31 hours ago
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
The first thing I felt was the sunlight.
Not just any sunlight—this one was soft and golden, with a kind of quiet persistence. It slipped between the curtains like a polite guest who knew the way, gliding over the floorboards, the desk, the old wardrobe, until it found me. It rested on my eyelids, patient, until they finally gave in and opened.
I stayed still, letting the morning seep in.
The scent of wood—warmed over years by sun and seasons—mingled with the faint dryness of old hay. Somewhere under the bed, a floorboard settled with a low sigh.
The sheets were a crumpled knot around me, holding the memory of the night. For once, I'd slept without waking in the dark, and that alone made the air feel different.
I yawned, stretched, and felt my joints pop in little bursts, like an old gate swinging open after winter.
My name is Stathis Karslidis. I'm fourteen. I live northwest of Argyropetra, just past the quiet neighborhood of Zervohori—where the foot of the mountain stretches lazily toward the horizon and the summer air tastes faintly of thyme.
…I'm not the kind of person people notice. And when they do, it's rarely for the right reasons.
"Stathi! Get up, my boy! It's six o'clock!"
Her voice cut through the stillness like a warm knife through butter—bright, commanding, yet somehow comforting.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm up!" I called back, my voice cracking halfway through.
That's my aunt—Efi. Forty-five. A woman carved out of determination and cleverness. She runs this farm and a small bar in town as if the two were just extensions of her own hands. Everyone knows her. Everyone has a story about her. Some call her the "Queen of Zervohori"—half in jest, half in reverence.
She's never married. Not because she couldn't, but because—as she once told me over coffee—"No man's ever been worth the trouble." And I've seen enough men limp away from failed courtships to know she meant it.
I swung my legs over the bed, the boards cool beneath my feet.
In the bathroom, the mirror showed me the same truths it always did: one hundred sixty kilos. A round face. Brown eyes. Wavy hair that only listens to gravity. At 1.70 meters, my height is swallowed by my build.
At school, I was the easy target. I learned early to keep my head low, my mouth shut, and my steps small.
I've tried everything—dieting, running, working until sweat burned my eyes. But the weight clings to me like an old shadow.
Maybe this is just who I am.
Cold water hit my face, dragging me into full wakefulness. I combed my fingers through my hair and took a long breath before stepping out. The stairs groaned under my weight, the air shifting cool and clean in their wake.
By the time I reached the kitchen's threshold, the house was already awake. The refrigerator hummed softly. Porcelain clicked against porcelain. The kettle's low murmur teased the edge of a boil.
The smell came first—coffee, dark and rich; bacon sizzling in its own fat; and, hiding beneath, a trace of honey, warm and golden, as if the air itself had a sweetness to it.
Then I saw her.
Aunt Efi stood at the counter, the morning light framing her like a portrait. Her robe hung loosely, its belt tied with the casual confidence of someone who never needs to check twice. Her dark brown hair spilled in soft waves, catching specks of light that turned it copper at the edges.
She moved the way some people talk—measured, deliberate, but with an ease that made you want to watch. She could soothe a restless goat, break up a bar fight, and still have the room in her hand by the time she set down her coffee.
There was a beauty to her that didn't belong in a farmhouse kitchen. Something that would look just as natural on a stage or in a magazine. My eyes lingered. Too long, to make me wonder.
…Why am I staring?
"Good morning, nephew. Did you sleep well?" she asked, her eyes on the pan.
"Uh… yeah," I muttered, scratching the back of my neck.
Her voice does something to me—it's warm and deep, curling into my chest in ways I can't name.
"No pain or aches,today?" she asked lightly, like the question was as much a habit as stirring the eggs.
"No, nothing today." I replied, letting my gaze drift to the window where the morning light spilled across the fields.
She always asked. Ever since I was little, strange, shifting pains had wandered through my body, pressing against me from the inside, as if something wanted to come out. No doctor ever found what caused it.
She turned, drying her hands on a towel, her gaze sweeping over me.
"Your cheeks are red. Are you sure you feel okay?"
I touched my face. Warm.
"Uh… I'm fine," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure.
She didn't look convinced. She stepped closer—slow, steady—until she was standing right before me.
"Stay still," she murmured. "I want to see if you have a fever."
Her hand slid behind my head, fingers warm. Her lips brushed my forehead—something she'd done countless times before.
But this time… it felt different.
The air seemed heavier. The touch stayed a moment too long.
She leaned back, studying me. "No fever," she said softly.
I glanced away. Her smile shifted—not relief, but something sly.
"You must have slept very well," she said, just a shade more playfully.
"Y-yeah," I muttered, my ears warming.
"What's for breakfast?" I asked, quicker than I meant to.
Her smile deepened. "English breakfast—crispy bacon, golden eggs, slow-cooked beans, roasted tomatoes, bread with butter, honeycomb, fresh milk… and coffee strong enough to wake the dead."
I busied myself setting the table. The clink of plates was a good excuse not to meet her eyes.
We sat. The table was warm under the sun's touch. Steam rose from the plates, curling into the air between us.
She buttered her bread, the light catching the silver of her rings. "I've got to deliver eggs and milk and make some errands for the bar later. You have your usual chores?"
"Yeah. And I need to pick the grapes." The image of the heavy clusters hanging under the vines was enough to make my shoulders ache in advance. Still… worth it.
"Oh, right…" She paused, then smiled with a touch of guilt. "I almost forgot it. I'll try to finish early and come back to help."
"You don't have to rush, Auntie. I can handle it."
She didn't answer right away. She sipped her coffee, eyes resting on me over the rim of the cup. The silence stretched, light but noticeable.
"…Something wrong?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," she said, her voice turning airy. "Just remember to water the tomatoes in the greenhouse. They might pout if you forget."
"Yeah. I'll take care of them."
She set her cup down, her eyes still on me as she whispered something under her breath, which I barely heard.
"If only I were thirty years younger…"
My fork froze midair.
I didn't look at her. But the warmth from her earlier touch stayed in my skin, stubborn as sunlight.
And from the little smirk on her face… I knew she was perfectly aware of it.