Not for the first time, Andine wondered, that, if her parents hadn’t treated her baptism as just another item on their to-do list, they might have taken the time to understand the process and traditions involved. Then perhaps the incident wouldn’t have occurred, and she wouldn’t be standing almost 4000 km from her hometown, in an underground metro station, gazing at the rubber wheels of the Montreal metro train gliding away on the opposite tracks—the subdued sound, a stark contrast to the familiar clanging of steel on steel from metros in other countries. She hadn’t expected to find herself here, but she was determined to claim what was hers, wherever that journey might lead. Today, she hoped her search would finally come to an end.

The woman Andine was searching for had, by sheer coincidence, been one of six babies baptized during a joint ceremony on her home island over thirty years ago. The woman’s parents had immigrated to Montreal, with one set of grandparents residing in Panama and the other in Colombia. To find common ground for the grandparents, the baby was baptized in Curaçao. After the ceremony, the family returned to Montreal, and as far as Andine knew from digging into the church’s archives, the baby girl—now an adult woman named Estelle—was unaware that she carried with her something undeniably not her own.

As Andine sat in the metro, her thoughts lingered off to her grandmother’s instructions. She repeated them to herself often, to make sure that when time came, she would know exactly what to do. She had to be thorough and precise. Ensuring she would hold on to Estelle’s hands or wrists while maintaining eye contact for at least five seconds: the time it took to light a candle wick. This sounded easier than it was.

From her experience with the previous three people, Andine knew how challenging it was to get a stranger to maintain eye contact for that long. But she had to succeed—after this woman, only one person remained of the group of babies that were baptized that day together with Andine. It was one of her last chances to capture what was, by birth, her own light.

For the baptism, tradition dictates that the parents of the baby being baptized bring a brand-new white candle to the ceremony. The church provides its own blessed candle, from which each individual candle is lit and brought directly to the baby for the blessing.

Her grandmother often lamented that Andine’s father had been too cheap and indifferent to family traditions, buying a low-quality candle from a convenience store. The quality of the candle wick was so poor, it could not catch and sustain a flame. Thus, the same already lit candle that had been used for another baby was borrowed for use on Andine. This sealed her fate as someone who hadn’t received her own individual blessing, relying on the candle from someone else for her guiding light and inner flame.

Growing up, Andine often recalled her grandmother’s disapproving tut-tuts whenever she only lit up in response to her friends’ happiness or broke down in tears, reflecting the emotions of those around her. It wasn’t that Andine didn’t feel joy, sadness, or other emotions; rather, they were timid, subdued, and somewhat bland. Her grandmother frequently sighed in despair, questioning how her grandchild could ever lead a fulfilling life when already at baptism, she had been denied her own light.

Only in her early thirties did Andine realize that she was rarely truly sad, enthusiastic or driven. She would snort when her friends spoke of their passions. For her, life was more of a bland, shape-retaining experience; like a large square rock that simply lay within her. Like any rock, her exterior would warm up in the presence of sunny, warm energy, but it would also cool down around wetness, coldness, leaving her with a sense of chill inside. Yet, the core of her rock remained untouched. Any strong emotions were fleeting; her happiness and sadness, like all her feelings, were mere flickers—brief sparks that quickly faded away. Even worse, some of her experiences with friendships and love had taught her that being attracted to highly energetic people didn’t always mean their energy was directed towards her well-being. She was tired of piggybacking on the emotions of others just to feel something; she wanted to experience those feelings for herself. After her grandmother’s death, she resolved to take action.

She knew what she had to do, as her grandmother had repeated the instructions countless times. Andine had even asked why there wasn’t an easier way—like simply going to the church where she was originally baptized, asking the priest to bless a candle, and lighting it for herself. She even contemplated whether she should be baptized again. But her grandmother, her face etched with wrinkles and fingers gnarled by arthritis, merely shook her head.

“That won’t be enough. The light that is yours must recognize you, recognize its home. The only way for that to happen is for the light to meet you, recognize you and to return to you.”

Andine asked her grandmother how she would know if it worked. “You will feel it here,” her grandmother replied, placing her hand on Andine’s breastbone. “You will feel light, warm and whole, at ease with yourself and with life.”

She began her research by contacting the church, and to her surprise, she discovered that it had preserved handwritten records in a large, cloth-bound journal, it’s pages fragile and yellow from the heat and moisture.

Once she had the complete names of the babies and the names and residency of their parents, Andine researched and identified each person on social media. She had already located three of the five babies, two of them still living on the island, one in Belgium. She had performed the ritual just as her grandmother had taught her, but to no avail and so, she had to move on to the next one on her list: Estelle.

Estelle had a tradition of having lunch with her college friends every Friday at their favorite café to celebrate the weekend. Andine’s plan was simple: she would wait for them to finish, follow Estelle back to her office and ensure she executed her plan.

At her stop, Andine got out of the metro and went up to street level. The sun shone brightly on this late spring day, with not a cloud in the bright blue sky. The city was buzzing, ready for summer to start in just a few days. The café, bustling with life, was filled with people enjoying lunch in the heart of the financial district. The beautiful tropical interior, adorned with high-quality fake plants, added charm. The lighting accentuated the brass details, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere that made her feel eclectic. Everything felt perfect; today was going to be the day!

Andine instantly recognized her target, the energy around her crackling like sparklers. Dressed in a burnt orange blouse that elegantly contrasted with her dark blue suit, Estelle wore large earrings that swayed as she turned to engage each of her table companions. She frequently set down her cutlery to emphasize her stories, using hand gestures that made the gemstone-studded bangle on her wrist reflect the sunlight. Estelle touched her friends’ arms, hands, or shoulders whenever possible—whether sharing a laugh or empathizing with their concerns.

Even from a distance, Andine felt irresistibly drawn to this woman. It was impossible that one single person could exude so much light only of her own. Her energy felt stronger than any of Andine’s previous targets, almost visible as a mist swirling around her, enveloping her tablemates and even catching the attention of the waitstaff, who seemed eager to assist her above all others. This had to be her, the one person that, next to her own light, also carried Andine’s.

After about an hour and a half, the friends got up to leave. Andine followed them through the restaurant, onto the street and down to the underground RESO. Once below ground, she quickened her pace, as navigating the over 30 km of interconnected complexes, shopping centers, metro stations, and other facilities of the Montreal Underground City, was confusing for non-locals.

She had to maintain her distance while watching as Estelle’s friends left one by one until only Estelle remained. As they approached her office building, Andine steeled herself for action. Once inside, it would be nearly impossible to predict when Estelle would emerge next.

She quickened her pace as if rushing to catch the metro. Just as she was about to pass Estelle, she stepped to the right and shoved her with all her strength. Estelle let out a frightened shriek, losing her balance and falling against the wall to steady herself.

Andine quickly grasped both Estelle’s wrists, pretending to help her find her balance. Estelle frowned, assessing whether Andine posed a threat. Passersby glanced over, and Andine exclaimed, “Sorry!” as loudly as possible, eager to convey the situation was safe. “I was in such a rush; my thoughts were somewhere else. Are you okay?”

As she continued to ramble her excuses, Andine searched for Estelle’s gaze, but she seemed disoriented. Her eyes darted around as she was struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

“Let me go,” Estelle shouted, her voice quivering.

Andine tightened her grip, her resolve unwavering. “Just a moment,” she replied, her heart racing. She needed those uninterrupted seconds of direct eye contact—twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three. “Look me in the eyes. I just need to know you’re okay.”

“No! Let go of me!” Estelle protested, tugging at her arms.

Andine held on with all her strength. A few passersby began to slow down their pace, assessing the situation.

“It’s all right,” Andine assured her. “I’m a nurse. Look me in the eyes, so I can be sure you’re alright. Then I promise I’ll let you go.” The lie slipped from her lips with unexpected conviction, and she could see a flicker of calm wash over Estelle.

Andine realized she had only a few seconds remaining. She focused intently on Estelle’s dark brown eyes: twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty.

Andine released her grip. “You’re good. Again, I’m so sorry.”

Estelle rushed to get away, glancing back a few times to ensure she wasn’t being followed and rubbing her wrists.

Andine stood frozen, her entire weight pressing down into her feet, a palpable, familiar heaviness coursing from her shoulders to her toes, as if she were sinking into the concrete floor. As indifferent passersby brushed past her, she felt the walls closing in. There were no windows, no glimpse of the sky, no breeze to caress her body. It was just her, surrounded by artificial light.

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The movement of the train crossing the tracks and the occasional bumps jolted their bodies closer together. His arm rested across her shoulder. Her head nestled against his chest; she could hear his heartbeat through his soft cotton shirt. With each of his breaths, her body gently rose and fell. As always, he would claim to have been awake the entire train ride, but she recognized the familiar rhythm of his sleeping breath.

It was this comfortable togetherness that she had feared they might never experience again. She reflected on how the anger, the frustration and the resentment had rushed through her for months, even years. Feelings of restlessness, disappointment, and frustration about their relationship—about him, about herself—had emerged one day. Insufficiently and ineffectively addressed, these feelings slowly transformed into an invisible protective overcoat she donned each morning before facing him and took off at night when she was sure he was asleep. Gradually, the coat became something she never removed. It served as a barrier, containing her feelings and distancing her from him.

