Chapter 12. Maria

Leonidas knocked on the door. 

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

"Nonaaa!" he called again, this time louder, his voice carrying a note of gentle insistence.

No one answered. The house remained quiet. He glanced at me. I smiled awkwardly and gave a small shrug.

"She's home, Nicole. She's expecting us," Leonidas said with quiet confidence, as though trying to ease my nervousness. He seemed to understand perfectly that familiar mixture of shyness and uncertainty everyone feels the first time they step into someone else's home.

He turned the handle. The door wasn't locked. Taking my hand with quiet assurance, he gently invited me inside. We stepped across the threshold.

A small living room opened before us. The ceilings were low, just as they are in many old traditional Greek homes. The room rested in a pleasant twilight, broken only by the soft gray daylight filtering through a small open window. The light shimmered gently across a crystal water decanter standing in the middle of a round dining table. 

Long ago, Greeks built windows this small for a reason. During the scorching summers they kept the interiors cool, while in winter the thick stone walls held precious warmth inside the house. The round dining table was covered with an immaculate white lace tablecloth. Every plate, every fork and spoon had been arranged with such care that it seemed each place had been waiting patiently for its guest since morning.

From somewhere beyond the living room came the sounds of a busy kitchen. Dishes clinked softly, water ran in the sink, and the oven door shut with a muted thud. A warm cloud of freshly baked sweetness drifted into the room, lazily settling into every corner.

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

"I'm coming, my love!" her warm voice answered from the other side of the wall. "I'm coming!"

A moment later, quick shuffling footsteps crossed the floor. Then Nona appeared. Today her thick curls seemed even more carefully arranged than usual, and her eyes were lined more boldly, dressed for the celebration.

"My 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. The hug lasted much longer than I expected. They had seen each other only days before, yet they held one another as though years had passed since their last meeting. Then Nona slowly turned toward me. She looked at me quietly, her eyes lingering with such tenderness that every trace of my nervousness simply disappeared.

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

She embraced me just as warmly, 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,

"Oh... how wonderful... how very wonderful..."

The way she held her hands against her heart felt almost like a blessing. It was as if she had already decided something for both of us. The thought embarrassed me... yet, strangely enough, it filled me with warmth. She had accepted me. I smiled shyly and lowered my eyes. Leonidas laughed. He had understood his aunt's unmistakable hint as well.

"Why are you all still standing there?" Nona exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Come, come! Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. No one is leaving this house hungry today."

She gestured toward the table. We had barely taken our seats when a raspy male voice boomed from the next room.

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

A man's silhouette emerged from the dim hallway.

"Why is it so dark in here?" he said with theatrical seriousness. "Didn't anyone tell you electricity was invented years ago?"

With a playful grin he flicked the light switch. The room changed instantly. Warm golden light settled gently across the lace tablecloth, awakened sparkling reflections inside the crystal decanter, breathed new life into the old furniture, and somehow made the entire house feel warmer.

Standing before us was a slender man with neatly trimmed silver moustache and curly gray hair that formed dozens of tiny ringlets. He wore a perfectly pressed pale-blue short-sleeved shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers. It was obvious he had prepared himself carefully for the evening.

"There you go again with your jokes," Nona laughed, waving him off with affectionate resignation.

"Go and introduce yourself to Leonidas's friend. Just look what a beautiful young woman he brought with him."

At once the man straightened his shoulders, smoothed his curls with his palm, and approached me with all the dignity of an old-fashioned gentleman—though the broad grin spreading across his face made him look rather like a thoroughly pleased cat.

"My name is Michalis," he announced, smiling so broadly that the words barely escaped between his teeth.

"I'm Nicole," I replied with a polite nod.

"Ah, Nicole! So your saint is Saint Nicholas!"

His eyes lit up.

"A wonderful saint! The Great Miracle Worker himself. You should be proud to carry such a name. Every year, on December sixth, we celebrate him in the village square. The whole village gathers together. And you know..."

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

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

"It's burnt!" Michalis declared dramatically, shaking his head in exaggerated despair.

"Oh, stop your croaking!" Nona shot back over her shoulder as she hurried toward the kitchen as fast as her legs would carry her.

