Warm Blood

Chapter 13: Song of Memory

The airport still wore the heavy, oppressive hush of deep night when Ronnie Moretti's flight touched down at 4:03 AM. As the wheels met the tarmac with a jarring thud, Ronnie felt a surge of adrenaline compete with the leaden exhaustion in his bones. He was home. Finally,

The terminal lights buzzed with a relentless, high-pitched frequency that made his teeth ache, their glow pale and sterile against the obsidian glass of the windows. Cleaning crews moved ghostlike between the rows of empty chairs, their yellow vests the only splashes of color in a world of gray. The air was a stagnant cocktail of burnt coffee, industrial disinfectant, and the lingering, faint perfume of thousands of strangers passing through other lives. Ronnie inhaled deeply, trying to find the scent of the city he knew, but the airport held only the smell of transition.

He stepped off the plane, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the jet bridge. A weary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His duffel hung heavy over his shoulder, the nylon strap biting into his palm through his callouses. He rubbed the back of his stiff neck, his eyes searching the gate's glass partition with a frantic sort of hope. "Come on," he whispered to himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Be there."

He expected to see them, a tableau of the life he'd left behind.

His mother would be there, pacing a tight circle, wringing her hands into a red puffiness the way she always did when her anxiety spiked.

His father would be standing rigid, pretending the sports scores on the monitors were fascinating while checking his watch every thirty seconds, his silence a shield for the worry he refused to name.

And Valeria—leaning against a concrete pillar with practiced indifference, scrolling through her phone, her eyes hidden behind her hair. She'd pretend she didn't care whether he came home or stayed away forever, but she'd be the first to reach for his bag.

But the space beyond the automated doors was a cavernous vacuum. The only movement was the slow rotation of an empty luggage carousel.

He waited 5 minutes, shifting his weight. Then ten. The silence began to feel heavy, like physical weight pressing on his shoulders. "Probably just running late," he muttered, checking the time.

"Traffic. At 4 in the morning? Right."

The few other passengers trickled away into the night until the corridor stood nearly deserted, echoing with the disembodied, rhythmic announcements of gates and departures. The janitor's mop whispered across the linoleum tiles—a steady, unhurried sound that felt like a countdown to a realization Ronnie wasn"t ready to face.

Ronnie's smile didn"t just falter; it vanished, leaving his face cold. A knot of dread, sharp and icy, began to tie itself in his stomach.

He pulled out his phone, the screen blindingly bright. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from the group chat that had been buzzing for weeks about his return. He dialed the home landline first, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Come on, Mom. Pick up," he pleaded. But the ringing only led to the upbeat, recorded version of her voice. Voicemail.

He tried his father's cell. The silence between the rings felt like a physical barrier. Again, the mechanical click. Voicemail.

Then Valeria's number. He held the phone so hard the casing groaned. "Val, pick up the damn phone."

The digital operator informed him the mailbox was full. A creeping, visceral chill traced a path up his spine, raising the fine hairs on his arms. He told himself not to panic—panic was for people without a plan. They probably overslept. The alarm didn"t go off. Maybe they'd fallen asleep waiting by the door.