They had rebuilt me, piece by piece.
And I remembered everything now. Every unforgivable thing. Every lapse of judgment, every cruelty I had ever inflicted on Penelope.
And I knew Penelope would never forgive me.
She had been here four weeks—breathing the same air, living under the same roof—and yet she treated me as though I were a stranger she was forced to endure.
My presence made her tense, cautious, silent.
My attempts to bridge the distance had been endless and futile.
I had tried everything I could imagine:
I cooked breakfast every morning—eggs sunny-side up exactly the way she had always liked them, toast cut intotriangles, fresh figs sliced just thin enough to balance sweetness and tart.
Each morning, I left the plate on the kitchen table, perfectly arranged, and watched her walk past without a word, ignoring it entirely.
Every evening, I left white roses on her pillow—her favorite flowers, hand-selected and always fresh.
She tossed them in the trash without acknowledgment.
I searched for her old loves: rare editions of Greek poetry, cashmere throws dyed the precise shade of the Aegean at dusk, handmade olive-wood jewelry from the artisans she had once adored in Crete.
I left them at the edge of her path. She left them in the hallway. Still wrapped. Untouched.
I spent hours outside her door at night, leaning against the wall, hoping for a crack—any sign of acknowledgment, even anger, even a yell.
She never opened the door. Never once.
Each night, I read to Vanya from the books she had read him in Greece—my voice careful, soft, repeating the stories she had once told with warmth and laughter.
I glanced at Penelope across the room each night, hoping, praying she would join us. She never did.
I had the garden replanted in secret: her favorite jasmine along the walls, the lavender she used to dry and stuff into sachets.
Every path, every flower bed, every bench restored.
She walked past it without comment.
I realized, bitterly, that no gesture could force her forgiveness. No gift, no act of contrition, no declaration of love would erase the damage I had done.
She would come to me on her terms—or she would not come at all.
And yet, in spite of it all, I could not stop trying. I would not stop.
I rose from the wrought-iron bench and ran my hand along the cracked stone edge of the fountain.
I imagined the water running again, I imagined her kneeling beside it as she once had.
I imagined her smile—not forced, not polite—but real. And I swore to myself that I would see that smile again. Somehow.
Penelope was unbreakable now.
Not in the way the Albanians had tried to break her—with fists and needles and fear—but in a quieter, far more devastating way.
She no longer needed me. No longer depended on my approval, my protection, my love.
She existed beyond my reach, self-contained, whole.