Emma stepped in first, her small feet careful, as if even the floor might break beneath her, and she whispered softly, “Mom, I’m back, I brought someone.”
There was no answer at first, only the faint sound of breathing coming from the corner where a thin blanket lay crumpled beside the wall.
Rocco moved slowly, not out of fear, but out of something unfamiliar, a hesitation that didn’t belong to the man people usually whispered about in dark corners.
When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw her mother, a woman no older than thirty, lying still, her face pale and lips dry, barely conscious.
Emma rushed to her side, kneeling down, gently touching her shoulder as if afraid even that small contact might cause pain.
“Mom, please wake up, I sold the bicycle, we can eat now,” Emma said, her voice trembling but hopeful in a fragile way.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open slowly, struggling to focus, until they landed on Rocco standing behind her daughter, tall and silent.
Fear flashed across her face instantly, a reflex, something learned from experience rather than imagination, and she tried to push herself up despite her weakness.
