Chapter 12. Maria

 

Leonidas knocked on the door.

"Nona, we're here!" he called out loudly.

"Nonaaa!" he called again, a little louder this time, with gentle insistence. No one answered. The house remained quiet. He glanced at me. I smiled awkwardly and simply shrugged.

"She's home, Nicole. She's waiting for us," Leonidas said confidently, as though trying to ease my nervousness. He seemed to understand exactly how I felt—that familiar mixture of shyness and uncertainty everyone experiences the first time they step into someone else's home.

Then Leonidas turned the handle. The door was unlocked. He stepped inside, confidently took my hand, inviting me to follow, and together we crossed the threshold. A small living room opened before us.

The ceilings were low, just as they are in old traditional Greek houses. A pleasant twilight filled the room. Only soft gray daylight streamed through a small open window, catching the crystal water decanter standing in the middle of the round dining table. Long ago, Greeks built windows this small for a reason: in the scorching summer they kept the house cool, while in winter the thick stone walls preserved every precious bit of warmth. The round dining table was covered with a delicate white lace tablecloth. The cutlery had been arranged so neatly, as though each place had been waiting for its guest since early morning.

From behind the living room wall came the comforting sounds of someone busy in the kitchen: dishes clinked softly, water ran in the sink, the oven door closed with a muffled thud. From there, too, drifted an invisible cloud of warm sweetness from freshly baked pastries, lazily spreading into every corner of the room.

"Godmamma, we're here!" Leonidas called again.

"I'm coming, my love!" her warm voice answered from the kitchen. "I'm coming!"

A moment later, quick shuffling footsteps crossed the floor. Then Nona appeared.

Today her thick curls seemed even more carefully styled than usual, and her eyes were lined brightly for the celebration.

"My dear boy, how happy I am to see you!" she breathed.

Quickly drying her damp hands on her lace apron, she hurried forward and wrapped Leonidas in a warm embrace. Their hug lingered. They had seen each other only recently, yet they embraced as though years had passed between their meetings.

Then Nona slowly turned toward me. She looked at me with such tenderness, holding my gaze for a long moment. Suddenly her face lit up with such a kind, welcoming smile that all my nervousness simply disappeared.

"My dear girl... welcome. Make yourself at home."

She hugged me tightly, as though she had known me all my life. Then she stepped back, folded her hands over her chest, looked from me to Leonidas, sighed softly, and almost whispered,

"Ah... how wonderful. Just wonderful..."

The way she held her hands against her heart felt almost like a blessing. It seemed she had already decided everything for the two of us. It was so obvious that I couldn't help feeling embarrassed. And yet... It also filled me with warmth. She had accepted me. I smiled and lowered my eyes shyly to the floor. Leonidas laughed. He, too, had understood his aunt's transparent little hint.

"Well, why are you just standing there?" Nona exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

"Come in! Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. No one is leaving this house hungry today."

She gestured invitingly toward the table. We had barely taken our seats when a deep, slightly raspy male voice came from the next room.

"Pouláki mou... (my little bird.). have the guests arrived already?"

A moment later, the silhouette of a man appeared in the dim hallway.

"Why is it so dark in here? Didn't anyone tell you electricity was invented ages ago?" the stranger joked.

He walked over to the light switch and flicked it on. The room transformed instantly. Warm golden light settled gently over the lace tablecloth, made the crystal decanter sparkle, brought the old furniture back to life, and seemed to breathe fresh warmth into the walls themselves.

Standing before us was a slender man with neatly trimmed gray mustache and matching gray hair, its curls gathered into dozens of tight little ringlets. He wore a perfectly pressed short-sleeved blue shirt and dark trousers. It was obvious he had prepared carefully for the evening.

"There you go again with your jokes," Nona smiled, waving him off with practiced affection.

"Go and meet Leonidas' friend instead. Just look what a beautiful young woman he brought with him."

The man's shoulders straightened immediately. He smoothed his curls with one hand and, wearing the smile of a perfect gentleman—or perhaps a very pleased cat—walked over to me.

"My name is Michalis," he said through an almost unbroken grin.

"I'm Nicole," I replied, smiling back.

"Ah, Nicole! So your saint is Saint Nicholas! A wonderful saint! The Great Miracle Worker. You should be proud to carry such a name. Every winter, on December sixth, we celebrate him with a great festival in the village square. The whole village gathers. And you know..."

He was clearly about to launch into a long story when Nona suddenly threw up her hands.

"Oh, my pie! Good heavens—I forgot my apple pie in the oven!"

"It's burned!" Michalis announced dramatically, shaking his head with theatrical sorrow.

"Oh, stop tempting fate!" Nona tossed over her shoulder as she hurried toward the kitchen, moving as fast as her legs would carry her.