A moment later the oven door opened. Almost instantly an even richer fragrance of baked apples, butter, and cinnamon filled the house.

Leonidas and Michalis soon disappeared into an animated conversation about the tavern, mutual friends, and village affairs—people and stories I knew nothing about. I hardly spoke. Instead, I found myself quietly studying the house around me. It felt less like someone's living room and more like the set of an old Greek film—except here everything was wonderfully real. Everywhere stood objects that belonged to another era: bronze ballerinas frozen forever in graceful pirouettes; embroidered wall hangings framed in heavy dark wood, once considered the height of home decoration; silver candlesticks softened by the noble patina of time; black-and-white photographs of strangers who seemed to watch silently over everyone entering the room. The house possessed a rare kind of warmth. 

It suddenly occurred to me that a house acquires its own scent only after generations have lived within its walls. This house was alive. It didn't merely breathe. It spoke. Perhaps that is why new houses, however beautiful, always seem strangely silent.

Years of life could be read in every corner. This living room had witnessed birthdays, laughter, tears, celebrations, and final farewells to those who would never return. All of it still lingered quietly within these walls. And little by little, my awkwardness melted away.

I helped Nona carry the dishes to the table, and before long we were sitting together as though I had always belonged to their family. We shared slow-roasted lamb with potatoes, tender dolmades wrapped in delicate vine leaves, creamy fava drizzled generously with olive oil and sprinkled with capers, warm village bread, and homemade olives.

Then, with unmistakable ceremony, Nona carried in her famous apple pie. It was still warm. Its sweet aroma instantly filled the room. Carefully, I broke off a small piece with my fork. The delicate flaky pastry melted on my tongue, while the baked apples, fragrant with cinnamon, still held the slightest pleasant firmness.

"I've never tasted an apple pie this delicious anywhere," I admitted.

Nona smiled with quiet satisfaction, as though she had been waiting all evening to hear exactly those words. Leonidas looked at me with a mischievous grin.

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

I looked up at him while finishing another bite.

"I believe you now," I said, nodding. "You were absolutely right."

Then I paused deliberately.

"But..."

Leonidas frowned.

"But what?"

"It really is the best apple pie..."

I let the silence linger for another heartbeat.

"...just not in the whole village."

I smiled.

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

Everyone burst into laughter. Even Michalis slapped the table with satisfaction.

"There!" he exclaimed. "Now that's an intelligent young woman! I've been trying to convince Nona of that for forty years, and she still refuses to believe me!"

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

The room erupted with laughter once again.

A gentle breeze drifted through the open window. Cool, damp air slipped quietly into the room. It carried the unmistakable scent of rain. The rain itself had not yet arrived.

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

"It has been threatening to rain since dawn. The sea hasn't stirred all day—not a breath of wind. But now... I think it's finally coming. We need rain. This summer is going to be a scorching one."

One by one everyone turned toward the window. The sky had darkened. Heavy leaden clouds were gathering above the distant hills. For a moment, silence settled over the room.

Leonidas seized the opportunity.

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

At once my nervousness returned. Until that moment I had almost forgotten about the painting, but now my heart began beating so fast it felt as though I were about to sit an important examination. What if she didn't like it?

Nona looked at me in surprise.

"My dear girl," she said gently, "you really shouldn't have troubled yourself. We're celebrating as family. Having you both here is already the greatest gift."

I simply smiled.

Without saying a word, I bent down, lifted the carefully wrapped parcel from beside my chair, and placed it into her hands. My heartbeat quickened.

"But what is it?" she asked curiously, looking first at me, then at Leonidas.

"Open it," Leonidas said with an encouraging smile.

Nona carefully took the package. She lifted the edge of the wrapping paper with her fingernail, so delicately, as though she feared tearing it—as if the wrapping itself were part of the gift. Finally, the paper slowly unfolded.

"Oh..."

Her hand instinctively rose to her heart. Then came a long silence. She stared at the painting so intently that it seemed she was looking not at a canvas, but through a forgotten window into another lifetime. At last she raised her eyes toward us. Tears shimmered in them. Her lips trembled.

The painting had awakened something buried deep inside her—something she had carried beneath her heart for years like a sacred memory. My own eyes began to sting.

