[eleven years earlier]

Third Person

"No, Matteo, we're not reading another story," Domenico said sternly, closing the book. With sad eyes and his thumb in his mouth, his little brother looked at him, but Domenico knew the game, and to Matteo's dismay, he had mastered it. "Come on, lie down, and I'll tuck you in, okay?" With a pout, Matteo lay down and said nothing more. Domenico shook his head as he covered him up.

When he left the room, he noticed that there was still light coming from Riccardo's room. It seemed that Vito was still with him and Valentino was out with friends. 'Good,' he thought to himself and went up one more floor. It was quiet up there, just like in the room he entered.

His father lay in the care bed, his frail body seemingly diminished by the stroke. His once strong frame had been reduced to a shell of what it had been. His head rested on the pillow, propped up slightly, while his eyes, distant and unfocused, stared blankly at the ceiling. His right arm lay motionless by his side, with little muscle tone left, the skin pale and fragile. The left arm, though somewhat more responsive, trembled slightly with every movement. His mouth, slightly open, betrayed an inability to speak, and his breathing was shallow, as if each inhale took more effort than the last. The gentle hum of the machines beside him marked the rhythm of his existence now, and every few moments, his chest would rise and fall with the effort of breathing.

His legs, once steady and strong, were now curled in a position that seemed unnatural, the result of prolonged immobility. His hands, though still capable of small motions, seemed incapable of grasping anything, as if the connection between mind and body had been severed by the stroke's cruel aftermath. The only sound in the room, besides the quiet beeping of the monitors, was the soft rustle of the sheets as Domenico adjusted them, trying to make his father as comfortable as possible, even though comfort seemed almost impossible.

"Hello, Dad." Eyes like his looked at him, and for a brief moment, it seemed as if he recognized him. Then, they lost focus again. Domenico swallowed hard, he wanted to reach out, to say something that would bring his father back, even if just for a second-something to bridge the distance between them, something to make his father see him again. But he knew it would be no use. Not now. Not when his father was so far away, trapped in a body that no longer listened to him, a mind that was slipping through his fingers like sand.

He pulled the chair closer to the bedside, sitting quietly, watching as the slow rise and fall of his father's chest became the only thing that marked the passage of time. The beeping of the monitor, the soft murmur of the oxygen machine-it all felt so distant, so detached from the world outside this small room.

His father's hand lay limp at his side, the fingers curled slightly as though reaching for something, but never quite finding it. Domenico hesitated, then gently took his father's hand in his own. The skin was thin, fragile, almost papery. He squeezed it lightly, wishing his father could feel it, could somehow know that he was there, that he hadn't left him. But the response, if there ever was one, never came. The hand remained still in his grip.

It was a strange kind of grief, one that crept up on him slowly, silently, the weight of it settling on his chest, pressing down harder with every minute that passed. He had known this day would come-he had prepared himself for it-but no amount of preparation could ever make it any easier. The knowledge that his father was slipping away, bit by bit, that the life Domenico had once known was fading, was a burden he knew he would have to carry.

"Please." His father's eyes regained some focus, a reminder of the promise he had given his father. The words felt too final, too heavy, but Domenico knew: his father had already begun to let go, and Domenico was left standing in the wreckage of everything they had once shared-grieving not just the loss of his father, but the loss of the man he had once been, the man who had always been there, strong and resolute, for him.

Domenico nodded, stood up, and walked over to the medication cabinet. In the past few days, the pain his father had endured had surpassed all limits of endurance, and the doctors had decided to treat him with morphine to calm him and ease his suffering. In silence, Domenico filled a syringe with the medication and returned to his father's bedside to turn down the monitor.

He carefully approached his father's bedside, the syringe in his hand feeling like a weight he wasn't sure he could bear. His father's breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible, and his eyes-though focused for a brief moment-had drifted again into the distance.

He paused, looking down at the frail figure before him, the man who had once been the cornerstone of his world. A mixture of love, guilt, and helplessness swirled inside him. Was he doing the right thing? The thought gnawed at him, but the suffering his father had endured these past days left no room for denial.

For a moment, he simply stood there, his hand resting on the edge of the bed, unsure whether he was ready for what he had to do. Then, in an instinctive gesture, he turned and walked over to the window. The night was clear, the stars scattered across the sky like distant beacons of light. Domenico opened the heavy curtains just a little, letting the cool, fresh night air drift into the room. He moved the bed carefully, inching it toward the window. It was a small act, but one that felt deeply important, as if he could offer his father one last glimpse of beauty, of the world outside that he would never see again.

He adjusted the bed so that his father's face would be aligned with the window, his head tilted slightly toward the stars. He wanted his father to see them, the same stars they had looked at together on clear nights when Domenico was a child. It was the smallest comfort he could offer-a final connection to the world, to the vastness of the universe that had once seemed so full of possibility.

Once the bed was in place, Domenico stood back for a moment, his eyes searching his father's face for any sign of recognition, any flicker of awareness. But his father's gaze remained distant, as if the stars themselves were far out of reach.

Domenico leaned down and whispered, "Look, Dad... Mum is waiting for you."