A second later we heard the oven door open. Almost instantly, an even richer aroma of hot apples, butter, and cinnamon drifted through the house.

Leonidas and Michalis quickly became absorbed in conversation about the tavern, village life, and people I didn't know. I hardly joined in. I found myself far more interested in the house itself. It reminded me of the sets from old Greek films—except here, everything was real. Everywhere I looked were objects from another era: bronze ballerinas frozen forever in graceful pirouettes, machine-embroidered wall hangings in heavy dark wooden frames that had once been the height of home decoration, silver candlesticks softened by the noble patina of time, and old black-and-white photographs of strangers who seemed to watch everyone entering the room.

There was something wonderfully warm about this house. Something deeply, genuinely homelike. Suddenly I caught myself thinking that a house acquires its own scent only after several generations have lived within it. This house was alive. It didn't simply breathe. It spoke. Perhaps that is why new houses, however beautiful, always seem silent. The history of many years lived here. This living room had witnessed family celebrations again and again. It remembered the birth of children, carefree laughter, moments of sorrow, and the final farewells to those who had left forever. All of it still lingered quietly between these walls. That was why it felt so peaceful here. Little by little, my awkwardness faded away.

I helped Nona bring the dishes to the table, and before long we were all sitting together as though I had always been part of the family.

We ate oven-roasted meat with potatoes, delicious homemade dolmades wrapped in tender vine leaves prepared by Aunt Nona's caring hands, creamy fava generously drizzled with olive oil and topped with capers, fresh village bread, and home-cured olives.

Then, for dessert, Nona proudly carried in her famous apple pie. It was still warm. Its sweet aroma instantly filled the room. I carefully broke off a small piece with my fork. The delicate flaky pastry simply melted on my tongue, while the baked apples with cinnamon retained just enough firmness to give the gentlest little bite.

"I've never tasted an apple pie this delicious anywhere," I couldn't help saying.

Nona smiled with quiet satisfaction, as though she had been waiting all evening to hear those exact words.

Leonidas looked at me with a mischievous grin.

"Remember? The day we met, I told you my aunt's pie was famous throughout the whole village."

I looked up at him while finishing another bite.

"I remember."

I nodded confidently.

"You were right. But there was one thing you got wrong."

"Oh?" Leonidas looked at me in surprise.

"And what was that?"

"This really is the best apple pie..." I paused deliberately.

"...but not in the whole village."

I smiled.

"It's the best apple pie in the entire world."

Laughter burst around the table. Even Michalis slapped his palm against the table with satisfaction.

"There you are!" he exclaimed. "See? A clever girl! I've been trying to explain that to Nona for forty years, and she still doesn't believe me!"

"Of course I don't," Nona snorted. "Because you say exactly the same thing every time you want a second slice."

Everyone laughed again.

A gentle breeze drifted in through the open window. Cool, damp air filled the room. It smelled of rain, though not a single drop had fallen yet.

"Look at that!" Michalis was the first to turn toward the window, almost bouncing from his chair.

"It has been threatening to rain since early this morning. The whole day was eerily still—not a breath of wind. Even the sea hasn't stirred. But now, by evening... I think it's finally coming. We need the rain. Looks like this summer is going to be a scorching one."

One after another, everyone followed his gaze. The sky had grown darker. Heavy lead-colored clouds were gathering above the distant hills. For a moment, silence settled over the living room.

Taking advantage of the pause, Leonidas looked at his aunt.

"Nona," he said with a smile, "Nicole has a present for you."

At once I felt my nervousness return. Until that moment I had almost forgotten about the painting, but now my heart began pounding as though I were about to sit an important examination. I had no idea whether Nona would like my gift.

She looked at me with surprise.

"My dear girl," she said gently, "you shouldn't have troubled yourself. We're simply celebrating as a family. The fact that you've come to celebrate with me is already a wonderful gift."

I only smiled.

Without a word, I bent down beside my chair, took out the carefully wrapped package, and handed it to her. My heart was beating even faster now.

"But what is it?" she asked curiously, glancing from me to Leonidas.

"Well, open it and see," Leonidas said with a smile.

Nona carefully took the package into her hands. Using her fingernail, she gently lifted the corners of the wrapping paper, almost afraid to tear it, as though the wrapping itself were part of the gift. At last, the paper slowly unfolded.

"Oh..."

Her hand rose instinctively to her heart. Then came a long silence.

She looked at the painting so intently that it seemed she was not looking at a canvas at all, but through a long-forgotten window into the past. Finally she lifted her eyes to us. I saw tears welling up in them. Her lips trembled. It seemed the gift had touched something deep inside her—something she had carried close to her heart for many years like a precious memory. My own eyes began to sting.