She held the canvas tightly, trying to speak, but her breathing faltered and the words refused to come. She only shook her head slowly, unable to take her eyes off the painting.

"Michalis... look..."

Her voice trembled. She held the canvas out with both hands.

"It's our shore..."

She swallowed.

"Our village... covered with the crimson roses Maria planted all those years ago."

Her fingertips gently traced the painted petals.

"Everything is exactly as it was... exactly as it looked when we were still young... when she was still alive."

Just then, the first raindrops struck the window.

They were few, but large enough to ring softly against the glass.

"You've touched her heart, Nicole," Michalis said quietly, wiping the moisture from the corners of his eyes without trying to hide it.

"You truly have."

He smiled sadly.

"If only you knew how close Maria and Nona were. Closer than many sisters ever become."

Silence returned to the table.

"You know, Nona" Leonidas said softly, taking her hand, "the day Nicole first came to the tavern, she painted exactly that shore."

He looked from me to Nona.

"She knew nothing about Maria then. And yet... somehow she painted the roses. As if she'd seen them with her own eyes."

He smiled.

"Only afterward did I tell her Maria's story. Isn't that extraordinary? I promised her that one day you'd tell the rest yourself."

Nona took a slow, steady breath.

"Oh, my dear girl..."

She looked once more at the painting.

"This story is unlike any other. Just as Maria herself was."

Very slowly she lifted the canvas toward her face. Her lips, soft and lined with the delicate traces of age, gently touched the thick crimson brushstrokes. She kissed the painting. Then she set it carefully upon the table, leaning it against the crystal decanter. 

Without speaking another word, she rose and walked toward the old chest of drawers where two bronze ballerinas stood frozen in eternal pirouettes. She opened the top drawer. From inside she took a slender church candle and a tiny brass candlestick. A match flared softly. The flame came to life.

"Ah... Maria..." she whispered.

"If only you hadn't left us so soon..."

She placed the candle directly before the painting, as though it were not a work of art, but a sacred family icon.

At that very moment the wind burst through the open window. Rain swept into the room on a sudden gust of cold air. The shutter slammed hard against the stone wall. The candle flame shivered. It danced. It bent beneath the wind... but it did not go out.

Without thinking, every one of us fixed our eyes upon it. Leonidas quietly rose, closed the window, and drew the linen curtains. The room fell silent once more. Only the rain remained, drumming steadily upon the roof. Nona slowly returned to her seat. She cupped one hand around the candle flame.

"My dear girl..."

She looked at me.

"Nicole... your gift has awakened memories I thought had long since fallen asleep."

She closed her eyes for a brief moment.

"I will tell you everything. Exactly as it happened. This is no ordinary story. It is as extraordinary as Maria herself."

I froze. Suddenly my palms turned cold. My heart fluttered like a wounded bird struggling to escape my chest. Something inside me answered her words—like the deep resonance of a great church bell whose sound is felt not in the ears, but in the heart.

Nona sighed deeply.

"I wish I could tell you this story has a happy ending," she said softly.

"But by now... you've probably guessed that it doesn't."

Outside, the rain grew heavier.

"And yet..." she continued quietly,

"what Maria left behind during her short life will be remembered for generations to come. There are people who live long lives and vanish without leaving a trace. And then there are those whose lives are brief... yet become a light for everyone who comes after them. Maria was one of those."

She paused, as though gathering strength before opening a door that had remained closed for many years.

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

She spoke softly, never taking her eyes from the candle flame.

"The birth was difficult. The midwives used to tell everyone that when they first lifted the baby into their arms, they gasped. Her hair already reached her shoulders. It was bright red, like the first light of dawn over the sea. Her skin was pale as porcelain."And her eyes... the color of the sea itself. They said the child seemed to glow from within."

A faint smile appeared on Nona's face.

"The old women looked at one another and said. This little girl will bring light to our village... and with her, good fortune."

She turned to me.

"You know... Old people sometimes say astonishingly wise things. And this time... they were right. As Maria grew older, she became more beautiful with every passing year. But it wasn't only her beauty. Whenever she was near...people somehow felt at peace. Our families were close. We spent almost our entire childhood together. Easter...Christmas... Every feast day. Sometimes at their house. Sometimes here."

She looked slowly around the room.

