the bakery for a short break and headed toward the nearest police station. It had been two months since his friend Luca had gone missing. Elijah had reported it right away, but the police had shrugged it off, stating that Luca was an adult and might just be away for a while. Elijah had insisted, expining that Luca was like family to him, but the officers hadn't taken him seriously. A week ter, he returned, pushing again, but nothing had come of it. The case remained cold, and the police barely acknowledged it.

  Inside the station, Elijah approached the officer at the desk. "I'm Elijah. I filed a report about my friend being missing, and I haven't heard anything since."

  The officer looked up, clearly unamused. "It's you again. I told you, we'll call you if we find anything."

  Elijah's voice grew desperate. "But is there any progress? Any leads at all on where he could be?"

  "No," the officer replied ftly, bored. "There's no progress. We'll let you know if something comes up." Frustrated and exhausted, Elijah left the station, the weight of his helplessness settling in his chest. He gnced up at the sign outside the police station, feeling the sting of rejection.

  With a sigh, he made his way back to the bakery. He tried to focus on his work, but the suffocating feeling didn't leave him. The city had always felt like home because of Luca, but now, without him, it felt too empty, too cold.

  He closed up the bakery early and walked home. Once inside, he changed his shoes and gnced around.

  "I'm home," he said softly, the words echoing faintly in the quiet. It was a habit he couldn’t shake—one he'd formed back when Luca was still here. Now, it was just him. But he still said it every time, clinging to the illusion that someone might answer. That he wasn’t alone.

  There were a few chores to do—dishes to wash, some light cleaning, and trash to take out. He did it all mechanically, each movement dull and repetitive, like going through the motions of a life that felt increasingly hollow. Afterward, he took a quick shower to refresh himself, then walked into his room.

  Elijah stood near the bed, concern etched on his face as he watched the man. He hadn't moved much, just lying back against the headboard in a half-sitting position. Elijah couldn't help but wonder if the man was still in pain. His eyes softened as he approached, careful not to crowd him.

  "Are you feeling okay?" Elijah asked gently, his voice ced with worry.

  The man hummed in response, his eyes closed.

  "Did you face any problems while I was gone?" Elijah asked. He noticed the man was wearing a different outfit than the one he'd given him the night before. "Did you change clothes? Were they uncomfortable?"

  Alessandro's gaze flickered, but he didn't respond right away, the silence stretching between them. After a moment, he let out a slow hum of acknowledgment, shifting slightly, his eyes still half-closed. It was clear he wasn't in the mood for conversation. Elijah, uncertain of what to say next, settled into a chair beside the bed, his hands resting awkwardly in his p.

  After a beat, Elijah spoke again, attempting to fill the silence. "I'm Elijah. I live here with my friend... well, he's not here right now." He gnced at the clothes the man was wearing. "These are his clothes," he added, pausing and waiting for some sign of recognition or response.

  Alessandro's eyes flickered open briefly, the coldness in them sharp as he studied Elijah. He wasn't fully convinced about this stranger yet. The boy, with his soft voice and genuine concern, had already done more for him than most people ever would—but Alessandro knew better than to trust anyone so easily. He could feel that familiar, cautious instinct creeping in, telling him to guard himself.

  "I'm... Francesco," Alessandro muttered, his voice low and measured. It was a name he'd used countless times before when he didn't want to reveal his true identity.

  Elijah fshed a bright smile. "Francesco... that's a bit old, don't you think? Can I call you Frances? You look older than me, so I'm not really sure how to address you." His tone was gentle, almost teasing, though it was clear he was trying to lighten the mood.

  Alessandro saw the smile first—bright, disarming, and full of innocence—and for a moment, it caught him off guard. He was taken aback by how genuine it seemed, but his expression remained unreadable.

  He didn't respond right away. Instead, he leaned back further, his gaze drifting toward the window. For a moment, he allowed himself to think about Elijah's care—how different it felt from the manipution and lies he was used to. But he quickly pushed those thoughts aside. It was too dangerous to let his guard down, especially now.

