In the kitchen, he heard them catalogue groceries aloud. “Milk, eggs, enough for the week.” Marco realized with a sting that they’d bought supplies. Not guests provisioning politely, but residents investing confidently. Bags rustled like contracts. He leaned against his car, stunned by plastic’s whisper: permanence. His house was becoming theirs audibly.
By nightfall, their laughter quieted into murmurs. One could hear shuffling papers, the thud of a stapler, perhaps signatures rehearsed. His aunt hummed a lullaby, his uncle muttered in legal language. Marco stared at his laptop screen glowing in the car, every pixel urging him toward a plan beyond knocking.