"Right here. In this very house."

For a moment, it truly seemed as though these walls remembered a little red-haired girl running through them.

"There is one memory I have never forgotten."

Nona smiled faintly.

"It was summer. The Feast of the Dormition. August fifteenth. A great celebration. And, of course, Maria's name day. We couldn't have been older than five. The women hurried back and forth between the kitchen and the veranda carrying platters of food. They laughed. They talked. The front door never stopped opening and closing. The men sat outside in the courtyard discussing their own affairs. Neighbours came. Relatives came. It was exactly the sort of happy chaos every holiday brings. No one was paying much attention to us children. We had a cat with kittens. Funny enough... She was the very same fiery shade as Maria's hair. The kittens had only just begun to walk. They kept tumbling into every corner of the yard. We were playing when suddenly we heard someone scream. All the children ran toward the house. I saw my mother standing in the doorway with both hands pressed over her mouth. And there... lying motionless beneath the door... was one of the kittens. Someone had accidentally slammed the door. I burst into tears. I felt so terribly sorry for it."

Nona lowered her eyes.

"But Maria... she didn't cry. Without a word she walked over... gently lifted the little kitten into her arms... held it against her chest... and began rocking it like a baby. She hummed a quiet children's lullaby. The whole house fell silent. We could hear only her voice. I remember my mother walking over. She rested a hand on Maria's shoulder and said softly,

"Leave him, Maria... he's fallen asleep... very deeply."

Nona looked up.

"And then..."

She paused. No one moved. Even Michalis had become perfectly still.

"...we saw something move. In Maria's arms. The kitten took a deep breath. And opened its eyes."

I felt a shiver run down my spine. Everyone had stopped breathing. Nona smiled through tears.

"Maria looked at my mother as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened and simply said," No... it's far too early for him to sleep. It's only midday."

Then she quietly carried the kitten back to its mother. It grew into a great fluffy cat and lived with us for many years."

Nona slowly shook her head, as if confirming the truth of her own words.

“Whether Maria herself understood what had happened that day—I cannot say. And for everyone else, it remained a mystery. But after that, the whole village began whispering that Maria had been given a true gift.

Maria grew older. And so did the stories about her. People began coming to her for help—first from our own village, then from neighboring ones. Some asked her to cure a child of measles, others begged her to lift misfortune from their families or heal a loved one from a terrible illness. I don't know how she did it,”

Nona said, spreading her hands.

“May be it was with a touch. May be simply by being there. But I know this—she helped everyone. She never turned anyone away, and she never accepted a single coin in return. Never. She helped because she simply couldn't do otherwise. Often, without Maria knowing, people would approach her father instead. Some would leave a basket of fruit, others bottles of olive oil, and some secretly slipped money into his hands. Sometimes it was difficult for him to refuse them. They were not a wealthy family. Any help was welcome. Maria knew it,”

 Nona continued softly.

”She understood what people were doing, but she never said a word. She loved her father with all her heart. She knew how difficult it was for him to say no to anyone.”

Leonidas listened silently.

I noticed his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, as though, despite hearing this story countless times, he was living through it all over again.

Nona smiled.

“Then Maria grew into an extraordinary young woman. There was a rare kind of beauty about her—a beauty that seemed to shine from within. You only had to look at her, and somehow your heart felt lighter. Everything around her seemed to awaken with life.

Her house stood by the sea, not far from the place where you painted. I remember her twentieth birthday. Her father gave her the most unusual gift. Together they planted dozens of rose bushes right there on the shore, among the sand and stones, almost at the water's edge. Everyone laughed.”

"What are you doing?" the neighbors teased.

"Roses don't grow by the sea!"

But her father only smiled. He adored Maria. She was his whole world. He told her,

‘As long as these roses bloom, love will never leave this shore.’”

Time passed. Maria cared for the roses as though they were living souls. She watered them, spoke to them, tended every bush with endless patience. The roses grew stronger. 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 appeared where no garden had any right to exist. People came from far away simply to witness the miracle.”

Nona smiled at the memory.

