Page 283 of Legacy
“Here it is,” he says, pointing to faint pencil lines etched into the wood. “She used to measure our heights here every year.”
I move closer and squint. Names. Dates. A slow climb toward manhood.
“Santo used to chase my height like it was a competition,” Angelo says, stopping by the pencil marks. “I was always taller. Older. Thought I had that locked down.”
He runs his thumb over a faded line, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Then he hit a growth spurt at fourteen and passed me in six months flat. Pissed me off more than it should’ve.”
I laugh softly. “You had a rivalry then.”
“Yeah.” He smirks, but the smile fades too fast. “Still do.”
I don’t say anything. Just lean my head against his arm.
He keeps walking.
Up the stairs, down a hall, and then into a room that’s more personal than any space I’ve seen in this place.
His bedroom.
It’s quiet in here.
Lived-in, but untouched.
A sitting room opens into the bedroom, the walls pale and unassuming, furniture aged but intact. There’s a shelf with a few worn photos, a lamp with a cracked base, and a guitar leaning in the corner—strings dusty.
I point. “Did you play?”
He shakes his head. “No. That was Nico’s thing. He was here most days. My mom used to say he lived here more than at his own place.”
I nod.
“Nico always felt like more than just a second-in-command. He’s the brother I never had to name,” he says eyes wandering the room.
I move to the edge of the bed and sit, fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket.
Angelo stays in the doorway for a second like he’s remembering things he doesn’t want to say out loud.
Then he walks in, slow. Quiet.
And sits beside me.
A beat passes.
Silent. Peaceful.
“This could be a room for our kid someday.”
The words are soft. Barely there.
But they hit me like thunder.
I turn to look at him, and in his eyes, I see it.
The flicker of light that’s been missing the last couple of days.
Not joy. Not even hope.
