THE INVISIBLE THREAD

CHAPTER FOUR

Arizona, 2016

This was the most daring thing she had ever done as Zana Lymberis since she could fearlessly take that woman's place, and enjoy her freedom, but she wanted it so badly. And, when she wanted something badly, no one could stop her.

With her heart pounding harder than a primitive drum, she pushed the iron gate, and felt a wave of nostalgia assailing her. The most beautiful memories of her childhood enveloped her like a frenzied wind, making her laugh and cry at the same time. Her uncle's farm, The Rocky Coast, as she liked calling it, was the hallmark of his beloved Greece that was verdant and still surrounded by uncultivated and rocky vast expanses of land. Her paternal home, which used to tower in the middle, somewhat jarring with the wild landscape, no longer stood there. After her parents' death, before she moved into her uncle's, it had been pulled down, so as to give its place to the stables for expensive race horses, and a small winery, since her uncle had a soft spot for producing wine.

What hurt her more than her parents' loss was parting with The Rocky Coast. She had lost them both within a year. Her mother died first, succumbing to a rampant type of cancer, then her father, who died in his sleep one hot summer night, grieving over her loss. Of course, her uncle did all he could to give her joy—that's why he had her move into his place. When she had her own room at The Rocky Coast, his two stepchildren had already enlisted in the army, so they barely came over to the house.

She heaved a sigh, got hold of her backpack and, dizzy as she was, she made for the entrance. It wasn't as she remembered it. The new owners had made lots of changes. Now the house was painted the colour of ochre, several windows had been added, an

impressive pergola cast its shadow over the huge verandah, and yet another floor ended in a beautiful attic. The Rocky Coast wasn't the same, but it was etched in Melina's mind in its favourite old form—neglected but warm—, which made her feel strong.

After the second knock, the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with unkempt grey hair, quite a lot of wrinkles, and suntanned skin looked at her in surprise. Melina introduced herself, assuming her most cordial expression, and the other woman, probably kind by nature, beamed and asked her to come in.

After some time, they were both comfortably seated on the beige sofas with the fluffy cushions, in the middle of the living room, holding a cup of American coffee, and talking about so many memories. The woman was so glad to hear that Melina personally knew Paul Kordas as she held him in high regard. She would never forget that this wonderful farm, which changed their life, and snapped them out of poverty, the dying general had almost gifted them for free since, as he had told them, his last wish was for The Rocky Coast to have the owners it deserved—people who would take care of it just like he himself did.

"How did you meet the general?" Maria Fernandez, the Spanish middle-aged woman, asked her.

"I was classmates with his niece, Melina, who doesn't know I'm here today. With time, we lost touch. Still, I have some great memories of this house, and I'd like to take a look at it again."

"All those who were put up or spent some time in this house have fond memories. About five years ago, a guy suffering from amnesia had come here. He was an Afghan veteran, as he told me—I could tell from his marks. He had been put up by the general for quite some time. I showed him to his room, and he asked to have a look at the things I had kept in the warehouse. He politely asked for a dreamcatcher. I gave it to him."

The cup in Melina's hand started to shake.

Up until her uncle's death, no one else but his stepchildren, Stefan and Gabriel, had been put up at The Rocky Coast. Many people had been there, the house was open for everyone, but Paul Kordas was obsessed with security issues, what with his position and experiences. Even if someone else had stayed there while she was away studying, they couldn't have stayed so long that their memory would be jogged by the specific house.