“And as the roses flourished, so did our village. Maria seemed woven into nature itself, into this very land. It felt as though she could hear the birds, understand the animals, even listen to the whisper of the waves. Before long, stories about Maria had spread far beyond Halkidiki. People traveled great distances to seek her help. Others came only to see the roses blooming from the sand. The village prospered. Small hotels were built. New tavernas opened. The locals finally began to earn a living. It seemed that fortune itself had smiled upon our little shore.

But one day,”

Nona continued,

“an important visitor arrived from Athens. He was a famous shipowner. An unimaginably wealthy man. Yet despite all his riches, he possessed none of the happiness he longed for. His daughter was gravely ill. She was Maria's age—just a young girl whose life had barely begun. Money could buy him anything. Anything except what mattered most. He took her to the finest doctors, yet none could help. A rare form of leukemia.”

Nona lowered her eyes.

“The poor man had nearly lost all hope when someone told him about Maria.

Go to her, they said. She works miracles.

At first he laughed. But when your last hope disappears... even the impossible begins to seem worth believing. He came to Maria. Following her instructions, he left his daughter in Maria's care for three days. I saw that girl myself,”

Nona whispered.

“She was terribly thin... pale... almost transparent. It seemed life was slipping away from her with every breath. Yet Maria welcomed her exactly as she welcomed everyone else. Without questions. Without promises. Three days later the father returned. At first he saw no change. He became furious. But Maria looked at him calmly and said,

“Take your daughter home. Give her your love and your care. Then, in one month's time, take her back to the doctors.”

He didn't believe her. He waved his hand dismissively, turned around, and left. Still... A month later he did exactly as she had told him. At the hospital the doctors thought there had been some mistake. They repeated the tests once. Then twice. Then a third time. The results never changed. The leukemia was gone. As though it had never existed. It was nothing short of a miracle.” 

The room fell completely silent. Even the rain seemed to soften against the windows.

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

“The man returned to Maria, overflowing with gratitude. People said he fell to his knees, begging her forgiveness for doubting her. He wanted to give her money. Gold. Anything she desired. But Maria accepted nothing. Do you remember the white marble fountain in our village square?”

Nona looked at me.

I nodded.

“The beautiful one,” she smiled. Carved from an exceptionally rare marble. The one called Noah's Ark. It wasn't built by chance. Maria had saved his daughter from death. So he built that fountain as a token of eternal gratitude. And on its 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 meant for herself.”

Outside, the wind grew stronger. Olive branches whispered against one another in the darkness. Without realizing it, Nona gently drew the burning candle a little closer to the painting. Then her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Even Michalis stopped reaching for another slice of pie.

“But then...”

She lowered her voice even further, as though afraid someone beyond the walls might hear.

“...people began whispering about something entirely different. They said that this same Theodorakis had given Maria treasures. Some claimed they were ancient jewels. Others believed they were gold. Still others insisted they were something far more valuable. But everyone agreed on one thing: he had not given them to Maria herself. He had entrusted them to her father. Theodorakis was far too powerful a man to accept the word no. In the end... Maria's father gave in. He went against his daughter's wishes.”

Leonidas leaned forward almost involuntarily.

“And then?” he asked quietly.

Nona gazed into the candlelight.

“They said Maria eventually learned about the gifts. But do you know something? She never spoke a single word of reproach to her father. She asked only one thing.”

She paused, as though listening once again to words spoken long ago.

“Hide them where, one day, even you yourself will forget the way. Let them remain where neither greed nor curiosity can ever find them. And when the one who truly belongs to them finally comes... you won't need to ask. Your heart will know.”

The silence that followed was so complete we could hear the candlewick softly crackling. Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath.

“Did that person ever come?” Leonidas asked.

“Who knows, my boy... who knows.”

Nona shrugged gently.

“What those treasures truly were remained a mystery. Some searched for them. People came from everywhere, asking questions, digging along the shore, inventing theories. But every one of them left empty-handed. No one ever found the treasure.”

She turned back toward the painting.

“Maria and I were closer than sisters. Yet she never spoke to me about it. Not once. She had neither brothers nor sisters. She was her parents' only child. No one knew her secret except her mother and father.

We grew up together. We became young women together. Many young men admired Maria. Some dreamed of marrying her. Not all of them dared to approach. There was something about her... When you stood beside Maria, you somehow became the truest version of yourself.”

