Ludovica took in these sights silently, now having stopped her clapping. She watched the woman - who she could only assume was the young boy's mother - knowing all too well how she felt. She and Giuseppe had migrated to America in 1945, shortly after Mussolini's death. By that time, they had already been married for six years and had a five year old son, Angelo. Upon arriving in the States, Ludovica again fell pregnant, and had Angelo's only sibling, a sister named Leonarda. Angelo had been drafted to Vietnam back in the sixties and perished due to the fighting in 1969, just short of his twenty ninth birthday.<br/><br/>Being his mother, Ludovica had felt a tremendous amount of pain at his loss, and even to this day nothing ever mimicked that pain. Losing her son in such a way was the worst thing to have ever happened to her. She presumed that this woman felt a similar pain if not the exact same.<br/><br/>As she watched her weep over her son's body, a slight movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn slightly to lay her eyes on the spirit of the boy who laid in the casket. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed the crimson coming from his body, though she noticed it didn't bother her nearly as much as it would have before. Perhaps that's what happens when one dies, nothing shocks them much anymore. They've already gone through the biggest mystery the world has to offer. Everything else is meaningless from that point on.<br/><br/>She stood, slowly making her way over to the young boy. She noticed that he had died young, so obviously his spirit didn't age down much if at all. She put a gentle smile on her face and stood beside him, observing his funeral quietly. "Hello," she spoke, her voice chipper and happy, "It's your day too, huh?"