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Now that (the storm) was gone, there was something new in the air, the sense of a delicate peace that comes after a ferocious battle.

(…) but then there were days, and especially nights, when she would hear, somewhere in the distance, ticking as steady as a metronome the approaching footsteps of a familiar sense of melancholy.

She carried the past so close to the surface, pain rushing beneath her skin like blood.

Maybe we give other names to grief because we are too scared to call it by its name.

(…) and so she retreated into that liminal space between belief and doubt.

(…) knowing that bridges appear in our lives only when we are ready to cross them.

The human mind was the strangest place, both home and exile. How could it hold on to something as elusive and intangible as a scent when it was capable of erasing concrete chunks of the past, block by block?

(…) the bullet that had entered him perfectly hidden, as if ashamed of what it had done.

Now it was only Kostas and his mother left in this house that had shrunk and darkened at the edges.