Nona smiled, drifting back into another memory.

“I remember one day she came to see me. Her face was glowing. Her cheeks were rosy. Her eyes shone with happiness. And yet... she seemed far away, lost inside her own thoughts. I knew immediately. She had met someone. She smiled as though, for a brief moment, she herself had stepped back into that distant spring. She hardly spoke about him. Never told me his name. Never said where he came from. People only whispered that they had often seen them together on the cape.”

She lifted one finger, pointing somewhere beyond the walls.

“There is a place here... If you walk along the shore, past the roses, climb over the great slippery boulders, you'll reach a high rocky cape. The sunsets there will take your breath away. The old people used to say that, long ago, a temple to one of the ancient gods had stood there. Now there is nothing left but stone... and the wind. Hardly anyone went there. Except lovers.

There was one local young man who pursued Maria relentlessly. He kept asking her to marry him. But she always refused. People said the man she met on the headland wasn't him. He was a stranger. Not from our village.”

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

“I remember meeting Maria on the beach. It was a sunny day in May. The roses were more beautiful than they had ever been before. The sea shimmered, scattering diamonds across the gentle waves.”

Nona closed her eyes. For a moment, it seemed she was looking at that day once more.

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

Aunt smiled again.

"I looked at Maria, and something caught the light on her neck. A pendant hung from a delicate 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 a word, she gently took the pendant into her palm, as tenderly as if it were the most precious thing she owned. She lowered her eyes, fell silent for a moment, then said softly,

'It's a gift.'

"And she never told you who gave it to her?" I couldn't help asking Nona.

She 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 for it. And why should anyone force their way into a place where they have not been invited? For a while, she truly was happy.

Everything about her spoke of a heart that was in love."

"How can you possibly know that?" Michalis interrupted unexpectedly, reaching for another slice of pie.

"Maybe there wasn't any man at all. Maybe the pendant was a gift from someone she had helped. She never told you anything herself."

Nona didn't even turn her head.

"You just eat and listen," she snorted.

Everyone smiled.

"There was nothing that needed explaining," she added with a knowing huff. "Women can sense such things from a distance. Men..."

She waved her hand dismissively toward her husband, as though brushing away an annoying fly.

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

Michalis merely spread his hands theatrically, making everyone laugh once again.

"So... what happened next?" Leonidas asked, this time more seriously.

"Well then... listen."

Nona's voice grew quieter and more solemn. She picked up her glass, took a long drink of water, and remained silent for several seconds.

"And then... one day... I met Maria... and I hardly recognized her."

Nona lowered her eyes to the candle flame.

"That day she was deeply troubled—no... frightened. Her whole body was trembling. She stood before me, constantly looking over her shoulder. Not as though she were searching for someone... no. It was as if she feared that someone was following her."

Outside, a long, deep roll of thunder echoed, as though it had risen from the very depths of the heavens.

Nona fell silent for a moment, staring through the window with distant, glassy eyes.

"Well? What happened?" Michalis urged impatiently.

She took another sip of water.

"Never before had I seen Maria like that. Without saying a word, I embraced her and gently ran my hand through her thick hair. It smelled of roses. Little by little, her trembling eased. Then she looked toward the sea. Its shimmering light reflected in her eyes. She took my hand, softly stroked my palm, looked once more beyond 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. I realized I had been holding my breath. She swallowed, trying to steady herself against the tears rising in her throat.

"That was when it all began," she continued quietly.

"After that, Maria changed completely. She withdrew into herself. We saw each other less and less. And when we did meet, our conversations were brief. She was always lost in her own thoughts. As though she were afraid of something. Terribly afraid."

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

Before answering,  Nona kept her eyes on the candle flame.

"Or someone..." she whispered.

A flash of lightning split the sky outside, followed by another crash of thunder—this one so sharp it sounded as though something had exploded. I flinched. A sudden gust of wind swept across the courtyard, knocking over a clay flowerpot and smashing it into pieces. The candle flame quivered, stretched into a thin golden thread, then slowly straightened again.

"From that day on, Maria began speaking often about death. But not the way people usually do—not with sorrow. She spoke of it in riddles, in images... as though death itself were simply another part of life."

Nona traced the rim of her glass with her fingertips without lifting her eyes.