She held the painting in her hands, trying to speak, but her breathing kept catching, and the words refused to come. She could only sigh softly, slowly shaking her head without taking her eyes off the painting.

"Michalis... look," she whispered, her voice trembling as she held the canvas out to him with both hands.

"It's our shore..."

Her voice faltered.

"The shore of our village... covered with the scarlet roses Maria planted so many years ago."

She gently ran her fingers over the painted petals.

"It's exactly as it was... Just as it was all those years ago... When we were still so young... When she was still alive..."

Just then, the first drops of rain began tapping against the window. Few in number, but large and bright.

"You've truly touched her, Nicole," Michalis said quietly, closing his eyes as he wiped away tears with the back of his hand.

"Oh... if only you knew how close she and Maria were. Closer than many sisters ever are."

Silence settled over the table once again.

"You know, Godmamma," Leonidas said gently, taking her hand, "the day Nicole came into our tavern, she was painting that very shore. Back then she knew nothing about Maria. And yet... she painted the roses. As though she had seen them with her own eyes."

He looked at me, then back at Nona.

"And only afterward did I tell her the story. Isn't it remarkable? I promised her that one day you would tell her everything yourself."

Nona took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady herself.

"Oh, my dear girl..." She looked at the painting again.

"This is a very special story... Just as Maria herself was."

Slowly she lifted the canvas to her lips, soft now with age and crossed by the delicate web of fine wrinkles, and gently kissed the thick, textured brushstrokes of dried crimson paint. Then she placed the painting on the table, leaning it carefully against the crystal decanter. Without another word, she rose and walked to an old chest of drawers topped with two bronze ballerinas. She opened the upper drawer and took out a slender church candle and a tiny brass candlestick. She struck a match. The little flame flared almost soundlessly.

"Oh, Maria..." she whispered.

"How I wish you had not left us so soon."

She placed the candle directly before the painting, as though it were not a work of art but a family shrine. At that very moment, a gust of wind threw the window wide open. Cool air rushed into the room together with scattered drops of rain. The shutter slammed hard against the stone wall. The candle flame quivered, danced wildly in the wind— but it did not go out. Without thinking, all of us fixed our eyes on it. Leonidas silently rose, closed the window, and drew the linen curtains tightly shut. The room fell quiet again. Only the steady drumming of rain on the roof could now be heard.

Nona slowly returned to her seat. She held her hand close to the flame.

"My dear girl," she said softly.

"Nicole... Your gift has stirred something deep inside me. It has awakened memories I have carried for many years."

She closed her eyes for a moment.

"I will tell you everything... Exactly as it happened. It is an unusual story. A very special one... Just as Maria herself was."

I froze.

My palms suddenly turned cold. My heart fluttered like a wounded bird, struggling to break free from my chest. Something in her words echoed deep within me, like the tolling of a great cathedral bell, resonating through my very soul.

Nona let out a heavy sigh.

"I wish I could tell you this story has a happy ending," she continued quietly.

"But... I imagine you've already guessed that it does not."

Outside, the rain grew heavier.

"And yet," she went on softly, "what Maria left behind in her short life will be remembered for many, many generations. Some people live long lives and disappear without leaving a trace. Others are granted only a few years... yet become a light for those who come after them. Maria was one of those."

Nona paused, as though preparing us for a long journey into the past.

"Maria was born here, in our village, in a little house by the sea."

She began speaking very quietly, never taking her eyes from the candle flame.

"The birth was difficult. The village midwives would later tell the story for years afterward. When they lifted the newborn into their arms, every one of them gasped. The baby's hair already reached her shoulders—bright copper-red, like the first light of dawn above the sea. Her skin was delicate and pale as porcelain. And her eyes... they were the color of the sea itself. They said the child seemed to glow from within."

A faint smile touched Nona's lips.

"And that was when the old women said, 'This little girl will bring light to our village...

and with her, good fortune.'"

She turned her gaze to me.

"You know... sometimes old people say remarkably wise things."

She smiled faintly.

"And that's exactly what happened. Maria grew older and more beautiful with every passing year. But it wasn't even her beauty that people remembered most. Whenever she was near, a strange sense of peace would settle over everyone around her.

Our families were close, and we spent almost our entire childhood together. Every Easter, every Christmas, and on every feast day, our families gathered around one table—sometimes at their house, sometimes here at ours."

Nona slowly looked around the room.

"Right here... in this very house."

For a moment, I found myself believing that these walls truly remembered the little red-haired girl.

"There is one moment I remember especially well," Nona continued.