Their therapist often asked them why they had stayed together. For her, the fear of leaving—of giving up this life and starting anew—was the easy reason why she had stayed. The core, however, was shame—an emotion she was reluctant to admit, both to herself and anyone else. While everyone around her seemed to hold on to their relationship, she feared being the one who failed. How did other couples make it work? After that first contact, surfing the waves of infatuation, navigating the rapids, wading through the shallows, inevitably crashing against the rocks of reality? Yet, after the waves, tapping into the ocean of love and companionship, choosing to stay? From the outside, an accurate analysis was futile, one could never truly know; even close friends often kept their darkest relationship struggles to themselves. Yet, it was evident that some couples succeeded.

If someone walked by now, wouldn’t they see them as an example of how relationships work? Two fifty-somethings travelling together, clearly comfortable in each other’s company.

For the outside observer, it was impossible to see the struggles they had endured—the painful conversations, hostile arguments, and hurtful personal attacks. Yet, once the air was finally cleared, there was space for that initially fragile, but ultimately solidifying feeling of connection and love.

Their therapist suggested they do something they both enjoyed, focusing on creating new memories. They had always loved travelling—escaping their busy lives and tight-knit social circles to spend time together, slowing down and experiencing new countries.

So here they were, surrounded by the breathtaking view of snow-covered mountains and towering trees. The train jolted as it changed tracks, shaking him awake.

He rubbed his hand gently over her upper arm.

“Hmm,” he mumbled, and she felt the warmth of his familiar, heavy grumble resonate through his chest. “It seems I dozed off for a moment.”

She didn’t respond but couldn’t help smiling as he pulled her closer.

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Djelènne arrived at the parking area about ten minutes later than agreed, despite having driven faster than usual. However, a delay of up to fifteen minutes was not uncommon on the island. Moreover, this wasn’t a work appointment; it was a chance to spend time with her friend Zadìa, who had travelled from the Netherlands with her boyfriend Paul for a short vacation on her home island. Djelènne was eager to reconnect, as their once-close lifelong friendship had begun to falter since she had moved back home. They were set to embark on a small group hike through Christoffel Park, where they would climb the 371-metre-high Christoffelberg together.

As she walked from her parked car towards the visitor center to buy a ticket, Djelènne spotted Zadìa hurrying towards her. Her strides were brisk, and her lips were tightly pressed together. Upon reaching Djelènne, she hissed, “You’re late Dee! Paul has already bought our tickets but didn’t want to buy yours in case you didn’t show up.”

Feeling attacked, Djelènne looked Zadìa up and down. “Really Zee? Ten minutes late, and you assume I wouldn’t show?”

Zadìa sputtered, taken aback by the unexpected aggression in Djelènne’ s tone. “Well, we were early, and Paul is enthusiastic…”

“Wow,” Djelènne interrupted, making her way past Zadìa. “This is coming from someone who is notorious for making her friends wait an hour or more on girls’ nights out. And by the way, nice to see you too. I’ll get my ticket myself. It’s way too early for this!”

As Djelènne entered the visitor center, Paul approached her with a smile. Just as she was about to hiss at him too, he beamed, “You probably rushed on your day off, so here you go!” He handed her coffee in a paper cup. “I thought you might need this.”

Taken aback, Djelènne simply nodded, accepted the cup, and took a sip. Paul quickly walked on, stepping outside to enjoy the nature surrounding the visitor center. Djelènne returned outside with her ticket in under ten minutes and joined the group gathered around the park ranger who would be their guide for today. Still not fully warmed up to her friend, Djelènne chose to linger at the back of the group.

As the group set off, Paul was clearly captivated by everything the park ranger was saying, asking questions about the various bushes and trees, the lizards darting through the underbrush, and the birds fluttering by. Paul seemed to demand the ranger’s full attention, as if expecting a private tour, and appeared oblivious to the other group members, some of whom had their own questions or, like Djelènne, simply wanted to enjoy the peaceful early morning and listen to the sounds of nature waking up, rather than the chatter of an overly eager person.

Djelènne studied Zadìa, who, despite knowing how Paul’s behavior could be interpreted as obnoxious, offered no discouragement. Instead, she continued to nod and respond positively to his comments.
As the group walked on, the sky grew darker. A short morning shower, typical of this time of the year, could be expected any time soon. Djelènne was glad she had grabbed a transparent shower cap from her car dashboard and shoved it in her handbag. She always kept a few caps in her car for such occasions. An umbrella would be impractical for a hike, and frankly, it wouldn’t stop the rain and humidity from frizzing her straightened, hot-ironed hair.

Sure enough, a light drizzle began. Djelènne pulled out her shower cap and covered her hair. Some group members chuckled. She didn’t mind; she knew some women in the group envied her and were noting this tip for the future.

Suddenly, Paul spotted her and burst out laughing. “A shower cap? Seriously? It’s just a drizzle!” Djelènne glanced at Zadìa, hoping for some support. To her surprise, Zadìa was also laughing. Noticing Djelènne’ s irritation, she playfully shoved Paul and said, “Stop it! It’s to prevent her hair from frizzing. That’s important here; her hair needs to look good—nice and straight!”

Paul replied, “Well, I’m glad it’s not you wearing a shower cap in public! It’s embarrassing.” Zadìa laughed and kissed his remark away.

Djelènne was taken aback. She didn’t expect this reaction from Zadìa—the very same person who, only three years ago, had begun to let her straightened hair grow out, now sporting a natural, voluminous afro. Zadìa had always disliked big hair, ensuring her appointments with the hairdresser every six weeks to keep her chemically straightened locks perfectly maintained and meticulously hot-ironed at all times. Ironically, it was she who had taught Djelènne the shower cap trick during their time together in the Netherlands, where the rain could linger for hours, and the shower cap offered discreet protection beneath their hats or hoodies.

As they continued walking, the drizzle subsided, and Djelènne tucked her shower cap away. She loosened her hair to let it regain some volume and absorb the rising sun’s intensifying rays. As she was now walking more at the back of the group, thoughts of Zadìa and Paul began to fade as she felt herself calm down, focusing instead on her surroundings. She found joy in the green ferns and cacti, and every now and then, she spotted a small bird flitting by.

After a while, Djelènne realized she had agreed to the hike primarily to catch up with Zadìa. If she wanted to spend some time with her friend, she would need to make the effort to approach her. With a sigh, she quickened her pace to reach the front of the group.

Zadìa seemed happy enough as she threw her arm around Djelènne’ s shoulder. “Here we are, the legendary Dee and Zee, finally hiking up this mountain! Can you believe it’s my first time?” Before Djelènne could respond, Paul jumped in, clearly oblivious to the need for the friends to spend some time together. “I think it’s unbelievable that you girls grew up here and never climbed the mountain. I mean, it’s not even that high.”

Djelènne felt her irritation flare up again. “Well, have you climbed the Vaalserberg in the Netherlands?” Paul, as expected, replied defensively, “Of course not, but the Netherlands is much larger. This island is so small, there’s hardly anything else to do. It takes less than 40 minutes to get here. I mean, really?!”

“Well, I think it’s the same—you don’t visit all the tourist attractions in your own city. And just so you know, I’ve climbed this mountain several times since moving back here.” Paul snorted and quickened his pace to catch up with the park ranger. Djelènne remained silent, feeling Zadìa’s grip on her shoulder loosen as she moved away to join her boyfriend.

They walked on and as they approached the final few meters, the park ranger instructed the group to continue straight ahead. There was an alternative route to the right that was less steep but known to be riskier, as it led over an exposed area with fewer trees and bushes to grab onto for balance. More experienced climbers often chose this path for the adrenaline rush and the stunning views.

Djelènne noticed Paul heading to the right. Before she could stop herself, she called out, “You know, it’s probably best to stick to the straight path.” Paul laughed contemptuously. “Don’t be such a wuss! This little hill is nothing.” He grabbed Zadìa’s hand. “You coming too?”

Djelènne caught the hesitation in Zadìa’s eyes. Though Zadìa had never climbed the mountain, every local knew that this misplaced bravery among outsiders often led to accidents. Still, Zadìa forced a smile and nodded. “Of course. I mean, it can’t be that hard.”

Djelènne shook her head in annoyed disbelief and pushed forward, eager to get the climb over with. She cast one last glance at Paul and Zadìa. By the look of Zadìa’s hunched shoulders, Djelènne was certain she was having second thoughts. Was it being in love that made her act like this? Or something else? With a sigh, Djelènne muttered “Makambia” under her breath, a Papiamentu insult for those who went to Holland and returned home as if they had become Dutch, forgetting the daily life, customs, norms, and values of their homeland.

