"Do you ever think about the fish, Eddie?" Richie asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Eddie looked at Richie, and for a second, the mask of the bickering clown slipped. He saw the hollowed-out terror in Richie’s eyes—the fear that the "Paradiso" was actually a purgatory they had built for themselves. Guest House Paradiso
Richie stood in the kitchen, his eyes fixed on a bowl of grey, unidentifiable stew. He wore his desperation like a cheap suit, too tight in some places and fraying at the edges. To Richie, the guest house wasn't just a business; it was a fortress against a world that had forgotten he existed. Every lie he told the guests, every grand gesture he made with a trembling hand, was a plea for relevance. He needed to be the "host," the man in charge, because the alternative was being a man with nothing. "Do you ever think about the fish, Eddie
"No. The ones on the plates. They’re just like us. Caught, gutted, and served up to people who don't even know their names." Richie stood in the kitchen, his eyes fixed
"But we're still here, aren't we?" Eddie whispered. "The fish are dead. We're still standing."