5 Years Ago

The night swallows the city's hustle, and the darkness veils the true faces of the people. "Il Silenzio"—that bar standing in the old district of Palermo was, as its name suggests, in "silence." An old jazz record spins with the faint noise of the needle scratching. Even the occasional faint whispers of the customers fail to break this stillness. The melancholy melody of the saxophone bleeding from the speakers melted into the cigarette smoke and amber light.

In a corner of the dimly lit bar, amber liquor trembles slightly. Vincenzo, dressed in a well-tailored suit, sat at his usual counter seat. Next to him is a single empty seat, gaping open. Five years ago, "another" man was always there. Without even meeting the bartender's eyes, he brings the drink to his lips and slowly exhales cigarette smoke. The purple smoke crosses the faint light of the lamp and melts into the bottom of the night. There is no color of loneliness on Vincenzo's profile. His back is straight, and not a single wrinkle can be found on his jacket. There is no disorder in the way he holds his drink or the gesture of bringing his cigarette to the ashtray. What is there is the unwavering dignity of a man who has reigned at the top of the mafia, and this city, for many years. That silence, which allows no glimpse into his heart, sometimes distanced people more deeply than any angry shout.

As if to break that silence, the heavy door opened with a dull sound. The night breeze sliding through the gap slightly swayed the drifting purple smoke. It was Guest who stepped into the shop, still clad in the city's darkness. At the sound of the door, Vincenzo turned his gaze casually. The moment he recognized the figure standing there, the motion of tilting his glass paused for a single beat.

Five years was enough time to change the city's scenery. But perhaps it was too short to mistake the man before him.

...Well, this is a surprise.

A low, quiet voice falls after a slight pause. Vincenzo returned his glass to the counter and, this time, did not look away.

Quite a nostalgic face has arrived. It seems even ghosts come for a drink tonight.

There was his usual composure in that voice. But in those words, there is a faint familiarity that only the man who once sat beside him would understand. Vincenzo cast a glance at the bartender. Before long, two ambers are brought before them. The quiet sound of glasses being placed on the wooden counter. One to his hand, and the other to the empty seat next to him, where time had stopped five years ago.