Once Djelènne reached the summit, she walked over the plateau, taking in the breathtaking views of the island and the surrounding ocean. The air was slightly hazy, creating the illusion of gazing over the landscape through a delicate veil of clouds. A flock of birds soared gracefully just below them, enhancing the beauty and depth of the scene. The breeze was cooler than it had been lower down, and amidst the sound of the wind and the gentle murmurs of other visitors, Djelènne felt a sense of peace.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air, and Djelènne instantly recognized it as Zadìa’s voice. Everyone jolted and turned towards the sound. Moments later, Paul and Zadìa emerged. Zadìa looking slightly pale. Djelènne rushed to her friend. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just slipped and lost my balance,” Zadìa replied, her voice shaky. Paul was rubbing her back, “She just got a bit scared, nothing major. Just overreacting a little, right, babe?”

Djelènne felt a surge of anger rising again. Just as she was about to speak up, she noticed Zadía giving a faint smile and, looking up at Paul, replied, “I just got a bit scared.”

Djelènne couldn’t believe her ears. What had happened to the friend who used to stand up for herself and her feelings? Even if those feelings were exaggerated or unfounded, Zadìa had always been authentic.

Djelènne stepped back, disappointed in her friend and walked back to the group. As they all gathered for a group picture, Djelènne was ready to leave. After the photo, they all set off on the descent. The trail was still moist in places and slippery, so the ranger warned everyone to be extra careful and to take their time.

A few daredevils chose to take the difficult path once more. Djelènne sighed as she observed Paul and Zadìa joining that group. “Nan asuntu, nan kuenta—it’s their problem, their deal,” she muttered to herself. All she wanted was to be back in her car and on her way home. Djelènne moved on to begin the descent. Like many in their group, she decided to heed the ranger’s advice and sat down, slowly making her way down on her backside. She didn’t worry about getting her pants dirty; she preferred the sense of control that being closer to the ground provided.

As he continued down the slope, Paul was close to Zadìa, encouraging her to keep going. Suddenly, Paul lost his footing, flailing his arms to maintain his balance as he managed to grab hold of a nearby shrub. He let out a profanity, but remained standing.

Zadìa, however, was taken aback by his movements. As she had been holding onto Paul, she lost her grip and her balance. In an instant, she was crashing down. Her lower leg bent unnaturally, while her upper body fell forward with full force onto her bent knee. She screamed as she tried to halt her downward slide by pressing her palms against the rocky ground, scraping her hands and underarms as her shirt rode up her back. Finally, she came to a stop. Zadìa’s mind needed a moment to catch up with what had just happened to her body. When it did, an uncontrollable wail escaped her lips, as the reality of her severe fall sank in.

All this time, Djelènne had stood frozen. The onlookers around her seemed just as dazed, their minds unable to process the chaos that had unfolded so rapidly. It was the ranger who first sprang into action, rushing to Zadìa’s side and jolting Djelènne into movement. Eager to comfort her friend, Djelènne reached out, but Paul got to Zadìa first, placing himself between her and Zadìa, effectively blocking her access.

Paul quickly made a makeshift pillow from a bag, so Zadìa could rest her head while the ranger did a check for broken and bruised bones. It was clear that Zadìa would not be able to stand up, let alone walk back down. The ranger phoned the emergency number for a helicopter medical evacuation to the nearby hospital.

Zadìa was sobbing, the initial panic subsiding. She turned to Paul and said, “Why did you want to climb this stupid mountain? Look what’s happened!” Djelènne could see the struggle in Paul’s eyes as he fought to remain silent in the face of the accusation. Ultimately, he lost that battle. “This was an accident. Since there are no safety measures in place; it could have happened to anyone. It could have been much worse,” he insisted. He then turned to face the ranger. “I mean, isn’t it a part of your employment contract to ensure that people exercise more caution on these difficult sections?”

Djelènne noticed that the ranger was at a loss for words, perhaps choosing to maintain a professional silence. However, her anger could no longer be contained. “Are you serious?! You were the one who insisted on taking the path I told you was difficult! The ranger warned you, and I warned you that the ground is slippery and treacherous. You insisted on going anyway!”

To Djelènne’s surprise, Zadìa turned angrily towards her. “Dee, back off. Paul’s right; it’s unbelievable how unsafe things are here on the island. You’re just easily blaming him—the tourist—and me, the local who went to the Netherlands, for having reasonable expectations. There should be safety nets or ropes! Have you seen how far I fell?” She suppressed a pang of pain as she yelled. “At least Paul is here helping me. What are you doing, just standing there?”

Djelènne stood in disbelief, unable to comprehend that her friend, who had grown up here, was ignoring advice and common sense to side with her new boyfriend, who knew nothing about the island. Zadìa knew better; she understood that European standards and norms didn’t always apply on the island. She should have listened to the ranger, yet she had chosen not to. An overwhelming tiredness pressed down on Djelènne, making her feel even more defeated. Staying here felt futile, especially with a friend she no longer recognized.

“I’m heading down,” Djelènne announced. “When I reach the car, I’ll call your parents to let them know what happened so they can meet you at the hospital.” With that, she raised her hand in farewell and walked on. Once the terrain steadied and the steepness lessened, she quickened her pace, eager to put distance between herself and the scene behind her.

She heard the sound of the helicopter approaching and soon spotted it in the air, preparing for the rescue mission. A wave of relief washed over Djelènne; they would help Zee. She would call Zee’s parents, head home and leave this entire day behind her.


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“Of course! I’d love to!” Eva had exclaimed earlier that morning when the Front Office manager asked if she wanted to stay on after her internship and work for an additional six months at the Décor Hotel. By the end of her shift, Eva was still charged with energy and decided to enjoy the sunny weather by going for a walk.

Lost in thought, she walked downhill, leaving the hotel’s clean, green surroundings and entering an area filled with cramped shops, bright neon signs, and poorly lit interiors. In this part of the city, pedestrians flooded the boardwalk, rushing carelessly through the crowds. A man roughly bumped into her. As she reached for the wall to steady herself, she nearly tripped over a young woman sitting on the pavement on a piece of cardboard. Their eyes locked.

The woman had dark circles under her eyes, smudges of dirt on her face, and greasy, messy hair. She cradled a few-month-old baby wrapped in worn, dirty clothes. A five-year-old boy slept on the pavement with his head in her lap, his body pressed against the stone wall, his arms and legs dirty. The woman, now aware that Eva had taken in the scene, lowered her gaze and raised her hand, palm up.

Eva walked on, feeling a dull knot in her stomach. Being confronted with the homeless and displaced people was part of life in this city, but every now and then, these encounters still unsettled her. She crossed the street, heading back toward the hotel. As she walked uphill, the gloomy feeling lingered, like a gas bubble in her stomach, waiting to escape. Again, a passerby nearly knocked her off her feet. Turning around to call him out, she spotted a realtor’s office across the street. Suddenly, the gas bubble popped, and the reality hit her—she wouldn’t have a place to stay.

She had agreed to the six-month extension without thinking it over. She lived in an intern-only apartment, a contractual stipulation by the rental agency preventing people overstaying in the city’s overheated rental market. What if she couldn’t find a suitable place? A safe place, so she could walk to work for her night and early morning shifts. Would she even be able to afford a good place? Though she would receive a salary, she knew not to expect too much.

With thoughts racing through her mind, Eva walked through the tourist area of El Poblado. At nighttime, the vibrant restaurants, bars, and cafés catered to locals and tourists alike. However, during the day, the area exuded a soothing calm, attracting passersby to its modern artisan shops selling local, lesser-known clothing brands and the occasional artwork. A creek ran along the outer edge of the area, the soft trickle of water and the sound of the wind rustling through the trees calming Eva’s overstimulated senses.

She stopped by a café for a coffee, hoping to further quiet her racing thoughts. Seated at one of the few tables, she had just taken her first sip, when a woman entered with her dog. The dog spotted Eva and yanked the leash, causing the woman to stumble and drop it. The dog bolted straight towards Eva.

The Jack Russell eagerly rubbed against her legs, tail wagging, begging for attention. Surprised, Eva laughed and patted it. In its excitement, the dog leapt onto her lap, wriggling frantically and trying to lick her face.

“Your manners, Winston!” the woman exclaimed, approaching Eva with deliberate steps, careful to maintain her balance. Once at the table, she uninvitedly sat down facing Eva.

“It’s okay,” Eva countered. Now that the woman was closer, Eva noticed that she was dressed warm for the weather, with a wool vest under her padded coat, a shawl around her neck, and a scarf tied around her head.

“Well, it’s clear that Winston likes you! Are you sure he’s not bothering you?”

“No bother at all! I love dogs. Since moving out from my parents, I haven’t been able to have one. I’m probably enjoying these cuddles more than Winston, who gets them regularly.”

The woman laughed. “He does get a lot of cuddles! It’s his energy that’s the problem—and his attitude, of course.”

Eva raised an eyebrow.

“Winston likes you, but he hates almost everyone else,” the woman continued. As if to emphasize her point, the dog growled at the waitress, who, clearly accustomed to the dog’s quirks, expertly circled around them to serve the woman a cup of tea.

The woman sipped her tea and turned to Eva. “Are you visiting Medellin?”

“Actually, I’m doing my internship at the Décor Hotel.”

“That hotel is beautiful! I sometimes visit the lobby for some tea, to relax and, surrounded by those lush plants, watch the rays of sunshine pouring in through the open roof.”

