Daros and Greta hurriedly walked the path back to the cabin. He went ahead from time to time to avoid new scratches on her skin, like the ones already marking her arms. As soon as they crossed the gate, Daros locked the padlock and relaxed his shoulders.

  Before she could take another step, he pulled her back to him. The kiss he gave her lips was affectionate, but charged with urgency, as if he wanted to compensate for every second of hesitation from before. His hands slid across her face, his thumbs tracing a map between her cheekbones still damp from the lagoon water. Greta felt her body yield, the tension of bitter memories dissolving under his touch.

  He guided her slowly toward the cabin, without breaking contact. The steps were slow, cautious, as if any sudden movement could break the spell. It wasn't long before her back found the door's wood and Daros opened it blindly, his hand groping for the handle while the other firmly held Greta's waist.

  She threaded her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, returning each touch with twin intensity. There was something desperate in the way they sought each other's warmth, as if they knew no magic is made to last.

  They crossed the threshold intertwined and blind. Oblivious to what surrounded him, Daros's foot bumped into the empty glass she'd left there when she left. The glass exploded against the wall, the fragments resounding as they took brief flight and returned to the floor.

  The sound of broken glass. The present shattered for Greta once more.

  Suddenly she wasn't at the cabin anymore. Suddenly Daros disappeared. She saw her house's living room, the closed curtains, the smell of whiskey in the air. Valério blocking the way, her husband's roar when she announced she was leaving. The shards scattered on the floor, the sound of something heavy crashing down. His hand on her wrist, squeezing, twisting. His voice saying she wasn't going anywhere.

  Greta broke free from Daros with a strength she never knew she had, with a fierce push. She stumbled backward, her chest rising and falling, her breathing labored. Her heart beat so loud there was no other sound left in the world.

  Daros immediately stepped back, raising his hands shoulder-high, palms turned toward her in an offer of peace. His expression was one of surprise, without a trace of irritation. Then concern took over in his eyes.

  "Easy there, everything's okay," his tone was low, cautious. "Everything's okay, Greta."

  He didn't try to approach. He made no sudden gesture. He just stayed there, motionless, giving space. Silence reigned between them, broken only by her still-accelerated breathing and the sound of birds in flight.

  Greta blinked quickly, then more slowly. Her house's living room disappeared, the closed curtains transforming into the cabin's rustic walls. The vision of Valério dissolved. Only Daros remained, at a safe distance, waiting.

  She massaged her chest with her hand, feeling her heart still racing under her sweaty palm. She looked at the glass shards scattered on the floor, then at Daros. Contrary to what she imagined, she didn't feel shame, but a disappointment that came in waves. An immense disappointment with herself, with her own inability to move forward.

  "I am sorry," her voice trembled. "I... don't know what came over me. Sorry."

  "It was my fault. I shouldn't have..."

  "No!" she hurried to clarify. "I wanted to, I started it. It's just that..."

  "You don't need to explain anything."

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  "I know, but I want to. I think... Sorry. I don't know. Sorry."

  Daros began to approach slowly. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop apologizing when the smell of baked food reached them. Greta hurried to the kitchen. Kneeling in front of the stove, she extended her arm to grab a dish towel and take the lasagna out of the oven.

  "Taking out the burnt edges, we can save the rest," she assessed without daring to look at Daros.

  He took two plates and a trivet from the overhead cabinet and arranged them on the table. Greta placed the lasagna there and rehearsed a walk to the silverware drawer.

  "Let me get it," Daros offered.

  She concentrated on cutting two pieces from the middle of the dish. The sides weren't even that burnt, but it was good to avoid taking the edges in case they were bitter. She sat before an empty plate and waited until Daros settled in. He served a portion on her plate, picked out the most burnt parts of the lasagna, and threw them on his own plate.

  "I can't resist burnt food, except french fries," he hurried to explain, finding it amusing. "I've liked it since I was little. Rice stuck to the pot, charred meat, those things."

  She avoided facing him. It had been years since she'd touched any man other than Valério. And after what had happened with her and Daros at the lagoon, and especially the crisis that came after, she wasn't very sure how to behave. Should she pretend nothing had happened? She looked discreetly at her companion at the table searching for clues. Daros was looking at her, his chin resting on his hand, the food untouched, a calm expression on his face. She broke eye contact.

  "Aren't you hungry?"

  "I am. I just wanted to see how you were."

  "I'm fine, just... kind of lost. How do we act now?"

  He cut a piece of food and kept the fork suspended halfway to his mouth before answering.

  "You're asking the wrong person. I have a non-existent social life. And probably some undiagnosed disorders."

  "Do you do therapy?"

  "I tried, but I gave up. It's not for me."

  "Why?" Greta investigated, grateful he'd switched the conversation's focus so skillfully.

  He sighed, searching for words on the ceiling.

  "I don't know. It seems to me that a psychologist will always say the patient is right. Otherwise, they lose a client, right? So if the guy talks a bunch of nonsense, the psychologist will simply say 'Yeah, that's it.'"

  "It makes a bit of sense, but it's not that simple. Well, if you can live a normal life..."

  "I don't think normal is the best word to describe it, but I don't have many problems."

  "Just the isolation."

  "Yeah. Just that."

  He spoke as if it wasn't a bother to him. It probably wasn't. Indeed, she couldn't imagine a person like Daros leading a normal life. Maybe she herself couldn't go back to having a common life after the last few days. It's quite possible that having a normal life is a lie we tell ourselves so many times that one day we believe it.

  "Well, a lot makes sense now."

  He smiled in response. His smiles weren't open. They were more a pull at the corner of his lip, an announcement of what they could be if some excitement happened to break through his natural barrier.

  "What's your last name?" Greta investigated.

  "Fischer. It's not from English, it's from German. It means 'fisherman' just the same."

  "It suits you."

  He looked for some trace of irony on her face, but found nothing. So he agreed, satisfied.

  "And Daros? Where did that come from?" she continued, surprised by how real her curiosity about him was.

  "It's Greek. 'The one who rose.' I don't know where my mother got the name. I never really asked."

  "It's beautiful."

  "Thanks."

  "Are your parents alive?"

  "Well, my mother is."

  "And do you talk to her?"

  "Sometimes."

  He began to eat, but still looked at her longer than she'd like. His social ineptitude justified the act, but Greta was afraid of what he could see on her face. The desire to stay close to him was one of the things. The desire to disappear in his embrace. But she wouldn't do that. It was the worst time, with the worst person, to start behaving like a teenager again. And better than anyone, she knew what end that attempt had met. So she concentrated on the lasagna.

  His phone vibrated in the next room, a notification sound. He excused himself before getting up and going to the phone.

  Daros saw Inácio's name appear on the screen almost at the same time he identified the word TV as well. Putting it all together, the message was direct and straight: "Turn on the TV to the local news." He obeyed and looked around until he found the remote control. He turned on the device and changed channels until Greta's face filled the screen in a color photo.

  "... her whereabouts remain unknown. Police investigations indicate the criminal may be hiding in Criciúma. There are no clues about her husband, who is still a missing person."

  He felt his mouth go dry. He turned slowly to look at her and managed to ask:

  "Greta, what did you do?"

  There was no answer. A pale, indecipherable mask stared back at him.