That night, Liam Thomas came home.
He shut the door hard, his steps heavier than usual, his brow knotted and his face tense.
Alessia was waiting in the living room, seated, reading an old book she had already read hundreds of times. Her expression was serene, though inside, the echo of what she had done was still throbbing.
—Everything okay? —she asked, without lifting her eyes.
—Did you hear? —he answered.
She closed the book gently and looked at him.
—Hear what?
—My former boss… was murdered this afternoon.
Silence.
—They say it was in his own house, that it was brutal. Blood everywhere.
Alessia lowered her gaze. The wine bottle rested in the kitchen, camouflaged among the others like a vineyard in disguise.
Everything was in its place—everything except calm.
Liam dropped onto the couch, restless.
—I don't know why… but I feel like what happened to him is the same thing that happened to Mason… —he murmured, barely holding himself together.
His eyebrows drew tight; his hands, clasped on his knees, squeezed until the knuckles went white.
He wouldn't lift his eyes from the floor, as if he were searching there for an answer he didn't want to find. Then he looked up, fixing his gaze on Alessia's with a mix of confusion.
Alessia held his eyes for a second—with sadness, fear, and a thread of resignation.
Some thin strand of humanity trembled inside her, trying not to break.
—I'm sorry. Perhaps… he didn't deserve that end.
Liam didn't answer.
He just stared at a fixed point while the night outside began to cover everything.
He served himself coffee. He watched the steam rise, but didn't drink it.
It spiraled upward, carrying that bitter, familiar scent that scraped the inside of his nose with its bluntness.
He cupped the mug in both hands, feeling its heat, a small contradiction to the faint coolness slipping through the window crack. The porcelain—smooth, slightly rough at the base—gave him a strange calm, though his thoughts found no rest.
Outside, birds sang; a dog barked in the distance; wind threaded softly through the trees.
Inside him, a deeper silence remained—
the kind that clings to the skin like a shadow, heavier than any unsaid word.
Days had passed since his former boss's death, and although Liam neither admired nor truly respected the man, he couldn't shake the knot in his chest.
It wasn't exactly grief, but an echo of what had been: long hours at the office, surface-level conversations that sometimes felt almost genuine.
They had shared years, forced laughter, and even the occasional afternoon when they naïvely believed they were part of the same team.
Even when he'd been fired, Liam had felt more disappointment than anger.
Now the man's death left him suspended in that strange place between unresolved resentment and involuntary compassion.
He wasn't a monster… just a weak man. He got himself wrapped up. But once… he believed in me, Liam thought, running a fingertip along the edge of the table.
The thought enveloped him like a dense fog, drawing him inward, quieter, more introspective.
There was something sacred and melancholy in remembering those who, despite their faults, had still marked our personal story.
From her seat, Alessia watched him. She made no sound; she simply looked—feeling every shadow that crossed his face, each small tension in his hands, every longer-than-usual pause.
She approached slowly, set a hand on his shoulder, and stroked his hair with tenderness, as if she could sweep the clouds from his thoughts.
—Do you want to take a walk? The woods look beautiful this morning —she suggested with a warm smile, trying to draw him back.
Liam shook his head without speaking.
Alessia didn't insist. She kissed his forehead and withdrew in silence—with that wordless understanding that belongs to love grown patient and mature.
That afternoon, the phone shattered the quiet.
Liam stared at it for a few seconds before answering. The name on the screen made him frown and then smile.
—Mike? —he said.
The voice on the other end was unmistakable.
—Remember me, idiot? I'm coming over. Need to stay with you a few days.
Liam burst into a sincere laugh for the first time in days.
—Of course, cousin. You've got a home here. I'll text you the new address.
When he hung up, he went to Alessia with a different look—lighter, younger.
—It was Mike. My cousin. He's coming to visit.
—The one from your insane teenage stories? —she asked, smiling with genuine curiosity.
—That one.
—Are you okay with him staying a few days?
—Of course. I think it's exactly what you need. It'll do you good to reconnect with your past.
The next day, Liam waited at the bus terminal.
The place buzzed—people crisscrossing, luggage wheels rattling, kids running—
but he had eyes only for one figure stepping down from the bus in a black jacket, wearing the same indestructible smile.
Time hadn't touched Mike, or at least that's how his carefree, vital stride made it seem.
—How long has it been? Five years? —Liam said, moving in for a hug.
—Seven. But who's counting, right? —Mike laughed, squeezing him hard.
That night, the three of them had dinner at the house.
Over hot dishes and glasses of wine, Mike and Liam resurrected teenage tales:
the night they broke into a private pool and got arrested; the time they stole apples from a neighbor and were nearly mauled by the dog; the love letters they wrote together to woo the same girl without knowing it.
Laughter echoed along the walls, as if the house itself were soaking up that lighter, renewing energy.
Alessia watched them quietly, smiling, and as she did, an image from the past crossed her mind—
a night in Eastern Europe, seated by a fire among vampires of her clan, faces cold and soulless, speaking of wars, betrayals, hunting strategies.
No one laughed like Liam did now.
No one shared memories that warmed the chest.
There, eternity felt like an elegant prison.
Here, a single laugh made time feel meaningful.
That something so simple could seem more real than an entire century of existence, she thought, feeling something stir inside, cracking layers she'd believed fossilized.
This… is also life, she told herself, with tenderness and nostalgia mingled.
Seeing Liam laugh like that reminded her he still had roots in this world—
and she… might still grow alongside them.
Perhaps life wasn't only darkness and duty.
Perhaps, with him, she could find her own version of light.
A couple of days later, it was Alessia who suggested:
—You should go out with Mike. Unplug a little. It will do you good. I'll take care of the shop.
Liam hesitated for a heartbeat, but her conspiratorial smile convinced him.
His heart needed air—
and Alessia, even with her silences, understood him best.
The scenes that followed felt weightless:
the cousins went to a hockey game and yelled like teenagers;
they drank beer in a bar with live music;
they played mini-golf clumsily and roared with laughter when the ball dropped into a pond.
They also walked old childhood paths, speaking of their parents, of dreams unfulfilled, of the fears they still carried.
Liam began to heal—began to laugh again.
Each burst of laughter seemed to crack open the heavy crust of gray days he hadn't noticed had formed.
It was like a warm current moving through his chest, like winter sun filtering shyly through bare branches; even without fully warming, it reminded him that light existed.
Laughing with Mike was returning to a part of himself he thought forgotten—
a lighter version, less wounded—
as if, for a few days, he could postpone the weight of his thoughts and let his soul breathe without fear.
As if life, after all, still had music for him.
Meanwhile, Alessia prepared in silence.
She knew her time had come.
Duty was calling, and she could no longer ignore it.
Blood—
that ancient bond—
pushed her to remember where she came from.