"One summer day, just as always, our families had gathered here on the veranda. It was August fifteenth—the Feast of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary. A great holiday. And, of course, the name day of everyone called Maria. Maria and I couldn't have been more than five years old.

The women hurried back and forth between the kitchen and the veranda, setting the table, carrying dishes, laughing, talking, opening and closing the front door. The men were sitting outside in the yard, discussing their own affairs. Neighbors had come, relatives too. You know how it is on feast days—noise, laughter, endless bustle. Our parents had no time to watch us children.

We had a cat with kittens then. She was ginger too—the very same shade as Maria's hair. The kittens were tiny, only just beginning to walk, clumsily tumbling into every corner.

Maria, the other children, and I were playing outside when suddenly we heard someone scream. All the children ran toward the house. I saw my mother standing in the doorway with both hands covering her face. And there, lying motionless in the doorway... was one of the kittens. Someone had accidentally slammed the door on it. I burst into tears. I felt so sorry for the little kitten."

Nona lowered her eyes.

"But Maria... Maria didn't cry."

Her voice became quieter.

"Without a single tear, without saying a word, she walked over, gently picked up the kitten, held it against her chest, and began rocking it like a baby, softly singing some little children's song to it.

Silence fell. Everyone stopped talking. All we could hear was her voice. I remember my mother quietly walking over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder, and saying gently, 'Let him go, Maria... he's asleep now. Very deeply asleep.'"

Nona looked up.

"And then..."

She paused again.

We all sat perfectly still. Even Michalis stopped moving.

"Then, all at once... we saw something move in Maria's hands. The kitten took a deep breath... and opened its eyes."

No one spoke.

The room seemed to tighten with silence. A shiver ran down my spine.

Nona continued.

"Everyone simply stood there in astonishment. Maria looked up at my mother and, as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened, said, 'No... it's far too early for him to sleep. It's only noon.'

Then she quietly carried the kitten back to the shed and laid him beside his mother. That kitten grew into a big, fluffy cat and lived with us for many years."

Nona slowly shook her head, as though confirming every word.

"Did Maria herself understand what had happened that day? I don't know. And for everyone else, it remained a mystery.

But after that... the whole village began whispering that Maria had been given a true gift."

She fell silent for a moment.

"Maria grew older... and so did the stories about her.

People began coming to her—first from our own village, then from neighboring ones. They asked her to help cure a child with measles, to drive misfortune away from a family, to heal loved ones suffering from terrible illnesses.

I don't know how Maria did it."

Nona spread her hands.

"Perhaps by a touch... perhaps simply by being there. All I know is that she helped everyone. She never turned anyone away. And she never accepted anything in return. She helped people simply because she wanted to. That was who she was."

She smiled sadly.

"Very often, without Maria knowing, people would ask her father to accept gifts instead. Someone would bring a basket of fruit. Someone else would leave olive oil. Others secretly slipped him money. Sometimes it was difficult for him to refuse. They were not wealthy people. Any help was welcome. Maria knew what was happening... but she never said a word. She loved her father deeply and understood that, because of his kind heart, he simply couldn't bring himself to say no to people."

Leonidas listened without saying a word.

I noticed his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, as though he had heard this story countless times before, yet each time it wounded him just the same.

Nona smiled again.

"And then Maria grew into a truly breathtaking young woman. Her beauty was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It seemed to shine from within. I still remember looking at her and feeling happier simply because she was there. Everything around her seemed more alive. Her home stood by the sea, not far from the place where you were painting.

I remember that on her twentieth birthday her father gave her an unusual gift. Together they planted dozens of rose bushes right there on the shore, almost at the water's edge, among the sand and stones. Everyone thought they had lost their minds.

'What are you doing?' the neighbors laughed.

'Roses don't grow by the sea!'

But her father only smiled.

He adored Maria. She was everything to him.

That day he told her,

'As long as these roses bloom... love will always live here.'"

"Time passed. Maria cared for the roses. She watered them, talked to them as though they were alive. The bushes grew stronger and larger, and every May the shoreline burst into scarlet bloom. It looked as though someone had scattered thousands of living rubies across the sand. From a distance the beach resembled an enchanted garden that had somehow grown where no garden should ever exist. People came from far away just to see that miracle."

Nona smiled thoughtfully.

"And as the roses bloomed... so did our village. Maria seemed to belong to nature itself—to this very place. Sometimes it felt as though she could hear the birds, understand the animals... even listen to the whisper of the waves.

Before long, word of Maria spread far beyond Halkidiki. People came from distant places. They stayed in our village, seeking her help. Others came simply to see the roses blooming on the sand. The village truly began to prosper. Small hotels were built. Tavernas opened. Local people finally began earning a good living. It seemed as though fortune itself had smiled upon our little shore."