"To tell the truth, I didn't always understand her. Sometimes it felt as though she wasn't speaking to me at all, but to eternity itself. Back then, I thought they were simply beautiful, mysterious words. Yet every time she spoke like that, my heart grew uneasy."

Nona let out a heavy sigh.

Silence settled over the room. Even Mihalis, who could never sit still, remained quiet, his eyes lowered to his plate.

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

She spoke almost in a whisper.

"Early one morning, at dawn, we were awakened by the bells of the village church. Not the Sunday bells. Not the bells of a feast day. These were alarm bells. They rang loudly, urgently, without stopping. I jumped out of bed. My mother was already by the door, hurriedly throwing a shawl over her shoulders. My father had gone out to sea before first light to fish. We ran outside. The villagers were already rushing through the streets, all in the same direction—down toward the shore. Someone from the beach was shouting,

'Over here! Over here!'

My mother took my hand, and we hurried after everyone else. When we reached the sea, a crowd had already gathered on the shore. People stood in silence, staring out across the water. I pushed my way through until at last I could see the sea. The morning sun had only just begun to rise above the horizon. Over the calm water, seagulls circled in frantic confusion. Their cries were so piercing that they tightened something inside your chest. They wheeled over one single spot, darting back and forth so wildly they almost collided in midair. They were circling something that could not yet be seen from the shore. Out of the morning mist, the fishing boats that had left before dawn slowly approached that place. Among them was my father's boat. At first I thought a great fish must have entered our bay, and that the fishermen were gathering to catch it.

But it wasn't a fish. It was Maria..."

 Nona's voice broke. She fell silent. A moment later she continued.

"The boats reached the shore... bringing Maria's body with them. The men carefully laid her upon the wet sand. A muffled groan swept through the crowd. Someone began to weep aloud. Someone crossed themselves. Someone turned away, unable to look. My knees gave way beneath me. My whole body went numb. I fell to my knees beside her.

'Maria...' I cried, my voice breaking with despair.

She lay there so peacefully, as though she were only asleep. A kiss of serenity rested upon her face— the kiss of eternal peace. Drops of seawater, sparkling in the morning sun, rolled slowly down her cheeks like tears. Her hair, darkened by the sea to a deep copper shade, spread across the sand in heavy tangled strands like the tentacles of an octopus. Her white cotton dress, soaked through with seawater, clung to her body, tracing every curve and blending with the whiteness of her skin. I took her hand. It was still as soft as ever... only cold now.

The seagulls still circled overhead.Their cries had become mournful, sounding more like laments than the voices of birds. Only the sea remained peaceful. Gentle waves rolled quietly onto the shore, softly washing over her bare feet. 

Then, suddenly, something changed. Behind me I sensed movement. The crying stopped. The moans fell silent. I turned around and saw the crowd slowly part. Maria's father stepped forward. Everyone froze. A ringing silence filled the air. It felt as though time itself had stopped. Even the seagulls seemed to fall silent for a single moment. And what I saw in his eyes that day... I will never forget.

There was such agony in them—terrible, unbearable agony—as though all the torments of hell were tearing his soul apart.

'Aaaaaah!'

His cry shattered the silence. It was a terrible, guttural sound, scarcely human, echoing against the cliffs. He collapsed beside her, clutching her lifeless body so tightly, as though he could warm her with the beating of his own heart. He stroked her wet hair. He kissed her cold forehead.

'Maria... No... no...' he repeated again and again, refusing to believe what had happened. No one in the village could believe it. 

For us all, it was more than a great tragedy. It was as though the sun itself had suddenly gone dark, and the whole world had been left forever without light.

But there was one strange thing. At the time I paid no attention to it. Only later did I remember. When Maria's body was found... the pendant was no longer around her neck. The sapphire pendant on the delicate chain—the one she treasured so dearly. I asked my parents. I asked the fishermen. No one had seen it on the day she died. And no one ever discovered what truly happened that morning.

Maria was an excellent swimmer. She had grown up by the sea. It seemed as though the waves themselves carried her whenever she entered the water. The police did not investigate for long. 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 a mystery to everyone."