  "Call me whatever you want," Alessandro muttered, his voice rough but quiet, deliberately cutting off any further conversation. He let the silence stretch between them, retreating into his own thoughts.

  Elijah sensed the walls Alessandro had built, the way he kept himself closed off. Still, he couldn't help but feel a strange connection to the man. Perhaps it was the loneliness eating away at him, but having someone in his space—his safe zone—made him feel things he hadn't in a long time. Even though Frances was so guarded, Elijah didn't want to shut down these feelings. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was experiencing something more than the suffocating loneliness that had once pushed him to the brink of despair.

  Elijah sat near Alessandro, his gaze fixed on him as if weighing what to say next. His eyes drifted over Alessandro's features—his tan skin, thick eyebrows, striking green eyes, and brown hair. He looked muscur, the kind of man who clearly took care of his body. Elijah shifted slightly in his seat, unsure of where to start.

  "Do you know the story behind your name? The story of Francesco and Isabel?" Elijah finally asked, his voice soft but curious.

  Alessandro's response was a low, resigned hum. "No. I don't know it."

  Elijah smiled faintly, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone as he began to recount the tale. "It's a tragic love story between Francesco and Isabel. Isabel was a noblewoman, and Francesco was a poor commoner. Their love was forbidden because of their social differences. Despite the barriers of css and status, their bond grew strong. But in the end, their love was torn apart. Isabel was forced to marry someone of her own rank, and Francesco, heartbroken, left everything behind to live in exile. The story ends in tragedy, with both of them separated forever, their love unfulfilled."

  Elijah trailed off, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. "It's a sad story, but one that's always stuck with me."

  Alessandro listened quietly, his expression unreadable. He wasn't particurly moved by the story, but he didn't dismiss it either. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere, distant and distracted.

  After a moment of silence, Elijah, still seated nearby, broke it hesitantly. "Are you feeling uncomfortable anywhere? Do you need anything else?"

  Without thinking, Elijah extended his hand to check Alessandro's forehead. But before he could make contact, Alessandro instinctively flinched away. His movements were sharp and quick.

  Elijah quickly pulled his hand back, his cheeks flushing slightly in embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..." he mumbled, his voice trailing off.

  Alessandro didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if trying to block out the interaction. Elijah cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to move past the tension. "So, what would you like for dinner? I'll make it for you."

  "Anything digestible," Alessandro muttered, his voice hoarse, the words short and blunt.

  Elijah nodded, making a mental note. "Alright, I'll figure something out."

  He gnced down at Alessandro's hands, which were resting on his p. The long fingers, weathered and tough, looked like they could've belonged to someone who had fought hard for everything in their life. But it wasn’t just the callouses or the roughness—it was the scars. Some of them looked as if the skin had once been peeled away, then grown back unevenly, tight and shiny in pces, like old burns or healed-over torment. Elijah couldn’t even begin to imagine the cruelty behind them. His own hands had only ever known warmth, creativity, a gentle kind of living. Looking at Alessandro’s, he felt a quiet ache, as though he were staring at a nguage of suffering he didn’t yet understand.

  "Can I ask you something?" Elijah ventured, his voice quiet but earnest.

  Alessandro's mind snapped to attention, the sharp edge of his thoughts cutting through the quiet room. What now? More questions? The boy was too curious for his own good. A feeling of irritation stirred inside him. No, I'm not answering any more of his questions.

  "NO," Alessandro replied curtly, his tone firm, as if he were setting a boundary.

  Elijah flinched at the blunt refusal but quickly composed himself. He offered a quiet apology, his voice soft. "Sorry," he murmured, before turning to leave the room. His footsteps were light, almost inaudible, as he made his way toward the door.

  Alessandro remained still in the bed, his gaze fixed on the door as Elijah retreated. He could feel the weight of the boy's presence lingering in the air, but he chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, he let the silence stretch out between them, a quiet moment of solitude that felt strangely heavy.