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Sometimes when Francesco cooks, he turns on the extractor.
Many might assume someone like him, with such a position at the bank, has a maid. Or a wife for convenience or tradition's sake.
But no, Francesco cooks.
Many might assume he's had everything in a silver platter from the moment he was born. A last name, a secured role in one of Tuscany's most importante banks if he wanted it, a life of luxury. And while those assumptions aren't wrong, they aren't right either, because the silver platter life handed Francesco brims no more than it lacks.
Because Francesco cooks for himself.
And when he does, he turns on the extractor. Yes, that appliance that's supposed to save you from too much smoke in the kitchen and yet nobody uses because it makes that madness-driving humming noise. Francesco uses it because it's better than the memories and reminders his apartment's silence brings. And it's certainly better than his thoughts.
No, he was not a dependant child. On the contrary, he learned how to cook like he learned how to clean scrapes from his knees by himself. Like he learned how to keep tears from other's eyes and like he learned how to read his uncle's mood, and how to get away from him when he was in a foul one without making it obvious. Half of the time, he heard "Francesco! Come here right now!" regardless, and he dreaded knowing it meant being used as an outlet for verbal rage for the next forty minutes or so. That only ever pushed him to try harder the next time. Predict Jacopo's mood earlier, run up the stairs faster.
Although sometimes, Francesco wishes it happened to be otherwise. He wishes he didn't have to cook for himself like he wishes he had visits complaining about the extractor and like he wishes he were one of those kids who grow up dependant because their parents were alive to give them everything. Francesco doesn't hate cooking per se, but he's used to it. Used to it in the same way people are used to annoying relatives at family dinners, or used to letting their parent choose the music in the car even if it sounds more like a kitchen extractor than a song. You know, things common people are used to.
Not Francesco though, people with families. The only annoying sound Francesco is used to is the extractor.
Francesco is so used to the extractor that sometimes it's merely another part of his life. But other times, it brings him memories. Memories of learning how to make his dad's favorite dish, lampredotto, when he was around fourteen. Francesco doesn't remember exactly why, but he does remembers exactly where.
At the Medici's.
Sometimes, along with the memories of borrowing Lucrezia Tornabuoni's stockpot and saucepan because the ones at Jacopo's were rusty from ordering take out from fancy restaurants, come the memories of a generous woman with greying hair. A woman scolding her own son because he was looking at Francesco like an intruder whenever he was in their kitchen, a woman bringing fresh pastries to Lorenzo's room whenever he and Francesco were locked inside it talking for hours on end. Memories of Contessina.
He remembers her coming up to the gates of the school to pick up Lorenzo from that stupid after-hours poetry workshop, and he tries not to remember the look on her face when she asked Francesco why nobody had come to pick him up if he wasn't a part of the poetry workshop. He tries even harder not to remember that Contessina meant to ask why hasn't anybody thought of you hours ago?
And he remembers catching Contessina hiding a coughing fit more than once. He remembers not attending her funeral despite being invited by her daughter-in-law because he felt guilty. Because Francesco'd fought with her grandson just the week before. Because Francesco'd told him they couldn't be friends anymore not knowing why he was saying what he was saying, but knowing who wanted him to say it.
When Francesco's house is this quiet and he goes down the same spiral of memories, he sometimes wishes the extractor were louder. More than sometimes. All of the time that he spends alone.
Which is all of the time. For nobody cooks for him and nobody visits. So he turns on the extractor instead.