He swallowed hard, then looked up at the window, watching the stars glitter faintly in the dark sky. The world outside felt so far away, so different from the stillness in the room. But in that quiet moment, Domenico thought that maybe, just maybe, the stars might be enough. They were, in their own way, a reminder of everything his father had loved-the beauty of the world, the quiet wonder of nature. Taking a deep breath, Domenico turned off the monitor so his father could have a quite enviroment and finally reached for the syringe. With a steady hand, he turned back to his father's side, knowing that this, too, was part of letting go.

He sat down beside the bed, his hand still holding the syringe. His father's chest rose and fell slowly, the rhythm interrupted only by the occasional soft, rattling breath. Domenico took a deep breath, then gently lifted his father's arm, positioning the needle with care. He could feel the trembling in his own hands, but he forced himself to steady them. This moment-this final decision-was his responsibility, the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

As the needle slid into his father's vein, Domenico closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to break down, not to lose control. A soft sigh escaped from his father's lips, and for an instant, Domenico thought he had heard something-a word, or maybe just a sound of relief. But when he opened his eyes, his father's expression had not changed. The peace Domenico had hoped for didn't come immediately.

He sat in silence, waiting. The minutes passed slowly, the ticking of the clock the only sound in the room. Slowly, Domenico began to feel the weight lift from his own chest, as if, in giving his father what he needed, he had freed himself, too-if only a little.

"Dad," he whispered, his voice almost breaking, "Go, find your peace and rest now."

"Thank... you son.", his father answered and he closed his eyes.

The seconds stretched into minutes, then into hours, and Domenico didn't leave his father's side. He stayed there, watching, waiting for the inevitable. His father's pain was no longer present, but the sorrow in Domenico's heart remained.

He held onto his father's hand, feeling the warmth slip away, knowing that this was the moment. The moment that no son should ever have to face. But it was here. "I love you Dad."

Domenico sat in the silence, letting it wash over him, feeling as though the weight of the world was suddenly on his shoulders. He had lost the one person who had been his rock, his constant-his father. And though he knew the pain would dull with time, in this moment, it was unbearable.

He stood up slowly, glancing at the still form of his father. A heavy sense of finality hung in the air, but there was also something else-something that resembled peace. His father was no longer in pain. He had found his rest. And for that, Domenico was grateful, even if it didn't feel like enough.

Slowly, Domenico began to undress his father, his hands trembling slightly as he worked. He washed his father's frail body with gentle, deliberate movements, as if each gesture was a final act of love, a way to honor the man who had once cared for him. He dressed him in his favorite suit, the one his father had always worn on special occasions, as if he were preparing him for one last, quiet celebration of life.

When he was done, Domenico gently placed his father's hands on his chest, folding them over each other, as though to say goodbye with dignity, to create the image of peace that he had longed to see in his father's face. For a moment, he simply stood there, taking it all in-the quiet, the stillness, the love. He had done what he could, and now, all that was left was the final farewell.

But Domenico wasn't ready to leave the room yet. He moved around, carefully tidying up, trying to transform the space from the sterile, clinical feel it had taken on in the past years of his father's care. The oxygen machine, the monitors, the bottles of medication-they all had to go. He disconnected the machines, unplugged the wires, and turned off the lights. The room had become a hospital, a place of suffering, and Domenico wanted to take that feeling away. He wanted his father to rest not in a space of illness, but in one that reflected the life he had lived, the man he had been.

He folded up the sheets, smoothing them out as if to erase any trace of the struggle. He put the chairs back in place, moved the empty glass of water from the bedside table, and wiped down the dresser, which had collected dust in the past few days. Everything was tidied up, even the smallest details-just like how his father would have done it, always attentive to cleanliness, always in control of his surroundings. Finally, he took a step back and surveyed the room. It no longer felt like a place where someone was dying. It felt like a peaceful space, a place where his father could rest, free from pain, free from the memories of a long illness. The bed, the man in the suit, the quiet-everything was in its place.

Domenico stood in the doorway for a long time, his eyes resting on his father's peaceful form. He knew it was time to go, but in that moment, he also knew that his father was finally free. And so was he.

With one last look, Domenico turned and left the room, stepping out into the quiet hallway. He didn't know what the future would hold. He didn't know how he would move forward without his father's presence. But for now, all he could do was keep moving, one step at a time. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was his to walk.

And as he passed Matteo's room, he stopped briefly, looking at his younger brother's sleeping face. It was a reminder that life, in its quiet way, kept going. Even when it felt like everything had stopped.

As Domenico stood in front of his father's old office, he took a deep breath before entering the room. The familiar scent of paper and ink in the air suddenly felt foreign. His older brother, just turned 18, sat at his desk chair, staring at the stock of papers in front of him. He was still in the world of tasks, of expectations, of responsibility. But when he looked up at Domenico, it was clear that Vito, too, was overcome by the weight of the moment. Vito's face tightened slightly as he heard the words he'd probably expected deep down.

"He's gone," Domenico said quietly, and in the silence that followed. He could see how Vito inhaled sharply at the news, momentarily struggling to breathe under the weight of it, before pulling himself together.

Vito stood up slowly, his movements more deliberate, as though he needed a moment to process the reality of what had just been said. Without another word, he crossed the room to Domenico, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder and looking him in the eye. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, as though the emotions he had kept at bay were finally beginning to break through.

Domenico looked back. "And you?"