Klisto summer

Previously

…She stepped back, her hand brushing the hot pan. The pain was sharp, grounding. But the light did not fade. It whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. And in that whisper, she heard her name. “Kristina…” The voice was not her grandmother’s. It was something new, something that had been waiting all summer in the dust and the heat. The roast sat forgotten on the stovetop. The world beyond her kitchen was no longer a distant rumor. It was here, at her door. And the summer, heavy as a leaden stone, had only just begun.