A gentle night breeze swept through the old alleyway. The crescent moon hung in the sky as if being held up by strings. The stars, visible and beautiful that night, illuminated the black canvas.

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“Look, the Big Dipper!” exclaimed my younger brother, his tiny arm guiding my eyes to the iconic large asterism. I stared up in awe, unable to prevent a smile from growing on my face. My parents paced slowly behind us, their hands intertwined and their faces happy. My father held the much-desired leftovers from that night's feast. Italian music softly echoed from an above balcony. The melody, though a foreign one, provoked my mother to softly hum along. Beside me, my brother nursed a cone of chocolate gelato. He offered me a taste, and I was delighted to accept. The rich, smooth taste was incomparable to that of ice cream back home. I held the dairy product in my mouth for as long as possible before eventually allowing it to slide down my throat. I playfully teased my brother as we walked.

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“There’s a stain on your shirt,” I smugly and genuinely stated. I placed my finger on the imaginary spot on his white polo shirt. As he tentatively looked down, I swiftly swiped my finger upward, poking him in the nose in the process. Shaking his head, he could not help but chuckle. Our laughter, though, quickly ceased as we spotted a man crouched at the end of the alleyway. He sat, legs crossed, leaning against a trash can in tattered old clothes. A worn SS Lazio scarf dangled from his neck. Ignoring his hushed mutters, my brother and I quickened our pace and moved by him. Only a few quiet steps passed before my brother tapped me to turn around. My parents did not ignore the man. Though he was in the shadows, I saw my father bend down, unbutton his suit's front button, and place the containers of the paper Tupperware at the man's side. I turned to my brother and we shared a look of disappointment. My parents, though, strolled up to us, grinning wider than when we had entered the side street.