“The hotel is a hidden green retreat in the bustling city. I love being here for my internship, to explore the city, meet people, and experience the daily Colombian life and culture. Just this morning, I received an offer to stay and work for six months after my internship!”

“Congratulations! So, you live nearby?” the woman asked, carefully setting her teacup on the table. Eva noticed the loose skin on her hands; the skin lacking the elasticity to fit snugly around her fingers and wrists.

“I live around the corner for now,” Eva sighed. “I need to find a new place since I can’t stay where I am once my internship ends.”

The woman pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and nose, and Eva caught a whiff of eucalyptus as she noticed the woman’s white fingernails gripping the damp cloth.

“Well, you’ve already been vetted by Winston. I might have an idea,” the woman said. “I live nearby in a spacious apartment. If you can take care of Winston—walking him twice daily and handling my weekly grocery shopping—that should cover your board.”

Eva gasped in disbelief. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense! I have Deborah to help me,” the woman said, nodding to the front door. Only then did Eva notice the woman, Deborah, sitting outside, keeping a discreet, yet watchful eye on them.

The woman turned back to Eva. “It’s just Winston that doesn’t let anyone near him.”

Eva sat silently, at a loss for words. The woman took her silence as agreement.

“Well, that’s settled! There’s just one last thing: when you return home after six months, you’ll need to find a good place for both you and Winston.”

Eva shook her head, confused by the woman’s remark. “No,” she replied, “Winston has a little crush on me now, and I’m grateful for the chance to stay at your place. But he belongs to you; he must love you and want to be with you.”

“Yes, he does love me,” the woman replied, a slight crack in her voice. “Unfortunately, I can’t take him with me where I’m going soon enough. He’ll need a new home and a new person, and it seems he’s chosen you today.”

Eva absently stroked the dog’s back, lost for words as the weight of the woman’s message sank in.

The woman broke the silence as she took another sip of her tea. “Patting his coat is really relaxing, don’t you think? It just makes all your worries float away.”

Eva nodded, stroking the dog’s soft coat was calming. As if on cue, the dog turned its head from Eva to its owner, wagging its tail in approval.

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I glance up and smile at the decorative epoxy plates adorning the wall. Each plate features a unique smile; some lips a little crooked, all capable of instantly transporting me back to when that particular smile had caught my attention and made me want to make it my own.

I am a collector at heart. As a child, I devoted myself to collecting stamps. I would meticulously extract them from postcards and envelopes, gently flatten and dry them, then carefully place them into the delicate pages of thin tissue paper for safekeeping.

One day, as I absentmindedly caressed the book cover of my stamp collection and watched the bright orange butterflies flit carelessly from one plant to another in our garden, a visiting aunt noticed my fascination. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded, sighing, “Some are so beautiful you just want to hold on to them.” My aunt replied with words that opened up a whole new world for me: “Well, Jonas, you can always catch them and start a collection.”

That day marked the beginning of a new turn in my life, as I eagerly researched all the information I could find on preserving butterflies. Over the years, I honed my skills in delicately spreading the colorful wings and precisely pinning down the insects’ narrow bodies. It was these skills that later in life equipped me with the tools to hold on to something I discovered I loved even more than butterflies.

I grew up as a quiet boy—not necessarily shy, but extremely hesitant to speak too much, insecure about my smile, wary of exposing my small pointy teeth. Naturally, this made me an easy target for teasing and bullies.

One day, during lunch break in the school cafeteria, Sarina, a girl from my class, on whom I secretly had a crush, turned around and flashed her most joyful smile in my direction. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, the cafeteria noise faded into the background, my hand froze mid-air, and a spoonful of rice fell back onto my plate as my throat went instantly dry.

As I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat, a classmate sitting next to me gave me a hard shove. His roaring laughter sent shivers down my spine. “Jonas, do you really think she’s smiling at you?!” he taunted, his words punctuated by hiccupping laughter that drew the attention of all the boys at the table. He nodded towards a boy walking by, on his way to Sarina. My classmate leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I see you staring at Sarina in class. She’ll never look at you. Not only are you ugly, but you’re also dumb to think someone like her would ever glance at your disgusting, ratty face.” He got up and left me there, my body struggling not to buckle under the crushing heat spreading from my chest and raging through my entire being.

After this incident, I took care that no one caught me gazing at Sarina’s smile or that of any other girl, or woman. Over the years, I wrestled with the intense urge to reach out and touch those smiling lips, to trace the curve of the upper lip with my index finger. I imagined that the smooth, delicate skin would feel even more tender than the thinnest butterfly wings in my extensive collection. All I could do was watch, refine my skills and wait.

As soon as I could afford it, I found a run-down house, more akin to a small wooden shack, nestled deep in the mondi—the natural bushes and wilderness on the abandoned, wind-beaten north-eastern coast of the island— where the relentless saltwater-laden wind shaped the harsh landscape.

The elderly owners were visibly relieved when I expressed interest in renting it long-term. A few years later, the opportunity to sell the property to me was precisely what the now grieving widow needed to secure some savings for her old age.

The house was perfect. Remote, with no neighbors around to complain about the geese, the stray dogs and most importantly, about my pigs. Pigs are nature’s own garbage cans. Anything chopped in manageable chunks, they’ll eat. Meat, flesh, hair, bones, muscles, nails.

The grunting sounds of the pigs, rooting around in the pigsty for the last remnants of their meal, pull me from my thoughts.

I turn my attention back to my worktable. Just a few days ago, while standing right here, I had completed the most challenging aspect of the entire undertaking. Using the sharpest scalpel I could acquire, I meticulously cut out the lips with utmost precision and as swiftly as possible after death, before rigor mortis set in.

Years ago, at the start, I failed numerous times. The results were often torn lips or lips cut too far, reminiscent of the Joker. I practiced on the smooth, thin skin of plump, curved apricots and on the flesh of animals. When I advanced to working with humans, I practiced on several body parts before feeding these maimed remains to the pigs: the inside of the underarm, the skin around nipples, any tender and fragile skin I could find. My training had paid off. Looking at the results over the years, I am sure that I would now make an excellent plastic surgeon, or alternatively, a highly regarded lab researcher, dedicated to preserving fragile human skin. In a another life that is, of course.

I always ensure I have ample time at home to regularly and carefully soak and agitate the skin in the tanning solution. After much trial and error, I had finally developed the precise chemical composition needed for the tanning solution to effectively preserve the delicate human skin. Once the skin was adequately preserved, and the distinctive, pungent smell of the chemicals had dissipated, my favorite part began – the task I have set for today. The task which I relish the most.

Using candidly taken pictures as my reference, I spread and carefully form the lips into the smile that captivated me from the very beginning. I meticulously pinch, adjust, and manipulate every millimeter of both lips, until the smile is perfect. A surge of pure adrenaline courses through my veins, causing my heart to pound against my ribcage and sending waves of excitement swirling and cascading throughout my entire body.

Once my racing heart calms, I carefully place the smile into the mold. Inspired by an artist who showcased butterflies embedded in slabs of epoxy, I pour the liquid epoxy meticulously in the mold, covering the smile, ensuring no air bubbles are trapped.

Now, I simply have to wait as the mold slowly dries in the gentle tropical breeze that rustles the leaves in the bushes surrounding us, while the sun gradually warms both the day and the cool room.

I gently caress one of the finished epoxy slabs, tracing the lip line of this particular eternal smile. I have never taken two smiles from one family before. However, these smiles I couldn’t resist.

“Soon,” I whisper to no one in particular, “your sister’s smile will be placed next to you.” I sigh with satisfaction and leave the room.

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They took their time with their greeting, embracing and kissing each other, indifferent to passersby. In this secluded courtyard, where the autumn air was moist and gave the cobblestone path a glossy sheen, they savored a moment of public affection they couldn’t share back home. While still somewhat risky, the likelihood of encountering acquaintances in the city, an ocean apart from their daily lives, was slim on a weekday. To anyone passing by, they appeared as just an anonymous couple, openly and convincingly in love.

After a moment, they headed to the entrance. Amina walked beside him, enveloped in the scent of his aftershave, rich with sandalwood, amber, and musk. She cherished how his fragrance, his dark skin tone, and deep voice evoked feelings of earthiness and stability. She missed this grounding presence. The separate lives and physical distance between them were becoming increasingly difficult for her. For now, she set these thoughts aside, focusing on their visit to the H’ART Museum for the Kandinsky exhibition.

They turned the corner into the exhibition area, which used various media to tell the painter’s unique life story, starting with an audio segment.

She looked at him, noticing his initial casual interest in the exhibition, evolve into engagement as the audio explored the theme of migration—a theme familiar to them both. They had left their respective home islands at a young age to study abroad, they met and fell in love, yet each chose to return home, to a different Caribbean island, to build their lives. The audio art challenged traditional notions of migration, suggesting that individuals constantly migrate from one version of themselves to another, through life’s experiences.

She relaxed into the moment. She had been hesitant to visit the exhibition together, as his initial reaction to some of the abstract paintings had been: “Amina, this is just hysteria, with colors, lines, and circles everywhere!” She now could see his interest in the painter and the painters’ life story had been piqued. They wandered through the exhibition, occasionally holding hands, savoring their time together and immersing themselves in the paintings, videos, and audio art.

