Fredon stood in front of the door with the key in his hand, his heart beating faster than it should.
He remembered when he was seven years old and had tried to open that door. His grandfather had caught him with his hand on the handle and said, in a voice that left no room for argument: "This door doesn't get opened, Fredon. Not until you're fourteen."
Now he was fourteen.
And his grandfather was no longer there to tell him when the right time had come.
He inserted the key into the lock. Turned it. He heard the deep click of metal giving way. He pushed the door slowly.
The smell of old wood and ancient dust filled his nostrils.
The room was small, windowless, lit only by the light coming through the open door. There were boxes stacked against the walls, shelves full of objects covered by cloths, and all over, stuck to the walls, there were maps.
Maps of islands he had never seen. Maps of enormous continents with names written in a handwriting that wasn't his grandfather's. Maps with routes marked in red ink, with crosses, with circles, with annotations in the margins he couldn't read from a distance.
He entered slowly, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor.
On the wall to the right, he saw something that made him stop.
Old posters, yellowed by time. In one of them, grandfather Zell — but not the old grandfather he knew. A young Zell, perhaps forty years old, smiling, strong, standing on a cliff with his arm resting on the shoulder of someone who wasn't there.
The head of the other person had been cut from the photograph.
Fredon frowned. He moved closer. There were more photos like that. His grandfather embracing someone, but the person's face always cut out. His grandfather smiling beside a faceless figure. His grandfather on a boat with three people, but only his face left intact.
*Why did you cut out the faces, grandpa?*
He continued exploring the room, his eyes jumping from object to object. An old compass. A cracked leather flask. A rolled map with dried blood stains on one end.
Then he saw the chest.
It was large, dark wood and rusted metal, placed at the centre of the room as if it were the heart of everything there.
Fredon knelt in front of it, placed his hands on the lid, and opened it.
Inside were layers of a life his grandfather had never shared.
The first thing he saw was a large, well-preserved photograph. Grandfather Zell, young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, at the top of a snow-covered mountain, surrounded by three people. Everyone was smiling. Everyone looked alive in a way words couldn't describe.
Fredon held the photo with both hands, his eyes fixed on his grandfather's face.
*Who were these people, grandpa? Why did you never speak of them?*
He kept searching.
He found another photo. Of himself. Baby Fredon, wrapped in a white blanket, held by a man with broad shoulders and strong arms.
The man's face had been cut out.
Fredon's heart tightened.
He searched further.
Another photo. A woman with long dark hair holding a baby — him again — with a smile on her face that conveyed something he couldn't name.
Her face had also been cut out.
Fredon stood still with the photo in his hand, his breath caught in his throat.
*It was them, wasn't it? My parents.*
He set the photo aside carefully, as if it might break, and continued digging through the chest.
He found documents. Old papers, some torn, some stained with moisture. He picked one up and read.
**Name:** Fredon Anseff
**Place of Birth:** Andolfa
**Date of Birth:** 20th of February
He stared at the paper for longer than was necessary.
*Anseff. My real name is Anseff.*
He had never heard that name before. He had never heard of Andolfa.
Who was he, really?
It was then that he saw the folded letter at the bottom of the chest, beneath everything else.
He picked it up with trembling hands, unfolded it slowly, and began to read.
---
*Hello, my dear grandson.*
*I imagine that by now you have turned fourteen and that I have already passed away.*
*I always saw your passion for exploring, travelling, discovering the world, especially when you were a child. Do you remember when you used to ask me what lay on the other side of the ocean? Of the kingdoms? Of the mountains? Of the great cities?*
*I always held you back, with the intention of protecting you and giving you a peaceful life on this island.*
*It will seem selfish of me, even in death, to ask you to stay here in Anduza. I don't even know why I ask it.*
*Because the world out there is not as beautiful and wonderful as it seems, Fredon.*
*But I cannot hold you back forever either.*
*Only never forget: live in such a way that you die without regret. Live happy. Live free.*
*With all my love,*
*Zell Andurin, Northern Explorer*
---
Fredon let the letter fall to the floor.
The tears came without asking permission, warm and heavy, falling one after another as he knelt in the middle of that room full of secrets his grandfather had kept his whole life.
*Northern Explorer.*
He searched the chest again and found a small card, yellowed, with letters engraved in gold.
**Zell Andurin — Northern Explorer**
Beside it was a thin leather cord with a pendant hanging from it. A six-pointed star, golden, gleaming even covered in dust.
Fredon took the cord, passed it over his neck, and felt the cold weight of the metal against his chest.
He looked at the photograph of his young grandfather at the top of the mountain, surrounded by friends whose names he would never know.
He lay down on the cold wooden floor, the photo still in his hand, his eyes growing heavy.
And he fell asleep there, surrounded by the ghosts of his grandfather's past.
---
Morning arrived with birdsong and the soft light that filtered through the trees.
Zelma was sitting on the porch of Aunt Junia's house, her bare feet swinging gently, her eyes fixed on the birds hopping from branch to branch in search of food.
The air was cool. The breeze smelled of flowers and damp earth. It was all so peaceful it seemed impossible that this was the last day.
She smiled to herself, a sad but genuine smile.
— I'm going to miss this place.
Aunt Junia's voice came from behind her, soft but direct.
— This place, or Fredon?
Zelma jumped to her feet, her face going completely red.
— Auntie! Stop making those remarks!
Junia came out onto the porch with two cups of tea in her hands, extended one to her niece, and sat beside her with a small smile.
— Do you really have to go?
Zelma's smile disappeared.
— I don't have another choice, auntie. You know very well that when I came here at five years old I had already signed a contract. I had to return after turning thirteen.
She paused, looked at the tea in her hands.
