Chapter 3
The Unspoken Thread
Klisto grapples with Mariu's revelation about her daughter Elina. He visits Regina, who encourages him to seek the truth. A confrontation with Klarin deepens his resolve. He begins a search for Elina, finding a fragile clue that sets him on a new path.
Klisto did not sleep that night. The letter lay open on his bedside table, its words illuminated by the pale glow of the moon. He read it again and again, each time hoping the letters might rearrange themselves into a different story. But they held their shape: Mariu had a daughter. Elina. The name was unfamiliar, yet it echoed in his mind like a half-remembered melody.
Dawn came slowly, painting the window in shades of gray. Klisto rose, his limbs heavy with the weight of a truth he had not anticipated. He dressed in his usual tweed jacket and walked to the kitchen. The kettle whistled, but he did not pour the water. He stood at the counter, staring at the wall where a small watercolor of a sunflower hung—a gift from Mariu, years ago. He had always thought it was just a cheerful painting. Now he wondered if it held a message he had missed.
He decided to visit Regina. She would know what to do, or at least how to sit with the not-knowing. The streets were quiet, the morning air crisp. He found her in her garden again, this time deadheading marigolds. She looked up and smiled, but her eyes searched his face.
“You have found something,” she said.
He handed her Mariu’s letter. She read it slowly, her lips moving slightly. When she finished, she folded it carefully and returned it to him.
“So,” she said. “A daughter.”
“I never knew,” Klisto said. “She never told me.”
“Some secrets are carried not because they are shameful, but because they are too precious to risk.” Regina sat on the bench and patted the space beside her. “What will you do?”
“I want to find Elina. But I don’t know where to start. Mariu’s sister—I don’t even remember her name. I think Mariu mentioned her once, a long time ago. A sister in the north, perhaps. Or was it the coast?”
Regina nodded. “Your heart will guide you. But first, you must accept that the story you thought you knew was incomplete. That can be a bitter pill.”
“I feel like I have been living in a house with a room I never opened,” Klisto said. “And now I see the door, but I am afraid of what is inside.”
“Of course you are. But you have already opened the chest. You cannot close it again.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the birds and the distant hum of a lawnmower. Then Regina reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. It showed two young women laughing, their arms around each other. One was Mariu, unmistakable even in black-and-white. The other had the same wild curls, the same mischievous eyes.
“This is her sister?” Klisto asked.
“Yes. Her name was Lina. She passed away many years ago. But I remember she lived in a town by the sea—Klaipėda, I think. She had a daughter, but I never knew her name.”
Klisto’s heart quickened. “Elina might be that daughter. Mariu left Elina with her sister when she traveled.”
“Then the thread is there to follow. You will need to find where Lina’s daughter went.”
He thanked Regina and walked home, the photograph tucked beside the letter. The day had brightened, but a chill remained in the air. As he turned onto his street, he saw Klarin standing by the gate, arms crossed, a briefcase at his feet.
“Klisto,” Klarin said, his voice clipped. “You look like a man who has seen a ghost.”
“Perhaps I have,” Klisto replied.
Klarin raised an eyebrow. “Still rummaging through the past? I thought you would have grown tired of that attic by now.”
“I found something important,” Klisto said. He did not elaborate.
“Important to you, maybe. But the past is a locked room for a reason. Some doors are better left shut.”
“And some doors lead to answers we need,” Klisto said, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.
Klarin studied him for a moment, his frown deepening. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t expect everyone to applaud your nostalgia.” He picked up his briefcase and walked away, his footsteps sharp on the pavement.
Klisto watched him go. For a moment, he felt a flicker of doubt. Was he chasing shadows? But then he touched the letter in his pocket, and the doubt dissolved. Mariu had trusted him with her secret. He owed it to her—and to himself—to understand.
Back in his study, he spread out the contents of the chest on his desk: the letters, the painting, and now the photograph from Regina. He began to read the other letters, hoping for a clue. Most were filled with Mariu’s thoughts about art, about the sea, about the fleeting nature of beauty. But in one, she mentioned a summer spent in Nida, a seaside village, with her sister’s family. She wrote of a little girl who loved to collect seashells and paint them with bright colors. “She reminds me of myself,” Mariu wrote. “I hope she never loses that light.”
Klisto’s hands trembled. That little girl had to be Elina. He searched his memory for any mention of Nida. He had never been there, but he knew it was a small town on the Curonian Spit, known for its dunes and amber. He pulled out an old atlas and found it on the map. It was not far—a few hours by bus.
He made a decision. Tomorrow, he would go to Nida. He would ask around, look for any trace of a woman named Elina, now grown. It was a long shot, but it was a thread. And he had learned that threads, no matter how thin, could lead to the most unexpected places.
That evening, he sat on his porch, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon. He thought of Mariu’s painting—the sunset over the sea—and wondered if it was the view from Nida. He closed his eyes and let the colors wash over him. Somewhere out there, a daughter was living a life Mariu had never been able to share. And perhaps, if he was lucky, he might find her, and in doing so, find a piece of Mariu that had been waiting all along.
The hook was set. He would leave at first light.