Chapter One - Part One
WHEN THE BORDERS FELL - The Thread Across Borders Series — Book One
© Gee Gee Masson 2026. All Rights Reserved.
CHAPTER ONE, PART ONE — TWO HOUSES, ONE WALNUT TREE
Long before politicians argued on television screens, before borders became checkpoints and neighbours grew suspicious of one another, the village of Korda had simply been home.
It rested quietly between gentle green hills and narrow streams that glittered silver whenever the afternoon sun climbed high enough. In spring, wildflowers crept along the footpaths. In winter, smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys while children wrapped in thick wool ran laughing through the frost. Everybody knew everybody. Doors were rarely locked. Bread was shared before it was counted.
And at the very heart of the village stood the old walnut tree.
Its enormous branches stretched so widely that they shaded two homes at once.
On one side lived the Berisha family.
On the other, the Krasniqi family.
The villagers often joked that the tree itself refused to choose between them. Its roots dug deep beneath both gardens, twisting under the low stone boundary wall that separated the two homes. In summer, the leaves formed a thick green canopy overhead, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. Beneath it, women rolled dough, shelled peas, embroidered cloth, and exchanged stories that travelled faster than any newspaper.
The scent beneath that tree was always the same: warm bread, wood smoke, mountain herbs, and the faint earthy fragrance of walnuts drying in woven baskets.
Teuta Berisha baked first thing every morning. The smell alone could pull neighbours from their beds.
By mid-afternoon, Valbona Krasniqi would emerge carrying strong black tea brewed the old village way, thick and fragrant, poured from dented silver kettles reserved only for guests and beloved family. Somebody always brought pastries dusted with sugar. Somebody else arrived with cheese wrapped in cloth. Children wandered in and out freely, stealing pieces while the adults pretended to scold them.
There had once been no such thing as their side and our side.
Only Korda. Only neighbours. Only family.
And beneath the walnut tree, two children grew up believing the world would always remain exactly that way.
“Arben!”
The shout came from inside the Krasniqi house.
A dark-haired little boy burst through the back door moments later, nearly tripping over himself as he ran barefoot across the grass.
“I’m going!” he shouted breathlessly over his shoulder.
“You haven’t even put your shoes on!”
But Arben was already grinning too widely to care.
Because perched halfway up the walnut tree was Lira Berisha.
She sat on one of the thick lower branches with the easy confidence of someone who believed she owned the entire tree. Her dark braid hung over one shoulder, the hem of her dress catching lightly against the bark.
“You’re late,” she announced sternly, though her eyes sparkled with something else entirely.
“I was helping Baba.”
“You mean you were hiding because you lost yesterday.”
“I did not lose.”
“You fell.”
“I slipped.”
“You cried.”
“I absolutely did not cry.”
Lira burst into laughter so sudden and bright that even the birds startled from the branches above her.
Arben stood still for just a moment longer than necessary.
Even at eight years old, there was something about Lira’s laughter that made the world feel lighter. He could not have explained it. He simply knew it the way he knew the smell of rain before it arrived, instinctively, completely, without question.
He quickly climbed after her before she could notice him staring.
The branch dipped slightly beneath their combined weight.
Below them, the afternoon gathering continued as it always did. Teuta and Valbona sat side by side rolling pastry dough across a cloth-covered table, their conversation drifting lazily through the warm air, harvests, weddings, goats wandering where they should not, rumours from the capital, and whose son had been seen walking a girl home after evening prayers.
Agron Berisha and Valon Krasniqi sat nearby with their small glasses of tea, speaking in the slow comfortable rhythm of men who had known each other most of their lives.
Every so often one of them glanced upward toward the children in the tree.
“Those two practically live up there now,” Agron murmured with quiet amusement.
Valon chuckled. “At least the tree keeps them out of trouble.”
High above them, Arben and Lira sat shoulder to shoulder beneath the rustling leaves. From up there, the village looked endless and perfectly safe. The distant church bell echoed softly through the valley. Smoke curled from chimneys. Women laughed below. An old radio played folk music faintly through an open window somewhere nearby.
Neither child noticed the brief silences that settled between the men whenever news from beyond the valley surfaced. Neither understood why the grown-ups sometimes lowered their voices these days when politics was mentioned.
They were too busy planning adventures.
“One day,” Lira whispered, balancing carefully along the branch, “I’m going to leave Korda and see the whole world.”
Arben frowned at once. “Why would you leave?”
“So I can come back with stories.”
“I can tell you stories.”
“You only know stories about goats.”
“That’s not true.”
“It absolutely is.”
“I know heroic stories too.”
Lira laughed again. “Then tell me one, Prime Minister Arben.”
He straightened at once at the title, trying to appear important despite the scraped knees and crooked shirt.
“Fine,” he declared proudly. “When I become Prime Minister, I’ll build roads through every village in Dardavia.”
Lira tilted her head. “And what will I do?”
Arben looked at her as though the answer was perfectly obvious. “You’ll stay here.”
Something flickered across her face, amusement, yes, but beneath it something fiercer and more certain.
“No,” she said quietly. “I won’t.”
