IGNAZIO.
The house was quiet.
It was a kind of quiet I hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind that sank into the bones, made the air feel thicker than it should. I strolled through the manor slowly, hands in my pockets, eyes catching on old details like they were ghosts—pictures that hadn’t moved in over a decade, polished surfaces that still gleamed like someone gave a damn.
I hadn’t made a habit of coming back here, not when I was a bachelor.
Truth be told, I hadn’t returned much after my father died.
This house was where he withered away. And just a few minutes’ drive from here was our family’s personal cemetery. The place where we laid him to rest.
To me, being here was a sore, constant reminder of everything I’d lost.
When I needed a place to live after he passed, I didn’t come