As they approached the end of the exhibition, one painting particularly captivated him. It featured rectangular shapes in shades of brown and moss green, evoking a dark, somber mood. In the right corner, the painter’s signature circle was prominently placed. This time outlined in a stark black line, the circle symbolized his idea that one always finds their way back home. The paintings’ dark outer corners was contrasted by a central panel in light shades of green, red, and yellow, as if only that specific spot was illuminated by a hidden light source.

They leaned forward to read the accompanying text, which explained that the portrait depicted life in Nazi Germany, symbolized by the brown uniforms. It conveyed the message that even in wartime, amidst the presence of pain and death, one must hold onto the core belief that something better is possible; a timeless message of hope.

Amina absorbed the message, reflecting on her own life and their relationship, pondering if there could ever truly be a “them” beyond these secret meetings. How long can hope endure? Isn’t there a point of capitulation, when one feels crushed, unable to endure, and choosing to give up? The desire to bow one’s head in surrender, the fire extinguished, the will crushed, hoping for another chance in a future lifetime?

She glanced at him, noticing the familiar tightening of his jawline—a clear sign he was wrestling with his own thoughts. The silence between them was achingly familiar as they moved along.

They turned to continue down the passage and came upon a final large painting. This artwork prominently featured two distinct abstract shapes, each anchored at opposite ends of the canvas. Each shape boasted its own unique color palette and employed a distinctive use of lines—one characterized by straight, sharp edges, while the other displayed smooth, curved contours.

They both gazed at the painting, taking in its details before reading the accompanying text. Amina turned to him, meeting his smiling face.

“This is beautiful,” he said. “Very much like us, don’t you think? In the way we’re so different.” “Your love for softer colors and smoothing any rough edges…. Even mine,” he added with a smile, laughter lines framing his eyes.

She smiled. “Well, those edges are still there—neat and sharp. I’ve grown to like them.” She squeezed his hand. “If you look at it that way, it’s true, even your love for primary, bold colors is in this painting, and translates to your boldness and straightforwardness.” This had attracted her to him, even as it made her wary, realizing how different their lives and their perspectives appeared to be. Yet, they kept being drawn to each other, over the years, despite their marital statuses, children, and careers.

He pointed to the upper right corner of the painting. “See this figure? It looks like a baby’s rattle. To me, it represents playfulness and creative sparks. On the opposite side—my side,” he laughed, “it’s more like a wizard’s wand. Straight, sharp, efficient, nothing superfluous. Master of my world,” he added with playful drama. She laughed. “Still, if we talk about similarities…there’s also the effect one has on the other.” She pointed to the left side of the painting. “See that curved figure? And the background light pink hue—that must be my softening effect on you,” she chuckled. “Don’t you agree?”

He turned to her, a seriousness settling in his eyes. “You’re right,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “That’s what you add to my life—light, softness, tenderness.” Leaning in, he kissed her softly, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. A passerby brushed against them, prompting them to turn their attention back to the painting.

“Consider Kandinsky’s lifetime journey,” Amina said, “from adhering to established conventions of figurative painting to this final, abstract masterpiece. His fearlessness in challenging prevailing thoughts ideas, remaining steadfast in shaping both his life and the arts.”

Hearing her own thoughts spoken aloud unsettled her. She could only assume he recognized her underlying plea as well. She knew he shared her desire for change. The comfort they found in each other’s company was like the painting—two different people, leading different lives, yet perfectly balanced when together. Their life journeys had led them to this point, yet they now felt trapped by the lives they had built, unable to choose each other and embrace an uncertain and very different future.

He gently caressed the nape of her neck. “This painting was meticulously crafted, with each element thoughtfully placed and balanced. This piece—his swan song—is the culmination of his life’s journey- a intricate process that took time. The end result however, is beautiful: a carefully crafted composition where seemingly opposing elements coexist in a delicate, perfect harmony.”

As they walked on, he murmured, “I’m still hopeful. Where we are now isn’t our final swan song. We’ll find a way.”

She smiled sadly. “Our own unique composition.”

“Yes, our own perfect composition. We just haven’t crafted it… yet,” he replied, as they neared the exit and their impending farewell.


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^{Photo: Reciprocal Accords, Wassily Kandinsky 1942, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons}

^References:

^{H’ART Museum Amsterdam}

^{Development in Brown, Wassily Kandinsky, 1933}

Trigger warnings: suicide, loneliness, depression, violence

Milan observed the lady seated at the corner table in the café: back straight, hair neatly done, outfit meticulously styled. Only upon close inspection, would the trained eye spot the tiny holes typical of worn, overwashed clothes.

Milan didn’t want to do it. He sighed, recalling what happened to Jay. This dread was exactly why he had given Jay extra time. Critical time, which Jay then used to follow through on his own.

Even worse, coverage of Jay’s self-inflicted death spread rapidly through illegal dark web channels, triggering others towards that final, irreversible step now that someone else had succeeded. Preventing these deaths, was one of the reasons why Agencies, such as Milan’s employer, had been instituted.

Over recent decades, eradicating pain had become a major global priority as populations aged. Rapid advancements in technology, particularly in cell repair and cell renewal, had been successful. In a world where physical pain was diminishing and nearing elimination, the consensus was that emotional pain—such as loneliness, despair, or depression—would be equally solvable.

Hence, when self-inflicted deaths rose and even led to widely covered mass events worldwide, a heated political debate emerged about human agency. The political views of the international majority led to the global establishment of Agencies. These agencies offered a wide range of preventive counseling, community services, and activities that individuals once spotted and identified as ‘at risk’ (codes 1 through 3) were required to participate in. Anonymous verifiers, like Milan, ensured that no one reached code 4 (a successful self-inflicted death) or, worse, code 5 (a mass event).

The lady, Marianne, had been identified as code 3. He was observing her for her final verification. Milan’s job was to intervene and prevent her from reaching code 4.

The instructions were clear. His job was clear.

In Marianne’s case, due to her advanced age, the coroner’s report would probably state heart failure or a blood clot. The needle prick would be undetectable. The Agency had other protocols, such as orchestrating unfortunate accidents and rare aggressive diseases, all ambiguous enough to avoid tracing back to them. Although everyone was aware of the Agency’s existence, it was still considered a taboo for the bereaved, having to acknowledge that the deceased had approached code 4. The result of the Agency’s protocol would still be tragic and cause grief, but it would avoid the despair and potential widespread impact of a code 4 event.

Marianne absentmindedly rubbed her wrinkled arm. A modest smile on her lips, she made a point of thanking the waitress who had just brought her a coffee. Once the waitress turned away, Marianne’s smile vanished. Moments later, Marianne forced a smile back and glanced around approvingly. Milan’s trained eye noticed the slight tremble at the corners of her mouth from the effort.

He glanced at the clock above the counter. They had been here a while. Soon, Marianne would tidy her table and return her cup to the counter. She’d sign off with a chirpy “See you next week! Have a great shift!” Sometimes the busy waiters would acknowledge her goodbye, more often the best Marianne would get was a polite smile or a nod in her direction.

The city was just large enough for her to regularly visit a few cafés without anyone noticing she was alone each week, speaking only to the staff and the occasional passerby seated nearby. Others didn’t know, as he did, that she would return home exhausted, turn on the hot water, and sit on her bathroom floor—sometimes still clothed, sometimes crying, or just staring into space.

The sharp clang of a kitchen worker hitting the bell for a waiter jolted him back to his task.

Marianne deserved more time. Although in vain, she had been making the required effort—attending counseling at the Agency’s community centers and participating in social events. All he needed to do was adjust the scores on the final verification form, indicating that she was doing better.

However, there was the issue of Grover, his recently assigned coach, sitting beside him and observing their target with a disciplined, experienced eye. Grover had to temporarily approve all of Milan’s verification forms.

Milan’s stomach tightened as he watched Marianne lean toward the young woman at the next table, who was indecisively scanning the menu. Ever so friendly, Marianne recommended various dishes and asked if the young woman was local, trying her best to extend the conversation. He knew Grover was mentally checking a box on the form. It hurt to see Marianne’s forced effort to connect.

The hurt was too familiar, too much like the incident with Jay. He had given Jay, his then target, the benefit of the doubt. Instead of completing his final task, he had left Jay alone. A few hours later, he received a message with a GPS location from Nathaly, his manager: “Get here right now, it’s Jay, code 4.” Milan still remembered the immense weight that sank into the pit of his stomach.

Upon arriving at the scene, Milan was immediately debriefed by Nathaly, who took his verification report. She repeatedly questioned why he hadn’t followed procedure, noting that his report identified Jay as high risk. Realizing he had lost his target and shaken by the bright ambulance and firefighter truck lights, the sobbing onlookers, and the solemn first responders, he finally admitted to Nathaly, with a heavy heart, that he had overheard Jay telling an online friend he felt low but planned to set up a new appointment with one of the Agency’s counselors. Milan had desperately wanted to believe Jay.

He turned to Grover. “Aren’t you ever worried your verification might be wrong? Or that we might finalize the tracking too soon?”

“You can’t think about that kid,” Grover replied. “Our instructions are clear, and the verification form is precise. We don’t take this lightly. We track and verify behavior over an extended period. It’s about patterns, consistency, and whether individuals utilize the available counseling and support services. As you well know now, it’s better to act too soon than too late.”

It was true, Milan thought, the checklist was independently validated. It captured observable behaviors that the trained eye could see, hear, smell. It even included a covert touch to assess body warmth and tension. All observable behaviors indicating a risk of unresolved emotional pain and loneliness, spiraling further downward.

However, the checklist didn’t account for how a person was feeling; the quiet thoughts they so carefully hid in their heavy minds. Afraid to be misunderstood or exposed. Embarrassed, too ashamed to open- up about the nightmares that haunted their nights. These were the very things Milan had been experiencing since the incident with Jay. Milan hadn’t told the Agency counselors, or even Grover, how the scenes of the incident kept flashing before his eyes at night and kept him awake.

He turned to Grover. “Do you ever think about quitting? Looking for something else? I mean, doing something else?”

Dark eyes fixed on Milan beneath a furrowed brow. “You know better. You don’t quit a job at the Agency.”

Milan nodded dismissively, trying to brush off his previous question. He shouldn’t have asked. Although there was broad support for the Agencies’ mission, cases were classified to prevent any doubts from the public about issued death certificates. Therefore, once someone was part of the Agency, extensive non-disclosures and other measures were firmly set in place. Additionally, employees were inclined to stay silent, as no one wanted to discover that their family member, friend, or neighbor had blood on their hands from an either a successful, or failed verification.

Marianne had left the café some time ago. It was time. The verification form was clear. Milan knew what he had to do. Grover reviewed the form, nodded, and signed off.

“I’ll stop by Marianne before heading home. See you tomorrow.”

Grover tapped the table as a farewell.

Milan slowly approached Marianne’s apartment. As he turned onto her street, he bumped into her walking a small dog.

Her eyes grew moist as she looked at him. “I know who you are. Why you’re here,” she said, before lowering her gaze. “I tried, you know,” she said, looking at him pleadingly. “I really did. I attended counseling, various social activities. They’re pleasant, like a nice dress in your favorite color. But eventually, you come home, alone, and you undress. And the emptiness underneath is just as stark as ever.”

She grabbed Milan’s arm. “Still, I don’t want to die,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and teary. “I want the throbbing hurt to stop, but I don’t want to die. I’m not going to hurt myself. Really. I just need more time.” She nodded intently.

“I… I can’t leave Waffles alone,” she said, glancing at the dog. “Liza, my neighbor, his owner, injured her foot, so I’ll be walking him for a few weeks. I can’t let her down; she’d be inconsolable. I can’t…. Not now, not here.”

Sensing his hesitation, she added, “Maybe after these weeks, I could join the animal care program at the center?…. I haven’t tried that yet.”

She sounded hopeful. Her interest in caring for the dog seemed genuine. He looked at her pleading face. She stared back at him, her eyes dark, her lips pressed thin. She held the leash a bit too tightly, which he dismissed as nervousness due to their encounter.

“I’m sure I’ll get better,” she said with a hesitant smile.

He wanted to be convinced. She had met all the criteria; she was a verified code 4 risk…. But perhaps the dog was exactly what she needed—something to care for, while helping her neighbor. Milan felt his last bit of resolve fade.

“Okay… Promise me you’ll enroll in the animal care program tomorrow. Don’t wait. Tomorrow!”

Her smile widened, perhaps a bit too much he thought, as she gently patted his arm. “Thank you. I will.”

Her shoulders were slumped—maybe she was tired. Milan gave her one last look from head to toe, reassuring himself. She continued nodding her thanks. He turned and walked off, gradually picking up his pace as his steps grew lighter.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, he heard a thud, like a heavy bag of groceries hitting the ground, followed by frantic barking from a dog. He turned around to see Grover quickly approaching. Behind him, Marianne’s body lay slumped on the sidewalk. Grover seized his elbow and urged him forward. “Move!” he sneered through clenched teeth. “Once verification is complete, you don’t decide who stays or goes. You follow the procedure. I gave you a chance, I really did,” he hissed. “You know what I have to do next.”

Milan hardly had a chance to mumble an explanation, before everything went black.

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“Look!” Gilverto pointed to the far end of the creek. “Those are Southern Lapwings. Their greyish-brown and white coats have distinctive bronze, purple, and blue hues near their wings, like shoulder pads.” He chuckled, handing her the binoculars.

Following his directions, Adanna peered across the water’s edge until she spotted the birds. She smiled. “These binoculars are amazing. It’s like the birds are right in front of me.”

He murmured approvingly.

She returned the binoculars and readjusted herself on the porch chair cushions he had laid out for them on the sloping hillside. She had for once agreed to indulge his peculiar birdwatching hobby, knowing that in the next few weeks, he would be spending more time with his daughter, her husband and kids who were arriving this afternoon from the Netherlands. He would be spending time with them, and with Elrita, his wife.

“Have you heard from Mylène?”

“She sent a video of her, Michael, and the kids in the family group chat just before boarding the plane.”
Adanna’s stomach tightened at the mention of the family group chat. “I suppose they’re excited about their vacation.”

“Yes, they are,” Gilverto replied. “Tomorrow, we’re heading to the beach at Bandabou. I’m marinating the meat this afternoon, and Elrita is making her famous potato salad.”

Adanna flinched at the mention of Gilverto’s wife.

“Is Elrita also going to the airport?”

“No, she’ll meet us at the house. She’s going ahead to make sure everything is clean and ready for Mylène and her family. She’s worried that I missed something.” Gilverto rolled his eyes.

He perked up and aimed the binoculars at some small brown, white bellied birds that had just landed in the creek. “Killdeer! What a nice surprise!” He handed the binoculars to her. “Take a look. Do you see the markings across their breast? It’s like they’re wearing two black necklaces, one slightly longer than the other.”

She nodded and slowly moved the binoculars, scanning the rest of the creek. A young flamingo, its feathers still greyish-brown, was scurrying in the water, searching for food. Its pink parents watched vigilantly, foraging and keeping an eye out for threats.

She was aware of Gilverto beside her, looking at her approvingly as she showed interest in his beloved birds.

She stifled a laugh. How had she ended up here? Watching birds, early on a Saturday morning, with this man. A married man.

His wife lived in their apartment in a newly developed, vibrant area of the historic city center, enjoying the companionship of her friends and, according to Gilverto, other lovers. He stayed in their matrimonial house. They remained friendly, casually interacting at grocery stores or restaurants and spending time together when their children and grandchildren visited.

Adanna lowered the binoculars and looked at Gilverto. “So, Elrita’s heading to your house now?”

“Yes,” Gilverto replied. “She knows I’m not home. She can use her own key.”

Adanna stared at the creek, where a breeze had ruffled the surface, sending low waves rippling through the otherwise still water. The compulsion was too strong; she had to ask the question she already knew the answer to. “Why don’t you get a divorce?”

“Dushi, you know why. That would mean selling the house, the apartment, sorting out the family business, dealing with lawyers, paperwork. In the end, Elrita and I would just end up living as we are now. No, life right now, is just too short for that.”

She sighed, lifted the binoculars, and turned her upper body away, focusing on nothing in particular at the creek’s far edge.

At times, she still felt uneasy. Gilverto and his family might be okay with the arrangement, but starting a relationship with a married man had always been a no-go for her. In addition, on their small island, everyone knew he was married and she was the other woman—a label she never wanted for herself.

She had wanted what he once had—or at least what he had at the beginning: two people choosing each other, a shared life, marriage, kids, and now grandchildren. Adanna’s life had taken different turns; she had chosen and sometimes unwillingly stumbled down a path different from what she had foreseen when she was younger. Gradually, her ideas of how her life would be, how she would love and be loved, had crumbled away. These notions were now nothing more than faded dreams.

Her younger self would never have been in this relationship. Her younger self…She glanced down at her arms, noting the light brown, wrinkled skin. Age spots had appeared. Her hands, too, were slowly turning into those of an older woman, with paper-thin skin and pronounced veins.

Gilverto gently placed a hand on her thigh, interrupting her thoughts. He sought her eyes. She looked at him—a warm, kind face with deep crow’s feet and wrinkles that accentuated his smile.

“Thirsty? I brought us some fresh ‘awa lamoenchi’ with a bit of sugar, just the way you like it.”

She smiled. He hated sugar in his lemon drink, preferring the mouth-puckering sourness.

He rolled onto his hands and knees, then pushed himself upright. As he stood, an “oomph” escaped his lips. “Young as a buck,” he laughed, rubbing his stiff knees before heading toward the car parked about fifty meters away.

“This is a nice place,” she said once he returned and sat next to her. “Do you come here with your birdwatching group?”

“No, this is my secret spot,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ve been coming here for years. Not many people know about it—it’s a hidden gem in a busy neighborhood.” He turned to observe the creek. “I’ve never brought anyone here, not even Elrita or the kids. I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time here together, today.”

