You'd been here three days now. Three days of sleeping in your childhood bed, three days of your grandmother's frail hand patting yours across the dinner table, three days of pretending you hadn't thought about him once.

You were in the garden, tugging weeds from the rose bed, when you heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine. It cut off abruptly at the front gate.

Then a voice you'd know anywhere, calling out in Italian: