Episode 3klimpu kutbhi nsnk dtiprybevtsrsi gejas klimpu tsrsi jaxkads mrfinud rombax ..kodrl tax molis uzlijo ir yzelr gyvenimo nskyie vejax ir sarlstsnas bsrbf ldiko biski neduorstes ko ji tokis salta ji nerx yikrs msrmuto uols ji ners zabs dsfk ji nskty klystanyi moteris pafiltigudi mstijs iesko jsip ax ksm ieskojsu vilyies nexinsu einu fdtve ksip psryzius tufu plodciumj visad stnedu gyvl djdudmo tu ten msne psmstes lsnho seselk kirk ilgdi tylrjdi kirk ikj diix ndkyies .es uskuryi ikk smxinyves yu ax gu ru...kodel kodel kodel kodel nirko tsmdj bxkyid ners dsvudi kjyo yik blizgsncij zvaigzdziu

I think of klimpu – the way mud clings to boots after rain, the way a thought clings to the mind long after you have tried to shake it loose. This is what I am now: a great, sinking weight of memory and mud. I press my palm against the cold wall and feel the plaster breathe. It is the only thing that does not ask me to decide anything.

Dtpirybė – I do not know this word. Perhaps it is not a word at all, but a sound made in the throat when the heart is too full. I try to shape it with my lips, but it comes out as nothing. A sigh. A crack.

The sketchbook is open on the floor, pencil marks smudged into the grain of the wood. I had tried to draw the curve of a function yesterday, something clean and holy like the line of a parabola, but it became a spiral, then a scribble, then the face of a woman I do not recognize. She stares up at me from the page, her eyes two dark holes.

Kodėl tax molis užlijo? – Why did that clay overflow? Because there is no vessel deep enough for this kind of grief. Because mathematics is beautiful but not merciful. Because the spring equinox is coming and with it, the promise of light, and I am not ready to be seen.

I remember the uola from the night before—the rock that juts out into the sea near the old lighthouse. I stood there once with him, or the ghost of him, and we watched the waves break into foam. He said something about infinite series, about how they can converge on a single point even when they seem to be running away. I laughed. I thought it was a metaphor for us.

Now the rock is cold, and I am here, and the sea is only a memory of salt in my hair.

Ners dsvudi kjyo yik blizgsncij zvaigzdziu – There is no star that shines for the one who cannot lift her head. I know this now. I have stood under the same sky for forty nights and watched the constellations wheel overhead, and none of them have answered.

I dress in the dark, pulling on a coat that smells of wool and rain. The streets of the old town are silent, the cobblestones slick with a film of moisture. I walk toward the cathedral, but I do not enter. Instead, I sit on the steps and watch the dawn bleed orange into the black. A stray dog passes and does not look at me. I am not that interesting.

In my pocket, there is a crumpled page from my diary. The ink has run in places. I unfold it and try to read my own handwriting, but it is the same language as the dreams: half-formed, full of longing, impossible to parse.

Moteris pafiltigudi mstijs iesko jsip – I am a woman who has lost the map. I am searching for something, but I have forgotten the name of the thing I am looking for.

The first light strikes the cathedral spire. For a moment, it turns gold. I think of the aurora borealis I have never seen, of the Northern Lights I have only read about in books. Šiaurės pašvaistė. The sky on fire. The promise of something so beautiful it could break you.

I close my eyes and let the warmth touch my face. I am still here. The clay has not hardened. The mud is still wet. There is time, maybe, to shape something new.

The dog returns. It sits beside me, panting gently. I do not know its name. I do not need to know.

We wait together for the sun to rise fully, and for the day to begin, and for the words to come back to me, one slow syllable at a time.