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2025-10-31 00:02:06
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The Vision She Hid 131
The helicopter came in low over the roofs and shook flour off the bakery like dust from an old rug. The rotor wash turned the square into a wind tunnel and gave everyone a free bad hair day. People ran to their doors because that’s what people do when a machine drops from the sky on their town. Dogs barked because nobody was there to tell them off.We stood in the alley by the basil cans and waited for the noise to become something we could work with. Celeste kept one hand in her pocket and the other on the old stone wall. Maria shielded her eyes with a flat hand. Andrew looked like a man counting his unpaid debts. Elky was there, but only just. I tasted jet fuel and lemons and thought the mixer is vile.The pilot settled in the schoolyard at the edge of the square. The school had a roof with a gap where a tile should. When the rotors slowed down, a man in a black suit jumped down and unlatched the side door like he did so every weekend. He didn’t care to look at us. He looked at the
The Vision She Hid 130
My humble abode above the bakery kept the day’s heat like a jar with an air-tight lid. The fan moved air from one corner to another and called it cooling work. I pulled the curtains half-closed and set the night-vision camera on the sill covered in dead flies. The glass was streaked with flour dust. I wiped a patch with the heel of my palm and left a clear oval and a smear across my hand. It smelled faintly of yeast and felt good. Well, definitely better than rotten fish at the docks.The hill house sat across my window, a black shape cut out of the darker sky. A line of trees marked the lemon grove. The wall ran under them, old stone and newer unsighty patch, the kind of repair you get when money shows up late.In the square below me, the last voices faded. Chairs scraped the pavement. A scooter coughed and went quietly away. The bakery clinked and hissed under my feet, then settled to a slow breathing—trays in, trays out, oven door, TV chatter. The old woman sang a bar in the wrong
The Vision She Hid 129
The engine came up the hill and died out like a cough that didn’t want doctor’s attention. The sound bounced off the church wall and slipped into the water. The docks went back to being docks—tar, rope, diesel, and dead fish. Nets lay in heaps like tired laundry. A gull stood on a bollard and watched us without much respect.Maria pulled her jean jacket tighter. “That’s the second truck I’ve heard doing that,” she said. “Up, down, stop. Like a metronome.”“Yeah. They have bad rhythm,” Andrew said. He had his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. He looked like a man trying to be part of a wall.I watched the hill. A thin line of lights ran along the ridge like a dotted sentence. It didn’t say much. The air was heavy, damp, and still warm. I kept feeling salt on my lips. A ferry horn moaned somewhere out in the dark and a smaller boat answered.“We don’t follow engines,” I said. “Engines don’t love us back.”“So what do we follow?” Maria asked.“People,” I said. “They leak in
The Vision She Hid 128
The ferry landed in a burst of heat. Air heavy with salt and exhaust pressed against us when the ramp came down. The sun had no merci; it glared at everything and everyone to burn.The road from the docks climbed past warehouses streaked with rust and white salt lines. The tires crunched over gravel. No wind. Only flies and the faint sound of a radio playing an old love song that ended in white noise.We stopped at a square where the smell of baked bread mixed with diesel. A narrow bakery leaned between two houses. Its windows were clouded from flour; the paint on the sign had peeled to faint blue ghosts of letters.Inside, the air was warm and dry. The counters were bare except for three loaves that looked tired but serviceable. An old woman stood behind them. She wore a plain cotton dress and an apron that had been washed too many times. Her hands were white with flour up to the wrists. Her hair was gray and pulled tight. The perfume on her was sweet and old-fashioned; it mixed with
The Vision She Hid 127
The storage place had a hallway that smelled like damp concrete and dirty secrets. Yannis walked ahead of us with the bored menace of a man who could bend a door with his left shoulder. Andrew ghosted behind us, hands in pockets, eyes on all corners at once. Marta’s heels clicked out a rhythm that told the future to come but at a reasonable pace.Unit 17B’s paint was the color of old gunmetal. The lock took the key like it was paid money for it. The door rolled up, complaining like a choir of lifetime smokers.Inside: a busted metal shelf, an old trunk, a cardboard box with a slit down one side, and a portable projector case. The air had that stale, sweet smell of old paper that’s learned to lie elegantly.I stepped in while the others kept the distance. Flicked the trunk. It protested wildly. I opened it anyway. Clothes. Men’s, then women’s. Not my style, not anyone’s decent. The kind of anonymous fabric you buy when you know you’ll be leaving fast. Beneath the second layer, a plasti
The Vision She Hid 126
Nicos keeps the good whiskey in a cupboard that squeaks on purpose. He says it’s an alarm—lets a man consider his choices before his hand meets the bottle. I poured two inches into a heavy glass and let it kiss the air while the city tried on its evening cologne: diesel, sea salt, and that old, dear to my heart perfume of evening prayers.The study had been cleaned up, which meant the blood has become a rumor and the carpets were back to being legal. Cigarette smoke from the morning still clung to the green lamp shade like a crime with an overstretched alibi. Leather books lined the walls with that stubborn still dignity written things wear when they’ve learned in this house men will shoot at anything that moves or disagrees. The whiskey looked like sunlight that had decided to retire early and take up residence in crystal palace.Elky sat in my father’s leather chair, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, bandage tugging a square of pain under the linen. He was getting better—color back, e
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