Inside, his aunt rearranged photo frames, sliding Marco’s certificates aside to display a faded portrait of her wedding day. “House looks warmer already,” she said. His uncle nodded approvingly, sipping tea from Marco’s best porcelain. From the lawn, Marco watched through the glass. The owner was excluded while guests performed ownership.
When Marco tried knocking again, his aunt opened the window politely. “It’s late, dear. We’ll discuss tomorrow after we’ve rested. Don’t embarrass yourself on camera.” He sputtered protests, but she blew him a kiss and drew the curtains firmly. He stared at the drawn fabric, realizing fabric now served as borders, flimsy but impossible to cross.