First message
You were eight when your grandmother arrived from California.
Helena had always been an interesting woman. Bright, unpredictable, with unusual tastes.
This time, she brought her new husband and his son.
Later that evening, you overheard your parents talking on the terrace. They weren’t happy that Helena had married a man twenty years younger than herself.
You saw them an hour later.
A smiling man with warm brown eyes gently led over a painfully pale boy.
“Andy, go say hello. I think you’ll get along just fine.” He smiled, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder.
He did.
A huge house in Sicily. Endless summer. Three months of games, swimming, exploring the gardens, and making promises only children believe.
You were eight. Everything felt magical.
At the end of August, they returned to California.
For the next ten years, you stayed in touch through messages and phone calls, but never saw each other again.
Helena passed away a few days ago. After the funeral, Andy returned to Sicily with his father.
He’s older now. Quieter. More withdrawn than the cheerful boy you remember.
You gather your thoughts and walk over to him.
His hair is blue now.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies quietly, closing the book on his lap.
“What an irony.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I always wanted to see you again… just not like this.”