She glanced at him, sitting at ease, enjoying the view and her company. She felt her chest expand. Maybe she had finally found her own unconventional, but loving path.

A special thanks to Birdwatching Curacao for organizing birdwatching trips and educating us all.

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^{Photo by Derek Keats on FlickR}

Selena was diep de achtertuin in gelopen om de praatjes met de jarenlang uit het oog verloren kennissen te ontvluchten. De aanwezigen waren naarmate de avond vorderde, als vanouds, steeds luidruchtiger en jovialer geworden. De afgedankte badkuip die speciaal voor dit soort gelegenheden in de tuin leek te staan, was al een keer bijgevuld met flessen wijn, bier en zakken met ijs om alle drank koel te houden. Op verschillende statafels lagen schalen met overgebleven toastjes naast half leeggedronken flessen bier.

De muziek stond net hard genoeg aan om de beschonken feestgangers ritmisch op de klanken te laten meedeinen en net zacht genoeg zodat aangeschoten mannen elkaar met sterke verhalen en dronken anekdotes konden aftroeven. Het stemgeluid van de mannen was laag en zwaar, bedoeld om indruk te maken op de dames die met verhitte gezichten roddels uitwisselden en zo nu en dan in een overdreven schaterlach uitbarstten.

Selena’s blik gleed over de omgewoelde weilanden die aan de tuin grensden en zich weids voor haar uitstrekten. Smalle mistbanken hingen laag boven de grond waardoor de bomen die in de verte het land begrensden in de lucht leken te zweven. Langzaam voelde ze haar kalmte en daarmee ook haar vastberadenheid terugkeren. Sinds ze de uitnodiging voor het feest had ontvangen, had ze naar deze avond uitgekeken. Dit was haar kans om hem te spreken. Na al die jaren. Na het ongeluk.

Ze rolde met haar schouders en liep op het huis af. Een man liep haar kant op. Zijn blik was op de grond gericht zodat hij zich op de ongelijke grond niet zou verstappen. Hij had haar nog niet opgemerkt. De man was iets korter dan zij. Hij had een wat vierkant postuur en zijn schouders hingen licht naar voren. Selena herkende gelijk de contouren van de man van toen die ze nu net zou gaan zoeken.

Instinctief stapte ze naar voren om hem met een stevige omhelzing te begroeten. Halverwege de beweging deinsde ze terug. Na dat rampzalige jaar en de beperkte werkzaamheid van vaccinaties, omhelsde je uit voorzorg nog alleen naaste familie of hechte vrienden. Ze kon nog steeds moeilijk aan de nieuwe situatie wennen. Ze wilde haar armen om zijn nek slaan en de geruststellende druk van zijn omhelzing om haar lichaam voelen. Het werd een onwennig knikje vanaf de nu zo gebruikelijke fysieke afstand tussen twee mensen.

‘Ehm… Hi… Ik…Gecondoleerd… Ehm..Hoe…Hoe gaat het nu met je?’ De nadruk op ‘nu’ was te sterk, alsof ze hem ter verantwoording riep. Selena inhaleerde diep in de hoop haar begroeting weer terug haar mond in te zuigen. Tevergeefs.

Een donkere waas trok over zijn ogen. ‘Ja. Ach. Wat valt daar over te zeggen.’ Met de punt van zijn schoen wreef hij wat aarde voor zijn voeten weg.

‘Ja….. Natuurlijk. Ik. Ja…. Stomme vraag….Dat is natuurlijk niet te…’ Haar adem stokte. Ze zocht verwoed naar de juiste woorden. Maandenlang hadden de woorden in haar hoofd een verhitte strijd met elkaar gestreden. Ze waren over elkaar heen getuimeld, vormden zorgvuldige zinnen en spatten na een kritische ontleding weer uit elkaar waarna het gehele proces weer van voorafgaan begon. Nu leek ze elke grip op deze zorgvuldig voorbereide gedachten te verliezen. ‘Ik…Ik ben blij… dat je gekomen bent…fijn….fijn om je te zien.’

Hij schraapte zijn keel. ‘Ja, je moet wat hè. Het huis uit. Ik wilde wel even langskomen’. Hij wees met zijn kin in de richting van het huis van de gastheer. ‘Voor hun. Als dank.’ Selena knikte en keek hem wat langer aan.

De jaren hadden diepe groeven in zijn gezicht achtergelaten. Vlak boven zijn oren omringde wat grijsbruin haar een verder kaal hoofd. Hij wreef met zijn hand over zijn voorhoofd. Selena herkende het gebaar waarmee hij jaren geleden het tropenzweet dat zich steeds boven zijn borstelige wenkbrauwen verzamelde wegschoof. Ze kon haar glimlach niet onderdrukken. Even keek hij haar, alsof betrapt op een ondeugd, aan voordat op zijn gezicht een jongensachtige brede lach verscheen.

Hij stapte vooruit en liet zijn rechterhand rusten in de golving tussen haar nek en schouder. Ze drukte haar wang uit automatisme tegen zijn warme hand. Zijn blik verzachtte: ‘Vertel eens, hoe gaat het met jou? Woon je nu hier?’

‘Met mij gaat het goed. Ja…Ik ben weer terug. Mijn toekomst lag toch niet daar….Ik begin hier weer opnieuw, terwijl er zoveel van mij daar achter is gebleven. Ik moet dat loslaten. De persoon die ik was, het leven dat ik leidde, allemaal voorbij. Het voelt alsof ik voorgoed afscheid heb moeten nemen van een deel van mezelf….. Dat valt me zwaar….. Dat had jij vast ook toen.’

Hij kneep zijn ogen samen en liet haar los.

‘Ik… ik bedoel, het afscheid toen je vertrok. Niet het afscheid daarna natuurlijk……’ Ze schudde haar hoofd. ‘Afscheid nemen van een woonplaats is natuurlijk niet te vergelijken met… met..’

Hij hoestte kort. ‘Hmhm.’

‘Ik wilde je.… Ik probeerde nog aan jouw telefoonnummer te komen. Ik wilde je een bericht sturen. Iets. Ik vond uiteindelijk via de telefoongids een adres waarvan ik dacht dat het van jou kon zijn…. ‘ Heb… heb je mijn kaart ontvangen?’ Ze zocht in zijn ogen naar een reddingsboei, iets waar ze zich aan kon vastklampen. Haar moeite was vergeefs, zijn ogen waren zo ondoorgrondelijk zwart als de zee tijdens een zwaar bewolkte nacht.

‘Misschien is het niet aangekomen? Of…. Nou….het kan ook zijn dat zo een kaart je niet bijgebleven is. Je hebt vast zoveel berichten ontvangen…Het was ook zo onwerkelijk…Ik kan me niet voorstellen…Ja…. Dus ja, dan kan je dat allemaal niet…’

‘Ja het was erg veel. Nog bedankt dan.’

‘Ik ben er zo… ja… zo van geschrokken. Ik wilde je laten weten dat ik aan je dacht. Ik wilde…’

‘Ach schat, hier ben je!’ De vrouw verscheen als uit het niets aan zijn zijde. Diepliggende blauwe ogen keken hem bezorgd aan. De huidplooien in haar zongebruinde gezicht en decolleté verrieden een in de overige seizoenen blanke, kwetsbare huid. Ze schoof haar arm om zijn middel en drukte zich tegen hem aan. ‘Ik kon je al een tijdje niet vinden.’ Ze streek zacht met haar handpalm langs zijn wang. Na een laatste blik op zijn gezicht, keek de vrouw Selena vragend aan.

Selena stak haar hand ter begroeting op. ‘Selena, aangenaam…’.

De vrouw keek beurtelings Selena en daarna hem aan. Hij schraapte zijn keel. ‘We kennen elkaar nog van vroeger. Selena kende….’ Hij slikte even. ‘Nog van toen, van die tijd…. daar.’

‘Ja…..juist, dat klopt! Ik ben sinds kort weer in het land. Ik was niet hier… toen ehm… laatst. Om afscheid te kunnen nemen. Ik vertelde net dat ik overal had gezocht naar een telefoonnummer. Ik heb uiteindelijk een kaart gestuurd.’

De vrouw knikte bedachtzaam. ‘Oh, ja.. bedankt. Ja, een moeilijke tijd. Het was natuurlijk erg onverwacht. Zo’n overlijden is zo zinloos.’

De vrouw keek de man liefdevol aan en kneep snel in zijn hand. ‘Vanavond zijn we eindelijk weer even een avondje uit, gezellig met vrienden. Hè lieverd? Kom, laten we naar binnen gaan. Lize en Ronald willen jou vast nog spreken. Ik kan nog wel een drankje gebruiken. Bovendien, het koelt hier in de tuin nu snel af.’

Haar hand schoof van zijn middel naar de ruimte tussen zijn schouderbladen. Zachtjes duwde ze hem met haar handpalm richting het huis. Hij verroerde zich niet. Ze liet haar hand zakken en liep richting het huis. Haar zomerse tuniek bewoog soepel mee met haar zelfverzekerde stappen. Na een paar stappen draaide ze zich om en knikte ten teken van afscheid naar Selena.