— And I've already been putting this trip off for too long. The island's deadline for emigrants has already expired.
Junia was quiet for a moment, then asked quietly:
— You know that if you leave here, you can never come back, right?
Zelma nodded slowly, her eyes going damp.
— I know that well.
She breathed deeply, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
— So please tell Fredon for me. That I've gone. That... that he should take good care of himself.
Junia put her cup down on the floor, turned to her niece, and said with a strange firmness:
— Better if you do that yourself.
Zelma shook her head.
— You know I'll go all flustered if I try.
Junia smiled.
— Then I'll help you.
Zelma looked at her aunt, her eyes full of tears she could no longer hold back, and threw herself at her in a tight embrace.
— Thank you — she whispered, her voice muffled against her aunt's shoulder. — Thank you for looking after me for these eight years. Even with me being so difficult and irritating.
Junia held her tightly, her own eyes wet now.
— I loved every single second of that time with you, girl.
They stayed like that for a long while, embraced on the porch, while the birds sang and the morning advanced slowly.
---
In Fredon's house, he woke with his body aching from sleeping on the floor.
He got up slowly, rubbed his eyes, and looked around the secret room as if seeing it for the first time.
He went to the chest, picked up a red neckerchief that was folded in the corner — the same neckerchief his grandfather always wore around his neck — and tied it around his own.
He felt the weight of the cord with the six-pointed star against his chest.
He smiled.
— I'll honour you, grandpa. I promise.
It was then that he remembered.
— Zelma! I have to tell her all of this!
He picked up the map that stood out most among all the others, folded it, slipped it into his pocket. He picked up the photograph of his young grandfather with his friends at the top of the mountain.
And he ran out of the house.
---
The sun was already high when Fredon arrived near Aunt Junia's house, his breathing fast, his heart beating hard with excitement.
— Zelma! Zelma!
He shouted her name as he ran along the dirt path, the smile fixed on his face.
The door opened.
But it wasn't Zelma who came out.
It was Aunt Junia, and the expression on her face made Fredon stop immediately.
— What brings you here so early, Fredon?
He smiled, still not understanding.
— I want to talk to Zelma. Can you call her?
The silence that followed was heavy.
Junia lowered her eyes, breathed deeply, and when she looked back at him her expression was serious.
— Fredon... Zelma is no longer here. She's leaving the island. And she's never coming back.
The smile disappeared from Fredon's face as if someone had wiped it away with their hand.
— What do you mean she's leaving? And never coming back?
The voice came out low, confused, almost childlike.
— Why didn't she tell me?
Junia didn't answer. She only looked at him with a sadness he wasn't prepared to see.
— Where is she now?
— At the harbour — Junia said quietly. — By now she must be about to board the ship.
Fredon stood still for two seconds, processing the information.
Then he asked, his voice steadier now:
— And what time does the ship leave?
— In fifteen minutes.
Fredon looked toward the horizon, calculated the distance, and said to himself:
— Fifteen minutes. There's still enough time.
And he ran.
— Fredon, wait! Don't go there!
But he was no longer listening. He ran with everything he had, his feet striking the earth with force, his lungs burning, the red neckerchief streaming behind him.
He reached the horizontal rail that connected the mountain to the village, grabbed the hook, and threw himself into the void.
The wind cut across his face as he descended at brutal speed, his eyes half-closed, his muscles tense.
He landed in the village with a jump, adjusted the neckerchief around his neck, and kept running.
Doctor Olsen saw him pass like an arrow.
— Boy! What's all this running about first thing in the morning?
Fredon didn't answer. He didn't slow down. He simply kept going, focused, determined.
Olsen stood there scratching his beard.
— Who can say what goes on in that boy's head.
Minutes later, Junia also descended from the horizontal rail, breathless, and shouted to Olsen:
— He's going after Zelma!
Olsen's eyes went wide.
— So the boy decided to become a man now that it's almost too late.
And he ran after him too.
---
At the harbour, Zelma was loading her last bags onto the ship.
There were dozens of people boarding, most of them teenagers like her, and two adults commanding the ship.
She placed the last bag down, turned, and looked back.
At the small village. At the mountain in the distance. At the island of Anduza where she had spent the last eight years of her life.
She breathed deeply.
*Goodbye.*
It was then she heard the voice.
— Zelma! Zelma, wait for me!
She spun around, her heart leaping.
Fredon was running along the dock, waving his arm, the red neckerchief around his neck, his face sweaty but determined.
Zelma froze, her mouth open, her face going completely red.
— Wait for you? What? What do you mean wait?
Her head started working at full speed, imagining scenes that didn't exist.
*He's going to say he can't live without me. He's going to ask me to stay. He's going to embrace me and say he'll never let me leave.*
She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide.
— Take it easy, Fredon!
The people on the ship looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
Fredon saw that the ship was already pulling away from the dock, too far to jump.
He looked around, saw a wide plank of wood, picked up a long rope, tied it to a harpoon that was leaning against a crate on the dock.
He gripped the harpoon with both hands, took three steps back, and threw it with everything he had.
The harpoon cut through the air, struck the side of the ship, and embedded itself in the wood with a dry thud.
Fredon climbed onto the plank of wood, tested the rope, and let himself be pulled by the ship's movement.
The wood slid across the water like an improvised board.
And he surfed.
He surfed behind the ship with an enormous smile on his face, the red neckerchief streaming in the wind, his arms open wide, free.
---
At the dock, Olsen and Junia arrived too late.
They saw only the silhouette of the boy already far on the horizon, gliding across the water behind the departing ship.
Junia sighed.
— He's already gone.
Olsen crossed his arms, a small smile on his face.
— We came too late. Now it's up to him.