For a moment the breeze moved softly through the walnut leaves above them, carrying the scent of wild thyme from the hillside beyond the village.
Neither child realised how prophetic those three words would one day become.
THE SUMMER OF LONG EVENINGS
By the time the heat of July settled properly over Korda, the village slowed to a drowsy rhythm all its own.
Afternoons stretched lazily into golden evenings. Windows stayed open long after sunset. Laundry swayed gently between stone houses. In the distance, goats bleated from hillside paths while cicadas sang so loudly beneath the summer sun that silence itself seemed impossible.
School had ended weeks earlier. For the children of Korda, that meant freedom. For the adults, it meant trying unsuccessfully to keep track of them.
“Have you seen Arben?” Valbona asked one evening while kneading dough.
Teuta did not even look up from slicing peppers. “With Lira.”
“And Lira?”
“With Arben.”
Both women sighed in identical resignation before bursting into laughter.
Half the village had quietly given up searching for the two children separately. Wherever one appeared, the other was never far behind.
That afternoon they had disappeared toward the vineyards beyond the lower hills. The air smelled of dry grass and warm earth as they ran along narrow dirt paths between rows of vines hanging heavy with fruit not yet ready for harvest. The mountains rose blue-grey in the distance, hazy beneath the summer heat.
Lira walked ahead, balancing carefully atop the low irrigation stones as though performing for an invisible audience.
“You’re cheating,” Arben complained from behind her.
“I’m winning.”
“That’s because you make up rules halfway through.”
“That is what intelligent people do.”
“You’re impossible.”
She glanced over her shoulder triumphantly. “And yet you still follow me everywhere.”
Arben opened his mouth to argue before realising, with deep irritation, that she was entirely right. He kicked lightly at the dust instead.
A warm breeze moved through the vineyards, carrying the distant sounds of village life, laughter, a barking dog, the rhythmic knock of someone hammering wood far off.
Then the call to prayer rose softly from across the valley.
A few moments later, church bells answered from the opposite hillside.
The two sounds overlapped gently in the summer air, familiar and ordinary as breathing. Neither child paused to think about it. To them, it was simply Korda, the same as it had always been, the same as it would surely always remain.
They reached the small stream beyond the vineyards where smooth stones lined the banks beneath overhanging trees. Their shoes came off almost immediately.
Lira stepped in first and gasped sharply at the cold.
Arben splashed her instantly.
She shrieked. “You did that on purpose!”
“Obviously.”
Within seconds both were laughing hard enough to lose their footing on the slippery stones.
By the time the sun began lowering behind the mountains, the hems of their clothes were thoroughly soaked and their hair damp from the water. They sat side by side on the larger flat rocks, catching their breath, letting the evening air settle around them.
“You’re going to get us both shouted at,” Lira muttered, though she was smiling.
“My mother only shouts loudly when guests are present.”
“Mine shouts loudly all the time.”
“That’s because she loves you.”
Lira fell quiet at that. Not sad. Just thoughtful, in the way she often grew when something real brushed against her without warning.
She trailed her fingers lazily through the water, drawing patterns that dissolved almost before they formed.
“My father says things are changing,” she said eventually.
Arben frowned. “What things?”
“I don’t know.” That uncertainty seemed to frustrate her more than the thing itself. “He stops talking whenever I walk into the room.”
“Baba says politics are boring.”
“My father says politics change everything.”
Neither spoke for a while after that. The stream moved quietly around the stones. Above them, swallows swept low across the fading sky in wide, careless arcs.
Then Arben nudged her shoulder gently.
“When I become Prime Minister, nobody will argue anymore.”
Lira snorted. “That sounds very easy.”
“It will be.”
“You don’t even know how politics work.”
“I know enough.”
“Oh really? Then explain it.”
Arben straightened slightly, imitating the grave expressions of the men who gathered in the village cafe.
“Politics,” he declared, “is when old men drink too much tea and complain about people in the capital.”
Lira dissolved into helpless laughter. “You are completely ridiculous.”
“But I’m right.”
She could not even argue with that.
The sun had dipped fully now, painting the valley amber and deep gold. Smoke rose from chimneys across Korda as families prepared supper. They would need to head back soon. They both knew it and neither moved.
Neither child noticed the military truck moving slowly along the far road beyond the vineyards.
Neither understood why unfamiliar men had begun appearing in nearby towns, asking questions nobody wanted to answer. Neither caught the way conversations in Korda sometimes died abruptly when the radio mentioned speeches from the capital, or the quiet, frightened looks that passed between parents afterward.
To them, summer still felt endless. Safe. Untouchable.
As they finally gathered their shoes to walk home, Lira stopped suddenly beside the path.
“What?” Arben asked.
She pointed upward.
The first stars had appeared above the mountains, faint and silver, barely visible against the last light of the sky.
“My grandmother says people who leave home always follow the same stars back,” she whispered.
Arben looked at her strangely. “You talk like an old woman sometimes.”
“And you talk like a goat farmer.”
“Goats are important.”
Lira laughed once more before beginning the walk downhill toward the lights of Korda.
Arben followed close behind.
As always.