Her smile slowly faded.

"But then, one day, a very important visitor arrived from Athens. He was a famous shipowner. A man of unimaginable wealth. He had everything... except happiness. His daughter was gravely ill. She was Maria's age. Just a young girl whose life had barely begun. Money could buy him almost anything... but not what mattered most. No matter which doctors he took her to, no one could help. She had a rare form of leukemia."

Nona slowly shook her head.

"The poor father had almost lost hope when someone told him about Maria.

'Go to her,' they said. 'Maria performs real miracles.'

At first he only laughed.

But when your last hope disappears... even the impossible begins to seem worth believing.

So he came. And, just as Maria instructed, he left his daughter in their home for three days.

I saw that girl myself. She was thin... pale... almost transparent. It seemed as though life itself was slipping away from her. But Maria welcomed her exactly as she welcomed everyone else. Without questions. Without promises.

Three days later the wealthy father returned for his daughter... but he saw no change. He became furious. Yet Maria calmly said to him,

'Go home. Give her your love and your care. Then, in a month's time, take her back to the doctor.'

He didn't believe her. He waved his hand dismissively, turned around, and slammed the door behind him. He took his daughter home. But a month later, almost despite himself, he did exactly as Maria had told him.

At the hospital, the doctors could hardly believe the results. They repeated the tests once. Then again. And a third time. Every result was the same. His daughter was completely healthy. As though the illness had never existed. It was a miracle."

The room fell completely silent. Even the rain outside seemed to soften, as though it had begun falling more gently.

"But the story didn't end there," Nona continued.

"He returned to Maria filled with gratitude. People said he fell to his knees, begging her to forgive him for not believing her. He wanted to give her money. Gold. Anything she wished. But Maria accepted nothing.

You saw that white marble fountain in the village square, didn't you?"

Nona looked at me.

I nodded.

"That beautiful one, carved from some rare white marble. Noah's Ark—the symbol of salvation. It wasn't built by chance. Maria had healed his daughter. She had saved her life. So he built that fountain as a token of gratitude. And on the pedestal he had these words engraved:

A Gift to the Village, with Boundless Gratitude, from Dionysis Theodorakis.

That was exactly how he wrote it, because, as you've already understood, Maria would never accept gifts or money for herself."

The wind grew stronger. Outside, the olive branches rustled softly against one another.

Nona sighed and, without even realizing it, gently drew the burning candle a little closer to the painting.

Then her voice dropped. She leaned forward and began speaking almost in a whisper. Even Michalis stopped reaching for another piece of pie.

"But then..."

Her voice became even quieter, as though she feared someone else might overhear.

"Then very different rumors began spreading through the village. People whispered that Theodorakis had given Maria some kind of treasure. Some claimed they were ancient jewels. Others said it was gold. Still others insisted it was something far more valuable.But everyone agreed on one thing. He hadn't given those treasures to Maria herself. He had given them to her father.

Theodorakis was a man of tremendous influence. He wasn't accustomed to hearing the word 'no.' And so Maria's father finally gave in. He went against his daughter's wishes."

Leonidas leaned forward without realizing it.

"And what happened then?" he asked quietly.

Nona looked into the candle flame.

"People said that Maria soon learned about the wealthy man's gifts. But do you know something? She never spoke a single word of reproach to her father.She asked only one thing."

She fell silent for a few moments, as though listening once more to words spoken long ago.

"Hide them so well that one day even you yourself will forget the way to them. Let them remain where neither greed nor curiosity can ever find them. And when the one they truly belong to finally comes... you won't have to ask. Your heart will know."

The silence that followed was so deep that I could hear the candlewick softly crackling. Only then did I realize that I hadn't taken a breath the entire time.

"And did that person ever come?" Leonidas asked with quiet curiosity.

"Who knows, my boy... who knows."

Nona shrugged.

"What those treasures really were remained a mystery. There were plenty of people who searched for them. All kinds came here. They questioned everyone, wandered along the shore, dug wherever they pleased, invented one theory after another. But every one of them eventually left empty-handed. Not a single one ever found the treasure."

She looked at the painting once more.

"Although Maria and I were very close, she never once spoke to me about it. Not a single word. She had no brothers or sisters. She was her parents' only child. No one knew her secret except her mother and father."

She smiled faintly.

"We grew up together. We became young women together. Many young men admired Maria. More than one hoped to marry her. But not everyone dared approach her. Some were afraid. They knew there was something extraordinary about her. Whenever someone stood beside Maria, they couldn't help becoming exactly who they truly were."

Nona smiled, as though a memory had quietly returned.

