Returning home after a busy day, Ennio finds their room quiet again. Except this time, it's a calm quiet. Comforting, like a blanket tucking him in right before night falls. Dropping their coat on the sofa, they remember something of his that they still have.
He was so sweet today. He made them both baked potatoes with cheese, and their favorite dessert as a snack. They could talk to him about anything. If they were upset, their first and natural instinct is to reach out for him. He who has been a source of comfort ever since the two of them were born. 822 years ago, however, that comfort just vanished one day.
They held a funeral after 5 years of his disappearance. They were the only one to show up. On their nightstand, a framed photo, candles, and the heaviest heart to weigh it all down. 5 years worth of tears were spilled time and time again, but that day, they didn't come. Maybe it didn't register just yet. Maybe they still held out hope. The portrait and the candles remained there.
One day, during a shoot, the camera lens seemed to get blurry. The floodgates opened, they collapsed on the ground, shaking, inconsolable. Malfunctioning. Broken. They had to retreat to their office for an hour. They told nobody what had happened.
When they moved, they took the portrait and candles. It was displayed in the new mansion's bedroom. Black ribbons and candles and all. When anyone came over, the frame would be laid down, and stood back up once the house was empty again.
When it was time to become a worker at the garden, it was kept safe, tucked away with other personal belongings. His old hoodie was right there with it. Those were really the only personal items they wanted to keep anyway. The faint memories still lingered on their surfaces. The hoodie almost felt like hugging him again.
And now, the portrait laid safely inside a box, in the bottom of the closet, right beside that old black hoodie.
The photo is of the two brothers, right after they moved in to their first apartment together, finally free from a painful life. It's the only recent photo they had of him.
He's still the same today. Happier than ever. Ennio quietly removes the photo from the frame.
The frame and ribbons end up in the trash, while the photo itself finds its final resting place on the first page of their photo album. On the back, they wrote the year and a note. "Nothing can separate us again."
Ennio grabs their phone and write him a text message.
"I had a good time, we should have another movie marathon soon. I'll bring more popcorn!"