Later, he heard the piano. A hesitant scale, and then chords mangled into cheer. His aunt applauded herself. Marco flinched. That bench was still dented from his father’s weight. Music now declared someone else’s history. He sat on the curb, imagining his father’s scowl at this trespass masked as recital practice.
Fine, he finally thought. Paperwork meets paperwork. He called his lawyer. The measured voice was brutally honest: contesting through the loophole might take months, even years, and a judge could freeze occupancy meanwhile. “Document everything,” counsel said. “Do not escalate. Absolutely no theatrics.” Marco thanked him, then ended the call.