"I remember one day she came to see me. She was glowing. Her cheeks were rosy. Her eyes were overflowing with happiness. Yet her thoughts were somewhere far away. The moment I saw her, I knew she had met someone."

For an instant, Nona herself seemed to return to that distant spring.

"She hardly told me anything about him. Not his name. Not where he had come from. But people whispered that they had often seen the two of them together out on the cape."

She raised a finger, pointing somewhere into the distance.

"There's a place here... If you follow the shoreline, pass the roses, climb over the great slippery boulders, you'll come to a high rocky cape. The sunsets there are so breathtaking they steal your breath away. The old people used to say that long ago a temple to one of the ancient gods once stood there. Now nothing remains but stones... and the wind. Hardly anyone ever went there. Except lovers..."

She smiled softly.

"There was a young man from our village who courted Maria. He asked her to marry him again and again. But Maria always refused. People said that he wasn't the man she met on the cape. That other man was a stranger. Not from our village."

The candle flame flickered... then grew still again.

"I remember meeting Maria on the beach one day. It was a bright morning in May. The roses were blooming more beautifully than ever before. The sea shimmered, scattering diamonds across the gentle waves."

Nona closed her eyes, as though she could still see it.

"She was in love. There was simply no mistaking it."

She smiled again.

"As I looked at Maria, I noticed something glimmering at her neck. A pendant hung from a delicate silver chain. It was beautiful. A deep blue sapphire set in an intricate silver filigree, as though it had been crafted by hand.

'Maria... what is that?' I asked.

Without saying a word, she gently took the pendant into her palm, so tenderly, as though it were more precious to her than anything in the world.She lowered her eyes, grew thoughtful, and quietly said,

'It's a gift.'"

"And didn't she tell you who had given it to her?" I couldn't help asking Nona.

Nona clicked her tongue and lifted her chin—the unmistakable Greek gesture that meant a firm no.

"Nothing more."

She shrugged.

"My dear girl, I respected her silence. I knew that if she wasn't telling me, then there was a reason. Besides... why should anyone force their way into a place where they haven't been invited? For a while, she truly was happy. Everything about her spoke of a heart that was in love."

"And how do you know that?" Michalis interrupted unexpectedly, reaching for another piece of pie.

"Maybe there wasn't any man at all. Maybe someone she had helped gave her the pendant. After all, she never told you anything herself."

Nona didn't even bother turning toward him.

"You just eat and listen!" she snorted.

Everyone smiled.

"There was no need for her to tell me," she said with a knowing grin.

"Women can sense these things from a distance.

Men..."

She waved a dismissive hand toward her husband as though brushing away an annoying fly.

"Men sometimes fail to notice even the most obvious things."

Michalis spread his hands dramatically, making everyone laugh once again.

"So... what happened next?" Leonidas asked, his voice now serious.

"Well then... listen carefully."

Nona's expression grew solemn.

She picked up her glass, took a long drink of water, and sat in silence for several seconds.

"And then... one day... I saw Maria..."

She lowered her eyes to the candle flame.

"And I barely recognized her."

 

Maria was trembling that day. No... trembling wasn't even the right word. She was frightened. Her whole body shook as she stood before me, her eyes constantly darting from side to side. Not as though she were looking for someone... No. It was as if she feared someone was following her. 

Outside, a deep, rolling clap of thunder echoed across the sky, as though it had risen from the very depths of heaven.

For a moment, Nona fell silent, staring blankly toward the window.

"So... what happened?" Mihalis urged impatiently.

She took another sip of water.

"I had never seen Maria like that before. I simply pulled her into my arms and stroked her thick hair. It smelled of roses.  Little by little, the trembling stopped. Then she looked out toward the sea. The light upon the water was reflected in her eyes. She took my hand, gently caressed my palm, looked once more toward the horizon, and almost whispered..."

"Every evening the sun falls into the sea... but does anyone believe it has died? It simply goes where it is meant to be until dawn."

 Nona paused.

Without realizing it, I had been holding my breath.

She swallowed hard, struggling against the tears gathering in her eyes.

"That was when everything began," she continued quietly.

"After that day, Maria changed. She withdrew into herself. We rarely saw each other anymore. And when we did, our meetings were brief. She was always somewhere inside her own thoughts. As though she were afraid. Terribly afraid."

"Or... of someone?" I asked softly.

Nona kept her eyes on the candle before answering.

"Or someone..."

She spoke the words almost in a whisper.

A flash of lightning split the sky outside. An instant later came another crash of thunder—sharp this time, like an explosion. I flinched. A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, knocking over a clay flowerpot and smashing it into pieces. The candle flame shivered, stretched into a thin golden thread, then steadied once more.

"From that day on," Nona continued,

"Maria often spoke about death. But not the way people usually do. Never with sorrow. She spoke of it in riddles... in images... As though death itself were simply another part of life."

