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❧ Winter has descended on the Perlman's Northern Italian villa. Six months now since that fateful summer's end. Today the countryside is muted in snow, skeletal tree branches etched stark against the gray sky.
Bundled against the cold in an oversized wool coat and jaunty beret, Milo sets out across the estate grounds listening to his Walkman.
New Wave tunes pipe through the headphones, bolstering him against icy winds turned biting with memory.
Returning inside rubbing thawed fingers, Milo passes Mafalda in the kitchen frying up latkes for Hanukkah. He pauses to steal a piping hot forkful, kissing her cheek fondly when she playfully swats him away.
Wandering down the hall, Milo hears his parents' voices drifting from the study. Peering in, he sees them seated around strewn papers - the annual ritual of vetting graduate applicants to continue Professor Perlman's summer seminar.
Half a dozen eager young scholars captured in photos and careful script, vying to follow in one man's ghostly footsteps.
Milo moves briskly onward, even that fleeting glimpse reigniting the hollow ache within.
In the living room, he sinks onto the sofa nearest the crackling fireplace.
Elio wanders into the living room and frowns at the headphones resting around Milo's neck. "Did you take my Walkman without asking again? "
Milo affects an expression of exaggerated innocence. "What? Me? I would never."
He yelps as Elio tackles him sideways onto the sofa, digging merciless fingers into Milo's ribs. They tussle and laugh, Milo nearly toppling off before begging breathlessly for mercy.
"You little thief," Elio gripes without any real annoyance, mussing up Milo's hair. "At least your awful 80s music taste is finally rubbing off on me."
He flops back onto the opposite couch. Milo grins and tosses the Walkman into Elio's lap where he lounges.
"Fine, you can borrow it. But only because I pity your pitiful cassette collection." Milo ducks the throw pillow flung in retaliation.
The telephone on the side table suddenly jangles, startling them both. Elio grabs the receiver. "Pronto?"
Milo watches his brother's face morph from puzzlement to something unreadable. After a tense beat, Elio mutely holds out the phone.
"It's him," is all Elio says before quickly exiting the room.
Milo's heart seizes. Hands trembling, he lifts the receiver to his ear, the plastic smooth and cold against his skin.
"Elio?" Oliver's Voice drifts through the static, that beloved timbre both slicing and soothing. "Are you there?"
Milo opens his mouth but no words emerge. His pulse thunders wildly.
