The hotel room smells of lemon polish and old wood.
It is not a modern smell.
It is not sterile.
It is layered.
Like the city outside.
I stand at the window.
Pull back the heavy curtain.
Light floods in.
Dust motes dance.
Golden.
Slow.
Below, the street is narrow.
Cobblestones.
Vespa engines buzzing.
People walking.
Talking.
Gesturing.
Life.
Loud.
Unapologetic.
Ancient.
Marcus is in the bathroom.
Water runs.
Shower.
Steam escapes under the door.
Eleanor is asleep.
Curled on the second bed.
Jet lagged.
Mouth open.
Peaceful.
I sit on the edge of my bed.
Touch the quilt.
Thick.
White.
Cool.
We are here.
Rome.
The city of ghosts.
The city of fathers.
The city of sons.
Marcus comes out.
Hair damp.
Towel around his neck.
He sees me at the window.
He wa