She slowly traced her fingers around the rim of her glass.

"I'll admit... I didn't always understand her. Sometimes it seemed she wasn't speaking to me at all... but to eternity itself. Back then I thought they were simply beautiful, mysterious words. But every conversation left an uneasiness in my heart."

She sighed deeply.

Silence settled over the room. Even Michalis, who was rarely still for more than a moment, sat quietly with his eyes lowered to his plate.

"And then... then something happened that no one could ever have imagined."

She barely whispered the words.

"At dawn one morning, we were awakened by the bells of the village church. Not the joyful bells of Sunday. Not a feast day. It was the alarm. They rang loudly... urgently... without stopping. I jumped out of bed. My mother was already standing by the door, hurriedly throwing a shawl over her shoulders. My father had gone out to sea before sunrise to fish. We rushed outside. The villagers were running through the streets, all in the same direction—down toward the shore. Someone on the beach was shouting, 'Over here! Over here!' My mother grabbed my hand, and we ran with everyone else. When we reached the sea, a crowd had already gathered. Everyone stood silently, staring into the distance. I squeezed my way forward until at last I could see the water. 

The sun had only just begun to rise above the horizon. Above the calm surface, seagulls circled in frantic confusion. They cried so piercingly that your heart ached just hearing them. They wheeled over the same spot again and again, so wildly they nearly collided in midair. They circled something that couldn't yet be seen from shore.

Out of the morning mist, the fishing boats that had sailed before dawn slowly approached that place. My father's boat was among them. I remember thinking perhaps a great fish had entered our bay, and the fishermen were surrounding it. 

But it wasn't a fish. It was Maria."

 Nona's voice faltered.

For a long moment she could not continue. Then, quietly, she went on.

"The boats came ashore carrying Maria's body. The men lifted her gently and laid her upon the wet sand. A muffled cry swept through the crowd. Someone began to sob aloud. Someone crossed themselves. Someone turned away, unable to look.

My legs gave way beneath me. My whole body went weak. I fell to my knees beside her.

"Mariiia..." The cry tore from me in utter despair.

"She lay there so peacefully... as though she had simply fallen asleep. There was such perfect serenity upon her face... the serenity of eternal rest. Bright drops of seawater rolled down her cheeks in the sunlight like tears. Her hair, darkened by the sea to the color of burnished copper, spread across the sand in heavy strands like the arms of an octopus. Her simple white cotton dress, soaked through with seawater, clung softly to her body, tracing every curve and blending with the whiteness of her skin.

"I took her hand. It was still soft. But already cold. The seagulls still circled overhead. Their cries were no longer cries. They sounded like mourning. And only the sea remained untouched. Gentle waves quietly rolled ashore, tenderly washing over her bare feet.

Then something changed. I felt movement behind me. The crying stopped. The sobbing fell silent. I turned around. The crowd slowly parted. Maria's father stepped forward.

Everyone froze. A silence so complete settled over us that it seemed time itself had stopped. Even the seagulls fell silent for a moment. And what I saw in his eyes..."

Nona's voice nearly disappeared.

"...I have never forgotten. I saw pain beyond anything a human soul should ever endure. It was as though every torment of hell itself had been unleashed upon him.

"Aaaaah!" rang out in the silence, a terrifying, guttural, almost inhuman cry from her father, echoing off the rocks.
He collapsed, clinging so tightly to her lifeless body, as if he wanted to warm her with his heart.

He stroked her wet hair, kissed her cold forehead.

"Maria! No, no!" he repeated over and over, denying what had happened.
No one could believe it then. For everyone in the village, this was not just a great grief; it was comparable to the sun suddenly stopping shining and the world being plunged into darkness forever.

But there was one strange thing. I didn't think much of it then. Only later did I remember. When they found Maria.. the sapphire pendant she always wore was gone. The one on the delicate silver chain. The one she treasured so dearly. I asked my parents. I asked the fishermen. No one had seen it that morning. And no one ever discovered what truly happened.

Maria was an excellent swimmer. She had grown up by the sea. It almost seemed the waves themselves carried her whenever she entered the water. The police investigated for only a short time. They ruled it an accident. They said she must have slipped on the wet rocks, struck her head, lost consciousness... and the sea had claimed her. The case was closed. And the truth remained buried with it."

The room fell silent.

The candle flame leaned against the rim of the holder. It flared brightly one last time. It trembled. Shivered. And went out.

No one moved.

 

We silently watched the thin ribbon of smoke slowly rising into the air. Even Mihalis didn't utter a single one of his usual jokes.

"It was a great tragedy," Nona continued, almost in a whisper. "For their family... and for our entire village.

