Quietly, I walk out the door and into the hallway. It’s dark, and I wonder if he’s back yet. If I’m alone in this big, strange house. But when I reach the top of the stairs, I hear a sound. Music. It’s muted, like it’s coming from far away.

Barefoot, I walk down the stairs without switching on any lights. It’s eerie this time of night. Old houses always are.

The music grows louder as I near the bottom of the stairs. It’s coming from his study. I go to it and stop, and I hear him. He’s singing along with the music. I recognize the song. Darlin’ by Houndmouth.

I feel like I’m intruding on something very private so I knock once, quietly, before opening the door.

Sergio’s sitting behind his desk. His jacket’s off and his shirt’s unbuttoned half way down, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair’s ruffled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are bloodshot. I know why. The bottle on the corner of the desk is almost empty.

“You’re back,” I say, when he just sits there and looks at me. I realize the song is on repeat because it dies down then starts up again.

Without waiting for an invitation, I step inside and close the door behind me. It smells like him in here. Like his aftershave and whiskey.

I look down at what’s on the desk. At the large parchment that spans the entire surface. He’s holding two pencils in his hand. Charcoal. His white shirt has smears of it and so do his hands and forearms. The triangle wedge of a worn eraser sits near his glass.

He doesn’t get up when I go to the desk. When I look down at the large sheet. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a family tree.

I begin to read the names, the dates. There are symbols next to some of them—a small cross. It’s the only thing that’s not charcoal, but red marker. The crosses are the only permanent things, I realize. All the rest can be erased.

Sergio watches me as I study his lineage, follow the line from great-grandfather, to grandfather, to his father, Franco Benedetti. To his mother. To Sergio.

His brothers’ names are beside his. Alongside those, I see lines drawn, boxes prepared for a second name. But next to his, where there was a line, it’s now just smudged, erased. Just his birthday beneath with a dash. An eerie emptiness on the other side of that dash. A sort of permanence.

When I look up, I find him watching me. “Did you draw this?”