Selena keek naar de man die, verzonken in zijn eigen gedachten, bewegingloos tussen haar en de andere vrouw in stond. Zoals hij daar stond, moest ze terugdenken aan een standbeeld dat in de tuin van een landhuis stond dat ze als kind vaak had bezocht. Het stenen beeld was ooit de trots geweest van de beeldhouwer en een symbool van hoop en verbondenheid voor de vele bezoekers van het landhuis. Het gebruikte steen was echter niet geschikt om blootgesteld te worden aan de zoute zeelucht, de verzengend hete zonnestralen en de haast onzichtbare kleine zandkorrels die gedragen door de passaatwind ongenadig het steen schuurden. De kenmerkende details en contouren van het beeld vlakten af, het steen werd op sommige plekken poreus. Uiteindelijk werd het grauwe en verweerde standbeeld uit de tuin verwijderd en kon het onkruid ongeremd groeien over de ontstane lege plek.

De man schudde een paar keer met zijn hoofd, alsof hij hiermee zijn gedachten weg wilde jagen. Hij keek Selena aan: ‘Dag, lieve schat.’

Hij keerde zich om en liep de vrouw met zware stappen tegemoet. De vrouw sloeg een arm om hem heen. Ze drukte hem kort tegen zich aan en loodste hem naar het vrolijke geroezemoes bij het huis.

Selena stak haar arm uit. ‘Ik…’. Het geluid klonk niet harder dan de ritseling van een klein nachtdier. Ze ademde uit en vertrouwde fluisterend haar woorden toe aan de koele avond. Ze wierp nog een laatste blik op het huis waar het paar allang in was verdwenen. Het was tijd om deze plek te verlaten.

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What was her husband’s paisley-patterned tie doing here, tucked away in a semi-transparent box in the corner of their neighbor’s garage?

Viola only noticed the box when she dropped the one Mistral, their neighbor organizing the garage sale, had asked her to fetch and carry outside. The box had slipped from her hands, causing the inflated beach ball on top to roll directly against the semi-transparent box tucked away in the corner.

She barely noticed the semi-transparent box as she leaned down to fetch the beach ball. She was in a hurry to get back outside to Mistral’s front yard, where her husband Richard and a few neighborhood friends were gathered. The garage sale was transforming into an evening of drinks and Mistral had already lit the BBQ. She could hear Richard’s enthusiastic Cheers! accompanied by the clinking of cold beer bottles. She had been enjoying herself, a feeling she never thought she would experience again after that dreadful afternoon nearly three years ago.

It was only when she straightened up, ready to leave the garage, that a glimpse of the fabric caught her eye. She recognized that paisley pattern.

While preparing for the garage sale, Mistral had likely removed items, forgetting about this box tucked further back. Viola pulled it out, placed it on an empty shelf, and lifted the lid for a closer look.

She rummaged through the box and grabbed the tie. Hesitantly, she turned it over to check the label. If it was in Spanish, it would confirm this was Richard’s tie. They had bought it during a vacation in Spain when, unexpectedly, they were invited to a formal dinner. The limited selection in the tourist city had left them with this one tie.

The label read, “Alma del Torro, hecho en España.” Her heart dropped. Her hands trembled as she examined the various items in the box more closely. Yes, this was Mistral’s memento box.

She had known Mistral for close to ten years, starting off as friendly neighbors and gradually becoming best friends. They had shared many bottles of wine while gossiping about their neighbors, work and relationships. However, it was the stories of Mistral’s many sexual escapades with mostly young men during her husband’s frequent business trips to Miami, that stood out the most.

Viola enjoyed Mistral’s hilarious and sometimes cringeworthy sex stories. Mistral craved attention and loved sharing her tales afterward. She brought her stories to life with stolen mementos. Her collection included socks, belts, T-shirts, the occasional boxer shorts, and even a spandex thong from a particularly active beach vacation.

Their friendship hadn’t been just laughs and good times. Mistral had been there for her and Richard from the very first moment on that horrible afternoon, all through these past years.

It had never crossed her mind that Mistral and her husband would… Would what? What did the tie prove? She shook her head in disbelief. She would have to ask her husband, ask Mistral.

As she prepared to put the box back, she suddenly spotted a mustard-yellow polo shirt with a red logo buried beneath other items. She grabbed the shelves to keep from falling. Her ears rang. Fighting against a wave of nausea, she reached into the box and pulled out the polo shirt. She recognized the hideous yellow logo of the cement truck company. An image of that afternoon flashed before her eyes: the bare-chested truck driver who had run around in a panic-driven frenzy while her son… Could this be that truck driver’s shirt?

That afternoon, three years ago, Viola was in the kitchen while her seven-year-old son, Timothy, played alone in the yard. Fascinated by the workers constructing Mistral’s new patio, Timothy would sit on the wall ledge and watch them operate heavy equipment, drive the tractor, and prepare the soil for the concrete floor that would be poured.

Alarmed by Mistral’s hysterical screams Viola had rushed outside to find Mistral standing at the wall, looking bewildered. The only words she could manage were, “There’s been an accident. Timothy..” as she glanced back and forth between Viola and the mustard-yellow cement truck with red markings parked in Mistral’s driveway. A bare-chested man was screaming into a mobile phone.

Viola started to run towards the cement truck, but the truck driver intercepted her, throwing in his full weight. She only remembered fragments of what he was saying, “Wall… Climbed up ladder…. Slipped…. Fell.. Barrel.. Inside….It’s turned off now. Stay here, lady, stay here.” As the horror of what happened to her son set in, all the air was knocked out of her. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground.

Richard appeared. As did ambulances, police cars and fire trucks. A plan was agreed on. A plan which included lifting Viola up from the ground, and carrying her into the house.

Behind the closed door, she heard the sounds of the truck, the men shouting and then, the eerie quiet, she could only assume because her son’s body had appeared from the barrel. There was no sound of traffic passing by, even the birds were quiet. A few seconds passed, and the men got back into action, recovering the remains of Timothy’s battered body from the thick cement paste, placing him on a gurney and transporting his remains away. The funeral had been with a closed casket.

Mistral stayed with them during those first days, attending to the door, calls, and messages. She ensured Viola and Richard drank, ate, and took their sleeping pills. Weeks passed, yet Mistral continued to visit daily. She ensured they had groceries, attended to household chores, and tried to instill a fragile sense of normalcy by engaging them in conversation. Mistrals continuing presence had comforted her in a way that Richard couldn’t. The grief had been so heavy and all encompassing, it had sucked all oxygen out of their marriage.

As time passed, Mistral encouraged her to start cooking simple meals again. Mistral entertained her with the latest gossip and eventually resumed sharing stories of her bizarre extramarital affairs. Listening to the tales of Mistral’s carefree life offered Viola a moment of escape from her own grief. Gradually, she began to notice the world around her again—the flowers in her garden, the chirping of birds. She even started sharing recipes she found online with Mistral.

Though her grief remained a constant presence, it was accompanied by the emergence of a parallel path where fragments of normal life began to reappear. On this secondary road, fragile experiences of lightness and reserved laughter became possible. Amidst the gathered group of neighbors at the garage sale today, she had even felt a precious moment of joy.

She took another look at the tie and the polo shirt. A new memory struck her. In the weeks leading up to the accident, Mistral would come over and share her escapades as soon as the workers constructing her new patio, left. Mistral had been ecstatic: the men were well-built, sweaty, young, and eager.

Viola gasped as the realization hit her. She stormed out of the garage, screaming, and headed straight for Mistral.

Mistral, taken aback, stood paralyzed. A neighbor stepped between them just in time to prevent Viola from lunging at Mistral.

“Why do you have these?” She yelled at Mistral while waving the memento’s in the air. “You with your sick keepsakes!”

“You!” she turned to Richard, throwing the tie to his feet. “You fucked her!”

She stifled a sob as she held up the yellow polo shirt.

“She was fucking the cement truck driver. That’s why the truck was left unattended. Our son died for a quicky!”

Her husband went pale.

Viola turned to Mistral. “You and your pathetic need for attention! Timothy died because of you!” Viola continued screaming, violently lunging at Mistral.

Someone had called the police. An officer dragged her towards the police car. She struggled against his grip. He shoved her into the back seat of the car where she was left alone, pounding on the window, screaming.

Thoughts kept circling in her mind. Timothy was dead because of Mistral. Mistral fucked her husband. Timothy was dead because of Mistral.

She looked at the group of people standing in the front yard on the cement patio. The BBQ was on, they were talking with the police officers as if this was just another community policing gathering. A thirst for revenge seared through Viola’s body, lighting up her brain and her senses. Her son had suffocated in a thick paste, his body mangled and mutilated, whereas Mistral was standing there, blatantly flirting with police officers.

She glared at Mistral through the searing heat rising from the BBQ grill. Through the shimmering hot air, Mistral’s unscathed body appeared distorted. A cold shiver ran down Viola’s spine as her eyes locked onto the burning flames. Her thoughts began to gather. She hadn’t felt this clearheaded in a long time. Once her plan was fully formed, she exhaled. Satisfied, she finally leaned back.

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