138

The sea greeted her every morning like an old friend; quiet, constant, and a little melancholic.

Yalda stood barefoot on the terrace, a steaming mug of chamomile tea nestled between her hands. The sun had just begun its ascent, scattering light across the sky in ripples.  The villa was still and warm, just as she remembered it. Just as she needed it to be.

It had been three days since they returned from Monte Carlo.

Three days of silence, recovery, and gentleness. Ioannis had given her space, something she didn’t know she needed until it was offered without question. He hadn’t asked her to talk or reflect. He simply wrapped her in quiet affection at night and kissed her forehead in the morning before heading off for business. He checked in throughout the day, always brief, always thoughtful. But mostly, he gave her solitude.

Not isolation, just solitude. And that made all the difference. But still, she ached.

It lived in her chest like a second heartbeat, it was soft, persistent, and impossible to ignore. She didn’t weep anymore. Not like she had in the hotel suite, not with the helplessness of someone unraveling. But the grief lingered, and it made her limbs heavy, her thoughts slow, her laughter rare.

And so she kept herself busy. Because the moment she allowed silence to settle too deep, it invited the ghosts back in.

After finishing her tea, she slipped into a soft cotton dress, tied her hair into a low bun, and called for Loki. He padded in from the sunlit hallway, stretching lazily before curling around her ankle.

“Come on,” she murmured, scooping him into her arms. “Let’s go find something to do before I drown in my own thoughts.”

Downstairs, the kitchen was already warm with the aroma of cinnamon and butter. Alina, stood at the counter kneading dough with practiced hands. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned back, and a thin layer of flour dusted her apron.

“Good morning, kyria mou,” Alina said without turning, her voice as rich and welcoming as always.

“Good morning,” Yalda replied softly, setting Loki down. “Need a hand?”

Alina gave her a sideways glance. “With the dough or with the ache behind your eyes?”

Yalda blinked. “Both, maybe.”

Alina smiled gently and motioned her closer. “Then come. Today we’ll make koulouri. Sesame bread rings. Easy enough for distraction, hard enough to keep your hands full.”

Yalda stepped beside her, washing her hands before dipping them into the soft mound of dough. She let herself get lost in the rhythm; kneading, shaping, brushing each ring with honeyed water and rolling it in seeds. Alina moved beside her with calm expertise, instructing softly, letting the process fill the silence.

For a while, it worked.

She focused on the texture of the dough under her palms, the smell of sesame seeds toasting, the warmth of the oven, the way Loki stretched out in a patch of sunlight like nothing in the world could bother him.

But as they worked, Alina’s keen eyes never left her for long.

“You’ve lost weight,” the older woman said casually, brushing flour from her hands.

Yalda didn’t answer right away.

“I haven’t been eating much,” she admitted. “But I’m trying again.”

“And sleeping?”

“Enough.”

Alina made a small, skeptical sound. “You used to laugh in this kitchen, kyria Yalda. The real kind. From the belly. I remember.”

“I’m still here,” Yalda said, forcing a smile.

“You are,” Alina agreed. “But your soul is tired.”

The words settled between them like a truth neither had dared say aloud. Yalda looked down at her flour-covered fingers, blinking hard.

“I thought it would get easier if I gave up and ran,” she whispered knowing the older lady didn't evenbknow what she was talking about. “But it doesn’t vanish, does it? It just follows you. Sits in the quiet corners. My chest feels so heavy.”

“Grief has a long shadow,” Alina said, placing a hand over Yalda’s. “But you’re not alone in it.”

Yalda felt her throat tighten. “It feels like I’m not allowed to feel this broken anymore. Like people expect me to bounce back because I’ve left the pain behind physically.”

“Who expects that?”

Yalda hesitated. No one did, not Ioannis, certainly not him. It was all her perhaps. “Me, maybe.”

Alina reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair from Yalda’s cheek. “Then be kind to yourself. You don’t heal by pretending you’re whole.”

Yalda’s eyes glistened.

“I keep thinking about everything. It's hard to be kind to yourself when you can't forget why you're being hard on yourself."

“I understand,” Alina said knowingly. “At times peace feels like betrayal to one's self, but I assure you it isn't."

Yalda looked at her, she tried blinking the tears back.

“My husband died nearly fifteen years ago,” Alina said quietly. “It took me a long time to learn how to live with the silence. For a while, I tried to fill it with noise. Recipes. Guests. Gossip. But it wasn’t until I stopped running from the silence that I realized it held space for something else.”

“Like what?”

“Hope,” she said simply. “And you, my sweet girl, are allowed to carry both heartbreak and hope in the same heart.”

Yalda swallowed thickly, her lips trembling.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’re already doing it. You got out of bed. You came to the kitchen. You made bread with me. You smiled at that ridiculous dog of yours. That’s how it starts.”

A soft silence followed, filled only by the gentle hum of the oven and Loki’s faint growling.

“Thank you,” Yalda said finally, her voice hoarse. “For not making me talk when I wasn’t ready. And for knowing when I needed to.”

Alina gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You remind me of myself at your age. Stubborn. Quiet. Soft-spoken but carrying a world on your shoulders. The thing is, Yalda… nothing lasts forever. Not even this.”

Yalda looked down at the koulouri resting on the baking tray, it was imperfect, slightly uneven, but golden and warm.

“Not even this ache?” she asked, half-hopeful.

“No,” Alina said, smiling. “One day, you’ll wake up and realize the ache has faded. Maybe not completely. But enough that it won’t define your every breath.”

Yalda nodded slowly. The ache was still there, yes. But so was this moment. This small kindness. This reminder that healing didn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Sometimes it was found in sesame bread and warm kitchens, in old hands and gentle voices.

The oven beeped softly, signaling the bread was ready. Yalda reached for the tray with a kitchen cloth, her movements careful. She set it down and looked at the golden rings with something close to pride.

“They’re not bad,” she said with a small smile.

“They’re beautiful,” Alina replied. “Like the woman who made them.”

Yalda turned to her, that smile growing slowly, it was no longer forced, no longer thin. It was genuine. It was soft and grateful and full of something she hadn’t felt in days.

“Thank you, Alina,” she whispered.

The older woman touched her cheek affectionately. “You're always welcome, my girl. Now eat. And when you’re ready, come back tomorrow. We’ll make something new again.”

Yalda nodded.

And for the first time since they’d left Monte Carlo, she truly believed there might be a tomorrow worth looking forward to.