The room fell silent. The candle flame brushed the edge of the candlestick, flared brightly for a moment, trembled, shivered... and went out. No one moved. We sat in silence, watching the thin ribbon of smoke slowly rise into the air.

 

Even Michalis didn't utter a single one of his usual jokes.

"It was a terrible tragedy," Nona continued, almost in a whisper. "For Maria's family... and for our entire village.

Maria's parents could not come to terms with their loss. People came to their home every day to offer condolences. They brought flowers. They came from all the neighboring villages. As unbearable as their grief was, the doors of their house always remained open.

Maria's father used to say,

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

He would say those words, yet with every passing day he himself seemed to fade 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 the season arrived. The first tourists were already strolling barefoot along the shore, admiring the blooming roses. Life refused to stand still.

Hard as it was for everyone, the villagers tried to return to their ordinary lives. With the coming of summer, hotel owners once again opened their doors and filled their blue swimming pools with fresh water. Taverns carried their tables and chairs outside beneath the shade of sprawling grapevines. Shopkeepers carefully arranged their goods on the shelves—little statues of the ancient gods, simple souvenir magnets, hand-painted plates decorated with roses, and bowls carved from olive wood.

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

Maria's parents mourned deeply. But it was her father who suffered most. His wounds were still fresh. His grief was unbearable. Everything reminded him of Maria—even the very breath of the wind. But what wounded him most was the view from his window: the shore... the sea... and the roses. Those very roses they had planted together. He remembered Maria laughing with soil covering her hands. He remembered how they had dreamed of seeing what the bushes would look like many years later. Now those roses hurt him so deeply that every thorn seemed to pierce his very heart. That spring they bloomed with such complete devotion, giving away all their beauty as though it were their last spring. And it was.

Unable to bear the pain any longer, Maria's father took a pruning knife, walked down to the shore, and began cutting the roses. Bush after bush. Flower after flower. Every single bud. He gathered them into his arms, walked to the water's edge, and scattered them across the sea in memory of Maria. For a long time, the crimson petals drifted upon the waves, spreading across the water like drops of blood that could never be gathered back again.

Soon afterward, Maria's parents left the village. They left everything behind. They boarded up their house and went away to a place where nothing would remind them of the daughter they had lost. No one ever learned where they went."

Nona spread her hands.

"From that moment on, everything in our village began to fall 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 that Heaven itself had sent us. Tourists came less and less often. Sometimes it even seemed as though people from neighboring villages avoided ours altogether. The hotels closed. The little shops stood empty. Only a couple of taverns remained open—ours and the one next door. And even those,"

she sighed, "are still standing only by God's grace.

"Everything had changed. Nona fell silent for a moment.

Do you know what was strangest of all?" she asked quietly, looking at me. The rose bushes never withered. Every spring they covered themselves with fresh green leaves. They sent out new shoots. They stayed alive... But from that very day onward, they never bloomed again."

"Never?" Michalis asked in disbelief.

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

"Never. They are still alive... but they do not bloom. As though their souls had left them."

She fell silent again before continuing.

"After that, I often went back to that shore. I kept waiting for the roses to bloom again. I thought that if they did... Maria herself would somehow return with them. But nothing could ever be brought back. I wandered around their abandoned house. I watched the seagulls flying overhead. I searched the horizon. Only the sea knew what had happened that day. But the sea remained silent—the only witness, forever keeping that secret."

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 others. Only many years later did I finally understand one thing.

Maria did not perform miracles. She... was a miracle."

The storm had passed. Tears rolled silently down my cheeks, just as the raindrops slid quietly across the windowpane. Nona had turned out to be an extraordinary storyteller.

As I listened, I saw her story unfold so vividly in my imagination that it felt as though I had lived through it myself. I saw Maria as a little girl, running barefoot along the shore. I saw their carefree childhood, the years of their unbreakable friendship, the crimson roses blooming beside the sea, her first love, the fear that later appeared 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 certain I became that too many mysteries remained. Too many questions that no one had ever answered. 

Leonidas silently placed his hand on my shoulder and gently drew me closer. There was so much warmth and tenderness in that simple gesture, like a bird sheltering its chick beneath its wing. I closed my eyes. And for the first time that evening, I no longer wanted to search for answers. I wanted to remain in his embrace forever...