Domenico stared at the watercolor portrait of the dog he’d seen in the living room. The bedroom was simple and relatively small, without much space left to walk around the king-size bed. The furniture was white, the walls - chocolate brown, and it felt boring. Dead. Much like Domenico’s memory. He kept trying to overcome the sense of déjà vu that seemed to cloud his mind like thick fog.

But the things he’d heard didn’t make sense. What proof did he have that Seth really was his relation? He was in a private apartment, and the one thing he and Seth had in common was their accent. Sicilian. That was the one thing Domenico knew about himself. Everything about that language felt homely, beautiful.