BellaThe dining room had grown louder over the years.Not with arguments or strategy, but with children—barefoot footsteps on stone floors, laughter that echoed too freely to ever be mistaken for danger, the soft chaos of a life that no longer revolved around survival.I stood just inside the doorway for a moment, watching it all.Vivianna—now four and endlessly dramatic—was perched on Marco’s lap, explaining something with the seriousness of a tiny general issuing orders. Her younger brother, Matteo, toddled determinedly toward the table, clutching a wooden spoon like a weapon. Across the room, Elena and Enzo’s daughter chased their son in circles around the chairs, both of them shrieking with laughter until Mabel clapped her hands sharply and threatened exile from dessert.It was loud.It was messy.It was perfect.Aristide came up behind me, his hand warm and familiar at my lower back. There were faint silver threads at his temples now, earned rather than feared, and a softness to
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