The evening air in Kaisariani was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of motorbikes. Myrto Zervou leaned on her balcony railing, her sharp eyes scanning the street below. At sixty-plus, dressed head-to-toe in black like a storm cloud, she missed nothing, not the furtive glances of the young couple across the way, not the way old Manolis at the kiosk stiffened whenever the police van rolled by.
And certainly not the man in the dark coat tearing down the pro-junta poster plastered on the wall of the abandoned bakery.
Rrrrip.
The sound was sharp, deliberate. The man, young, lean, with the calloused hands of a laborer, glanced around before stuffing the shredded paper into his pocket.
"Eh, maláka," Myrto muttered under her breath. "You think no one sees?"
Her son, Aris, poked his head out from the kitchen, sawdust still clinging to his shirt. "Who are you cursing now, Mamá?"
"Some fool tearing down those cursed posters again," she said, waving a hand toward the street. "Like a mouse nibbling at a lion’s tail."
Aris sighed. "Leave it alone. Not our business."
"Óchi!" Myrto snapped. "When a man tears at the past, the past tears back. You’ll see."
* * * * * *
The scream came just after dawn. Myrto, already stirring a pot of hilopites, heard it through the open window. She didn’t run, grandmothers never run but she moved with purpose, her black dress swishing like a shadow.
In the alley behind the bakery, a small crowd had gathered. A woman clutched her chest, pointing at the crumpled form on the ground. Blood seeped from a wound in the man’s back. His face, turned to the side, was pale but Myrto recognized him.
The same man from last night. The one who tore the poster.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
"Panagía mou," whispered old Mrs. Doukas, crossing herself.
Myrto bent down, ignoring the gasps of the onlookers, and plucked something from the dead man’s clenched fist. A tiny scrap of paper, the corner of the junta poster.
* * * * * *
Back in her apartment, Myrto spread the evidence on the kitchen table: the scrap of paper, a cigarette butt (not the dead man’s brand), and a button she’d found near the body.
Aris groaned. "Mamá, the police will handle this."
"Bah! The police here couldn’t find their own noses if they weren’t attached." She tapped the scrap of paper. "This is about more than a poster. This is about fear. About old ghosts."
Her daughter, Mary, called just then, worried. "Mama, don’t get involved!"
"Ach, korítsi mou, when have I ever listened?" Myrto hung up and turned to Aris. "We’re going to see Manolis."
* * * * * *
Manolis, the kiosk owner, was sweating despite the cool morning. His hands shook as he handed Myrto her newspaper.
"You saw something," she said, not a question.
Manolis licked his lips. "I... I didn’t see who did it. But last night, after the poster was torn… Colonel Raptis’ son was here. Drunk. Angry."
Colonel Raptis. A name that still carried weight and fear. A relic of the junta days.
Myrto’s eyes gleamed. "Aha. So the lion’s cub still has claws."
* * * * * *
That evening, Myrto marched; grandmothers never stalk, to the Raptis family’s old villa. The son, Nikos Raptis, a bloated man with cold eyes, answered the door.
"Kyria Zervou," he sneered. "Here to beg for something?"
"Here to ask why a man died over a piece of paper," she said.
Nikos’ face darkened. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"O kókkoros krázei, alla i alépoú pernáei," she recited, the rooster crows, but the fox passes. "You think because your father was powerful, you still are? The dead man was writing a book. About the junta. About your family."
Nikos lunged. Myrto sidestepped slowly, but with precision and he stumbled.
Aris, waiting in the shadows, grabbed him.
* * * * * *
The police arrived, reluctantly, but with evidence (and Myrto’s loud proverbs) shoved in their faces, they had no choice. Nikos Raptis was arrested.
Back home, Myrto sipped her tsípouro, satisfied.
Aris shook his head. "You’re impossible."
She grinned. "God helps the one who helps himself."
And outside, a new poster went up, this one for the dead man’s book.
Myrto nodded. Justice, at last, had a voice.
THE END
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