The house was quiet after dinner.
Too quiet.
Aira didn’t return to the bedroom where Dominic stayed. She asked her mother if she could sleep in the living room that night—and her mother, understanding everything without a single word being spoken, only nodded softly.
Wrapped in an old wool shawl, Aira sat cross-legged on the floor, a faded cardboard box resting in front of her. Dust rose from the flaps like memories coming back to life. Childhood photographs. Primary school drawings. Faded report cards. Tattered birthday cards signed in glitter pen.
She picked up a small, glossed photo of herself—seven years old, hair tied in messy pigtails, holding a bright mango popsicle with a grin so wide it barely fit her face. Her fingers trembled against the worn edges.
"I remember that summer,
