She found him at six in the morning.
The box was on the kitchen table, open. Not emptied — the contents were still inside, arranged with the specific care of someone who had opened it slowly and deliberately rather than in a rush. He was sitting beside it with a cup of coffee, looking at something in his hands.
A photograph. She could see that much from the doorway.
She went to the kitchen. Made coffee. Sat across from him. She did not ask. She had learned that the most important things came in their own time and that the best thing she could do was be present for them.
He set the photograph on the table between them.
Daniel Morano at maybe twenty-four — the age he would have been when he died, she calculated. Dark-haired like Luca but with a different quality to his face — open, laug
