Page 4

Silence falls between us, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as we climb higher and higher. Low, craggy hills slope around us, while the homes grow more scattered. Several look more like ruins, clearly abandoned, their dark windows gaping holes to lives left behind. Stone ghosts slowly dissolving into the landscape.

As we turn onto a road flanked with cypress trees and low walls made of stacked gray stones, a rich fragrance wafts beneath my nose, mixed with the salty brine of the sea. I recognize it instantly. It’s like she’s here somehow, hovering beside me. “That smell. Is it—?”

“Lavender,” Luka confirms. “The locals call your family’s home ‘Kuća Lavanda’—Lavender House. The oil your family sold used to be famous around here . . . until Karmela shut the business down.”

Famous? I knew my mom used to harvest and make lavender oil—that was why it was her favorite scent, the one piece of home she did keep. But I thought it was just a simple family business, nothing major. Yet another secret she kept from me.

Before I can ask him more, I see it. The hills to our left soften, transforming into rows and rows of purple rippling across the landscape. Their jagged lines mirror the rough terrain, cascading toward the same place: a weathered two-story home with dual balconies. It watches over the field like a sentinel, its presence both commanding and solemn. Beyond, the land tapers off, dropping toward the sea.

The golf cart curves around to the front of the home, slowing to a stop outside the front gate, where two gnarled olive trees stand sentry. Nervous energy courses through me as I step off and gaze up at the home’s aged facade. It gazes back.

It must have been charming once, the large structure looming before me, but now it seems time has ravaged it of its beauty. Dirt and grime mar the edges of the limestone bricks, trickling down like decaying veins. On the roof, sun-parched terra-cotta tiles jut out at odd angles like crooked teeth. Each window is framed by shutters faded to a dull teal-green hue, their paint crumbling away in uneven patches. A rusted horseshoe hangs above the front door.

At the center of the facade are two letters engraved on a plaque: MK. Despite the large crack nearly splitting them in two, the initials hold an aura of dominance. I have no idea what they mean.

A flash of movement in one of the upstairs windows draws my eye. For a moment, I see the shadow of someone peeking from behind the lacy curtain. The hairs on the back of my neck rise beneath their stare. But when I blink, they’re gone.

A spike of fear shoots through me—I have the sudden urge to jump back on the golf cart, to leave and pretend like I never came to this decrepit place. I had hoped my grandmother’s home would be warm and charming; that it would somehow feel familiar, a place where I belonged. Nothing like this.

Before I can act, however, the front door creaks open. My heart leaps up into my throat as I focus on the dark figure filling the doorway. My grandmother. There’s no turning back now.

Like the home, time has taken its toll on her features. Deep wrinkles carve down her olive-toned face and snow-white wisps of hair peek out from a black kerchief tied around her head. Her dress is all black too, a stark outfit of mourning. I don’t realize I’m staring until Luka nudges me. I lurch forward, almost tripping as I walk up to the door.

“Dobar dan,” I say tentatively, stopping before her. Good afternoon. I continue on in Croatian. “I am Petra. Your granddaughter. It’s nice to meet you.” Though I’d rehearsed the words a million times, they sound stilted and awkward, like they don’t belong on my lips.

The sweat trickling down my back intensifies as Karmela lifts her hand to cup my cheek. Her skin is dry and rough, like flour-coated dough, as she brushes her thumb across my skin. I hold my breath as she studies my features, as if searching for something—for pieces of my mom perhaps, in my constellation of freckles, my dark hair cropped into a bob. I do the same, picking out the similarities—the hooded eyes, the slight bulb at the end of her nose.

Is this what my mom would have someday looked like? Karmela even has the same lips, a little pursed, that made my mom look constantly displeased. Suddenly, I wonder if that’s how Karmela is feeling now—displeased. With my sweat-soaked skin, the dirt on my shoes, my shoddy Croatian. Was she expecting more from her long-lost granddaughter?

I stand straighter, willing Karmela to sense the hope and longing I’ve carried all this way. We have both suffered a terrible loss. Both been left alone. But not anymore. When I found Karmela’s letters, I saw another chance at family, at love, at the closeness my mom and I never shared—and I seized it. I came.

But would that be enough? Could ties that were so coldly broken be remade?

Cicadas scream in the silence between us as I wait for Karmela to respond. But instead of words, moisture dances in the blue of her eyes, making them shimmer like the Adriatic. She lifts them to the sky, making the sign of the cross, before opening the door wider. The interior beyond is dim, shrouded in darkness.

“Welcome, Petra,” she says, beckoning me forward. “Please, come inside.”

Two

Petra

June 2026

One time, when I was ten or so, I spilled a bottle of my mom’s lavender oil.

At first, the fragrance was rich and inviting, like a luxurious perfume. But then it quickly morphed and thickened, becoming a dense fog that clawed at my throat. No longer a scent, but a suffocating presence that haunted me for days.

That is how I feel now, stepping over the threshold of my grandmother’s home. While the scent was pleasant and nostalgic outside, in here it’s overwhelming. A wave of nausea passes over me, and a small cough sputters out.

In response, a growl emanates from down the entryway. A large Dalmatian with a thick metallic collar stalks toward me, its teeth bared.

“Rex!” Karmela shouts at the dog, and it immediately cowers, though its black eyes stay locked on me. She ushers it down the hall, apologizing in Croatian.

I try to brush away my discomfort by focusing on the house. Marble tiles gleam along the floor and a dark wooden staircase rises to one side. Above hangs an elegant but rusting brass chandelier, adorned with diamonds shaped like teardrops and a dusting of cobwebs. The walls are painted a muted off-white, though the plaster has crumbled away in patches, exposing the limestone bricks underneath. Like bones tearing through flesh. The decaying decor is both imposing and unsettling, making me feel like an intruder in a place far too old and grand for me.

A thump to my right alerts me to Luka setting my suitcase down. I’d nearly forgotten about him and my belongings. “Thanks,” I murmur.

He gives me an annoyed look in return, then stretches his back and examines the space with a furrowed brow as if it’s his first time too. Karmela shuffles back down the hall, offering her own thanks, which he receives more politely before leaving.