Chapter 2: The Syntax of Silence

Marius had offered to come with her, and that offer now felt like a lifeline. She picked up her phone and called him.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said without preamble. “Can you drive?”

“Where to?” His voice was steady, unsurprised.

“The old farm. The one near the forest where we used to go as kids. You remember?”

A pause. Then: “I remember. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

She hung up and looked at the painting one last time. The eyes seemed to flicker in the fading light. She turned away and went to bed, but sleep came in fragments, filled with images of snow and fire and Jonas’s voice reciting something she could not quite hear.

Morning arrived gray and still. Marius was on time, his old car idling at the curb. He had brought coffee and a thermos of tea, and they drove in comfortable silence for the first hour, leaving the city behind for the rolling countryside of eastern Lithuania. The roads narrowed, the fields gave way to patches of birch and pine, and the sky opened into a pale dome.

“You’ve been quiet,” Marius said eventually.

“I’m trying to remember the way,” Agnė replied. “It’s been so long.”

“We’ll find it. The farm was off the main road, past the old bridge that was washed out in the floods. I remember because we had to walk the last kilometer.”

Agnė nodded. She remembered that walk too. She remembered the weight of her backpack, the laughter of others, the strange excitement that built as they approached the compound. It had felt like arriving at a secret world.

They reached the bridge an hour later. It had been repaired, but barely—a single lane of concrete over a sluggish creek. Marius drove across slowly, and then they were on a dirt track that wound through overgrown hedges. The farmhouse appeared suddenly, its roof sagging, windows boarded. A rusted tractor sat in the yard, half-swallowed by weeds.

“This is it,” Agnė whispered.

They got out. The air smelled of damp earth and decay. Agnė walked toward the house, her boots crunching on gravel. The front door was ajar, held by a single hinge. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The interior was stripped bare—no furniture, no curtains, only the skeletal remains of a life that had fled. But on the walls, faint traces of paint remained: spirals, symbols, words in a language she almost recognized. The sect’s iconography. She touched one of the spirals, and a memory surfaced: Jonas standing in this very room, his hands gesturing as he spoke about breaking free from the constraints of ordinary existence.

“There’s nothing here,” Marius said from the doorway.

“There’s everything,” Agnė replied. “It’s just hidden.”

She moved through the rooms, finding nothing but dust. In the back, a staircase led to a cellar. The steps groaned under her weight. The cellar was dark, but she could make out shelves lined with jars—preserves, perhaps, or something else. She picked one up. It was empty, but the label bore a date: ten years ago, the year she had left.

Footsteps above. Marius called down, “Agnė, there’s someone outside.”

She climbed back up, brushing cobwebs from her hair. An old man stood in the yard, leaning on a walking stick. He wore a worn coat and a cap pulled low. His eyes were pale and watery.

“You looking for something?” he asked, his voice rough.

“We used to come here,” Agnė said. “A long time ago.”

The man studied her. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? The young ones who followed that fellow.”

“Jonas.”

He spat to the side. “Trouble, that one. He came back, you know. A few weeks ago. Stayed a night, then left.”

Agnė’s heart hammered. “Where did he go?”

“Didn’t say. But he asked about you. Remembered your name.” The man’s gaze sharpened. “You best stay away from him, miss. Some things are better left in the past.”

Elena’s words echoed. Agnė thanked the man and walked back to the car, her mind racing. Marius followed, silent.

As they drove away, Agnė’s phone rang. An unknown number. She answered, and a voice she had not heard in years spoke.

“Agnė. I knew you’d come.”

It was Jonas.

“Where are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

“Close. Meet me at the old chapel tomorrow at dusk. Come alone.”

The line went dead.

Marius looked at her. “What is it?”

Agnė stared at the phone. “A hook,” she said. “And I have to decide whether to take it.”