Maria's grief-stricken parents could not come to terms with what had happened. People came to their home every day to offer condolences. They brought flowers. They came from all the surrounding villages. No matter how unbearable their sorrow was, the doors of their house were always open.

Maria's father used to say,

"If my daughter's soul were looking at me now, she would never forgive me if I closed my door to someone who came with a kind heart."

He said those words, while with every passing day he himself slowly faded away.

But soon something else happened. It was already the end of May. The weather was beautiful, almost like summer. As it had for many years, our village began filling with visitors as summer approached. The first tourists were already strolling barefoot along the shore, admiring the blooming roses. Life did not stand still.

Painful as it was for everyone, the villagers tried to return to their everyday lives. Some reopened the doors of their little hotels and filled their blue swimming pools with fresh water. The taverns carried their tables and chairs outside beneath the shade of sprawling grapevines. The owners of the souvenir shops carefully arranged their displays: little statues of the ancient gods, simple magnets, hand-painted plates covered with roses, and kitchenware carved from natural olive wood.

It seemed as though everything was slowly becoming normal again. But then, on one completely ordinary morning, something happened that forever divided the life of our village into before and after.

Maria's parents mourned. But it was her father who suffered most. The wound was still fresh. The grief was unbearable. Everything reminded him of Maria. Even the breath of the wind. But more than anything, it was the view from his window that wounded him—the shore... the sea... and the roses... Those very roses they had planted together. He remembered Maria laughing with dirt on her hands. He remembered how they had dreamed of seeing how large the bushes would become many years later. But now those roses wounded him so deeply that every thorn seemed to pierce his very heart.

That spring they bloomed with such complete devotion, giving away all of their beauty as though it were their last spring. And it was.

The father's pain became unbearable. He took a pruning knife, walked down to the shore, and began cutting the roses. Bush after bush. Flower after flower. Every single blossom. He gathered them into his arms, walked to the water, and scattered them across the sea in memory of Maria. For a long time afterward, the scarlet petals rocked upon the waves, drifting farther and farther across the surface like drops of blood that could never again be gathered back together. 

Soon afterward, Maria's parents left the village. They left everything behind. They boarded up their house. They went somewhere nothing would remind them of the beloved daughter they had lost. Where they went, they told no one. "

Nona spread her hands.

"From that day on, everything in our village fell apart. It was as though fortune itself had turned its back on us. The old people used to say it was the curse of the gods—for failing to protect Maria, the gift Heaven itself had given us.

Tourists came less and less often. It even seemed as though the people from neighboring villages began avoiding our bay altogether. The hotels closed. The shops stood empty. Only a couple of taverns remained open—ours and the one next door. And even ... we've survived only by God's grace. Everything changed."

Nona fell silent for a moment.

"And do you know what was the strangest thing?" Nona said quietly, looking at me.

"The rose bushes never died. Every spring they covered themselves in thick green leaves. They sent out new shoots. They lived... But from that very day on... they never bloomed again."

"Never?" Mihalis asked in disbelief.

"As if you didn't already know," Nona shot him a stern look.

"Never. They continue to live... but they never bloom. As though their souls had left them."

She fell silent for another moment before continuing.

"After that I often came back to that shore. I kept waiting, hoping that any day now the roses would bloom again. It seemed to me that if they did, Maria herself would return with them. But nothing could ever be brought back. I wandered around their abandoned house. I watched the seagulls flying overhead. I stared out at the horizon. Only the sea knew what had happened that day. But it remained silent— the only witness that had taken that secret with it forever."

Nona lifted her eyes to the painting. She looked at it for a long time.

Then, very quietly, she said,

"Maria will remain in my heart forever... just as she will in the hearts of so many of us. Only many years later did I understand one thing. Maria didn't perform miracles. She... was the miracle."

The storm had passed.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as quietly as the raindrops slid down the windowpane.

Nona was an extraordinary storyteller.

As I listened, I saw the entire story unfold so vividly in my imagination that it felt as though I had lived through it beside her.

I saw Maria as a little girl running barefoot along the shore. I saw their carefree childhood. Their years of inseparable friendship. The scarlet roses blooming beside the sea. Her first love. The fear in her eyes... And that terrible morning when the sea returned her lifeless body to the village. And the more I thought about Maria, the more deeply I felt that this story still held far too many secrets. Far too many questions that no one had ever answered.

Without a word, Leonidas placed his hand gently on my shoulder and drew me close.There was so much warmth and tenderness in that simple gesture, as though a bird were sheltering its chick beneath its wing.

I closed my eyes. And for the first time that entire evening, I no longer wanted to search for answers. I wanted to remain in his embrace forever.