Chapter 2

She rose and dressed in simple clothes—comfortable trousers, a soft sweater, sturdy shoes. Today, she would begin her search in the most obvious place: the neighborhood where she had grown up, where her mother’s presence still lingered in the walls and the worn pavement. It was a short drive from her apartment, but the distance felt greater, weighted by years of absence.

As she drove, the streets grew familiar, lined with old trees and houses that had aged gracefully. She parked in front of a building she knew well—a modest apartment block with a cracked concrete path leading to the entrance. The door still creaked the same way. The smell of stale coffee and floor wax greeted her in the hallway.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and stood before a door she had not knocked on in over a decade. A small brass plaque read “S. Petkevičienė.” Sophia. Her mother’s closest neighbor, a woman who had watched Klarina grow up from behind her lace curtains, always ready with a warm biscuit and a kind word.

Klarina knocked.

The door opened after a moment, and Sophia’s face appeared—round, lined with age, but still carrying that gentle smile that seemed to know more than it let on. Her eyes widened in recognition.

“Klarina,” she said, her voice soft and slightly breathless. “My dear girl. Come in, come in.”

Sophia’s apartment was a cocoon of warmth. The radiators hissed gently, and the air smelled of cinnamon and dried flowers. Every surface held a knickknack, a photograph, a small piece of a life carefully arranged. She led Klarina to the kitchen, where a kettle was already beginning to whistle, as if she had been expecting a visitor.

“I was just about to have tea,” Sophia said, bustling about. “Sit, sit. Tell me everything.”

Klarina took a seat at the small wooden table. The chair was the same one she had sat in as a child, eating honey cake and listening to her mother and Sophia talk in rapid Lithuanian, their laughter filling the room.

“I’ve been thinking about my mother,” Klarina said. “A lot, lately. I found a postcard she wrote. It mentioned something about gold. And I met with Jonas—he gave me this.” She pulled the piece of metal from her pocket and placed it on the table.

Sophia set down a cup of tea and picked up the metal, turning it in her fingers. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she recognized something.

“Jonas,” she murmured. “He was always a thoughtful man. He knew your mother well, in his own way.”

“He said true gold is what endures, not what shines.”

Sophia nodded slowly. “He’s right. But Elena—she was never one for enduring. She wanted to sparkle. To fly. She used to say that life was a song, and she wanted to sing every note, even the wrong ones.”

Klarina smiled, a bittersweet ache in her chest. “She did say that. I remember her painting in the living room, with music playing, and she would dance as she worked. Everything was art to her.”

“Yes,” Sophia said. She set the metal piece down and folded her hands. “But there was something else. A restlessness that never left her. She would disappear for days sometimes, and come back with sand in her hair and a faraway look in her eyes. She said she was going to the coast. To a little village called Palanga, or maybe further. She spoke of a place where the air was so clear you could see the gold in the sunlight.”

Klarina leaned forward. “Did she ever take you there?”

“No. She always said it was her secret. Her treasure. But she did show me a photograph once.” Sophia rose and went to a cabinet, pulling out an old album. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for—a faded snapshot, slightly blurred, of a woman standing on a rocky shore, her arms outstretched, her face turned to the sky.

“That’s your mother,” Sophia said softly, handing the photo to Klarina.

Klarina took it. The woman in the picture was unmistakably Elena, her hair wild in the wind, her smile so full of joy it seemed to leap off the paper. Behind her, the sea stretched to a horizon that melted into clouds. There was nothing else—no buildings, no people—just the endless water and the sky.

“She looks so free,” Klarina whispered.

“She was, in those moments. But she always came back. She had you, after all.” Sophia’s voice was gentle, but there was a weight in her words.

Klarina looked up. “Did she ever tell you why she went there?”

“She said she was searching for something. But I think she was running from something, too. From the ordinary, from the quiet life that scared her more than anything.” Sophia paused. “She loved you, Klarina. Don’t ever doubt that. But she was a woman who needed to chase the light. It was the only way she knew how to be.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tea growing cold. Klarina studied the photograph, memorizing every detail: the way her mother’s dress billowed, the angle of her chin, the brightness in her eyes. She wanted to step into that frame and stand beside her.

Sophia reached across the table and touched her hand. “If you want to understand her, you have to go where she went. See what she saw. The answers are not in these walls, my dear. They’re out there.”

Klarina nodded, her throat tight. “I think you’re right.”

She thanked Sophia and rose to leave, tucking the photograph carefully into her bag. At the door, Sophia embraced her—a warm, enveloping hug that smelled of cinnamon and patience.

“Come back and tell me what you find,” Sophia said. “I’ll keep the kettle warm.”

Klarina walked down the stairs, the creaks echoing around her. As she stepped out into the cool air, a familiar voice called out from the street.

“Klarina! Is that you?”

She turned. A man about her age was walking toward her, a guitar slung over his shoulder, a bright grin lighting his face. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were the same shade of mischievous blue she remembered from childhood.

“Marius,” she said, a genuine smile breaking through. “You’re still here.”

“Still here, still making noise,” he said, laughing. He stopped in front of her and looked her over. “You look good. Different. More serious, maybe. What brings you back to the old neighborhood?”

“I’m looking into something about my mother. Some old clues. I think I’m going to travel to the coast, to a place she used to go.”

Marius’s eyes lit up. “The coast? I know a few people there. My cousin runs a little guesthouse near Palanga. He might know something—he’s been there forever, knows all the old stories.”

“That could be helpful,” Klarina said.

“I’ll give you his number. And hey, if you need company, I’m free next week. I’ve been working on some new songs, and the sea always inspires me.” He winked. “Besides, I owe you for that time you helped me with my art project in tenth grade.”

Klarina laughed. “You don’t owe me anything. But I might take you up on that. Let me see what I find first.”

They exchanged numbers, and Marius promised to text her the details. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to listen to the wind! It carries the songs of the past!”

Klarina watched him go, a warmth spreading through her. The day had taken on a new shape, a path beginning to form. She got into her car and sat for a moment, the photograph and the postcard on the passenger seat. The piece of metal sat in the cup holder, as if it were keeping her company.

She turned the key and pulled away from the curb. The familiar streets of her childhood fell behind her, replaced by wider roads that led out of the city. The sky was a pale blue, streaked with clouds that seemed to point toward the horizon.

As she drove, she thought about her mother’s words on the postcard: The gold is not in the ground, darling. It’s in the air we breathe. She rolled down the window and let the wind rush in, cool and clean. She breathed deeply, and for a moment, she imagined she could taste the salt of the sea.

The road stretched ahead, and she pressed the accelerator. Somewhere out there, her mother’s gold was waiting. And Klarina was determined to find it.