The Compass and the Wooden Horse

The last light was fading between the pine trees of Penteli. The wind came down from the mountain and left a thin mist upon the windows, like a breath that lingered.

Marina was putting away the dishes. A few orange peels and scattered crumbs still lay on the tablecloth. From the stereo, an old cassette played softly—so softly that it sounded more like a memory than music. Angelos gathered the glasses from the table and placed them beside the sink. Marina tied her hair up and wiped down the counter. Outside, darkness was slowly descending from the mountain. She had left the kitchen door half open, and a chill had begun to creep inside.

“The house will get cold,” she said quietly.

He looked up and nodded. Then he rose from his chair, closed the kitchen door, and slid the metal bolt into place. The latch clicked softly, almost too quietly to hear.

In the living room, the wooden horse rested on a shelf beside a framed photograph of the children at the beach. One of its ears was broken. Time had left its mark upon the wood.

The children had already surrendered to sleep; one with a sock half on, the other with lips slightly parted, a warm breath rising and falling in the darkness. Angelos stood at the doorway and listened as two small breaths found the same rhythm. Marina stepped beside him and rested a hand upon his shoulder.

“Are you waking up early again?” she asked.

He nodded, looking at her with affection, almost tenderness. She smiled and disappeared down the hallway.

Angelos remained alone. His eyes settled on the wooden horse, its broken ear still visible in the half-light. Years had passed. Other countries. Other wars. Other faces.

The promise, however, had remained the same.