A guard greeted him.
Marco appeared from the hallway.
"Your father has eaten."
Alessandro stopped.
"Did I ask?"
"No, sir."
"Then don't volunteer information."
Marco lowered his eyes.
Alessandro continued toward his office.
He had almost closed the door when a woman's voice came from the eastern corridor.
"Mr. Moretti?"
He turned.
Elena stood several feet away, holding a folded towel.
She wore the black-and-white uniform assigned to the household staff. Her dark hair was tied into a neat bun, and a small silver watch rested on her wrist.
"Yes?"
She looked surprised to see him.
"I didn't know you were home."
"Clearly."
She hesitated.
"Your father asked me to give you something."
Alessandro glanced at the towel.
"What's that?"
"Not this."
She reached into her apron and produced a small envelope.
"He asked me to make sure you received it."
Alessandro did not take it.
"What is it?"
"I don't know. He sealed it himself."
"Why didn't he give it to me?"
Elena's expression changed.
For the first time, she seemed to understand the distance between the two men.
"Perhaps he was afraid you wouldn't come."
The silence that followed was uncomfortable.
Alessandro stepped toward her.
"Listen carefully. You are employed to maintain this house, not to involve yourself in my family."
"I understand."
"Then understand this as well. My father is not your responsibility."
Elena looked at him.
"With respect, sir, I think someone should be responsible for him."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed.
"Are you questioning how I care for my father?"
"No."
"Then choose your words carefully."
She lowered the envelope slightly.
"I'm only saying that a person can have everything they need and still be terribly lonely."
For a moment, Alessandro did not speak.
Then he took the envelope.
"Return to your duties."
"Yes, sir."
She turned.
"Elena."
She stopped.
"Has he been talking about me?"
She looked over her shoulder.
"Every day."
"What does he say?"
"That you work too much."
Alessandro's expression did not change.
"And?"
"That you never eat properly."
He almost laughed.
Almost.
"Anything else?"
Elena considered the question.
"That when you were little, you hated thunderstorms. He used to sit beside your bed until they passed."
Alessandro's face became unreadable.
"Go back to work."
She nodded and disappeared down the corridor.
He stood alone with the envelope.
It was addressed in an uneven hand.
Alessandro.
Nothing more.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A small boy sat on a man's shoulders in a garden. The boy was laughing, his arms stretched toward the sky. The man beneath him was younger, broad-shouldered, and smiling at the camera.
It was Alessandro.
And the man carrying him was Vittorio.
On the back of the photograph, his father had written six words.
I AM SORRY I WAITED SO LONG.
Alessandro read them twice.
Then he placed the photograph inside his desk drawer.
He did not throw it away.
***
At seven that evening, Elena returned to room 20Y.
Vittorio was sitting beside the window.
The sunset painted the curtains amber, and the old man was watching the garden below.
"Did he take it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Did he read it?"
"I think so."
Vittorio smiled faintly.
"Then that is enough for today."
Elena placed the dinner container on the table.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like a man who has lived too long."
"That's not an answer."
"Then I suppose I'm feeling better than yesterday."
She laughed softly.
Vittorio looked at her.
"You remind me of someone."
"Your wife?"
His eyes moved toward the garden.
"No. My daughter."
Elena paused.
"Sofia?"
The old man looked at her sharply.
"How do you know her name?"
Elena realized her mistake.
She lowered her gaze.
"I heard the staff mention her."
Vittorio studied her face.
"People in this house have been told not to mention Sofia."
"I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
Elena pulled out the chair.
"Because you said her name like you miss her."
Vittorio looked down at his hands.
"I do."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he pointed toward the container.
"Is that chicken?"
"Yes. I asked the kitchen to make it without too much seasoning."
"Your cooking is better."
"That's because you keep telling me that."
"Perhaps you should believe me."
She smiled.
The old man began eating.
After a while, Elena reached into her apron and removed a small photograph.
She placed it beside his plate.
Vittorio looked at it.
The color drained from his face.
It was a photograph of a young woman standing in front of a white house. She had dark hair, bright eyes, and a small girl in her arms.
Vittorio touched the photograph with trembling fingers.
"Where did you get this?"
Elena swallowed.
"From my mother."
"Who is the child?"
"My mother."
The old man looked up.
"And the woman?"
Elena's eyes filled.
"Isabella Moretti."
Vittorio stared at her.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the wall clock.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Elena Rossi."
"I know your name."
She took a breath.
"My grandmother was called Sofia Moretti."
Vittorio's fingers tightened around the photograph.
"No."
Elena nodded.
"She was your daughter."
The old man's lips parted.
"She died."
"No, Mr. Moretti. She didn't."
Vittorio looked at her as though the room had disappeared.
"Where is she?"
Elena's eyes dropped.
"My grandmother died four years ago."
The old man closed his eyes.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"She was alive."
"Yes."
"All these years?"
"Yes."
He covered his mouth.
"Did she hate me?"
Elena shook her head.
"No."
"Did she ever speak about me?"
"Every birthday."
Vittorio began to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet, helpless tears of a man who had spent eleven years believing he had lost his daughter, only to discover that she had been alive somewhere in the world, waiting for a father who never came.
Elena moved closer.
"She kept your photograph."
Vittorio looked at her.
"She did?"
Elena nodded.
"She kept it beside her bed."
The old man reached for her hand.
"What happened to her?"
"She raised my mother alone. She worked two jobs. She never married. She told my mother that she had once belonged to a family that loved her, but that something terrible had happened."
Vittorio's face tightened.
"What terrible thing?"
Elena hesitated.
"She never told us everything."
"Tell me what you know."
Elena looked toward the closed door.
"She said your wife tried to help her leave."
Vittorio stopped breathing for a moment.
"Isabella?"
"Yes."
The old man's eyes moved to the photograph again.
"My wife..."
He could not finish.
Then he looked at Elena.
"Does Alessandro know?"