Burning shadow

The acrid stench of smoke clung to the morning air as Myrto Zervou shuffled past the charred remains of the New Dawn Party’s local office. The fire had gutted the building overnight, leaving behind blackened walls and the sour tang of gasoline. A small crowd murmured nearby, while two weary policemen strung up yellow tape.

Myrto adjusted her black headscarf and clucked her tongue. "Fire is a bad servant and a worse master," she muttered to no one in particular.

Her son, Aris, lumbered up beside her, his carpenter’s hands stuffed in his pockets. "Mama, don’t start. The police will handle it."

"Bah!" Myrto waved a dismissive hand. "Those boys couldn’t find a goat in a church. Someone did this on purpose."

Aris sighed. "And what are you going to do? Interrogate the ashes?"

"Ashes don’t whisper lies," she shot back, eyes narrowing at a glint near the rubble. She bent down slowly, joints protesting and plucked a half-melted cigarette lighter from the debris. Engraved initials: A.K.

*    *    * *    *    *

That afternoon, Myrto marched into Ouzeri Stelios, the dingy local taverna where the New Dawn boys drank. The room fell silent as she planted herself in front of Andreas Karamanlis, the party’s hotheaded youth leader.

"Andreas," she said sweetly, slapping the lighter on the table. "You left this at your little bonfire."

Andreas paled. "That’s not mine!"

"Liar!" barked Stelios, the taverna owner. "I’ve seen you use it a hundred times!"

Andreas bolted. Myrto didn’t chase him, she didn’t have to. Ten minutes later, Aris dragged him back by the collar.

"Alright, alright!" Andreas spat. "I was there, but I didn’t set the fire! I saw someone—covered in black, like a shadow. They threw the petrol and ran."

Myrto’s eyes gleamed. "A shadow with a name?"

Andreas hesitated. "...Maybe. But if I talk, I’m dead."

"You’ll be deader if you don’t," Aris growled.

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, Myrto and Aris staked out the abandoned textile factory where Andreas claimed the arsonist lurked. The wind howled through broken windows as a figure slipped inside.

"Now," Myrto whispered.

They burst in, Aris wielding a plank like a club. The figure spun, hood falling back to reveal Eleni, Mary’s best friend, her face streaked with soot.

"Eleni?!" Myrto gasped.

"They were going to take our homes!" Eleni cried. "The New Dawn bought the land, they were going to evict everyone!"

Myrto’s heart ached. "Foolish girl! Fire only burns the hand that lights it."

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched into the police station, dragging Eleni by the ear.

"Here’s your arsonist," she announced. "But if you ask me, the real criminals are the ones forcing people to choose between their homes and desperation."

The chief sighed. "Myrto, you can’t just..."

"I can, and I did. Now, who’s paying for the damages?"

By noon, the New Dawn’s shady land deals were front-page news. Eleni got community service. Andreas got a broken nose (courtesy of Stelios). And Myrto?

She sat on her balcony, sipping bitter coffee, watching the neighborhood breathe easy again.

"Mama," Aris said, shaking his head. "You’re a menace."

She grinned. "And you’re welcome."

THE END

Foreign lover

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou, dressed head-to-toe in black despite the weather, fanned herself with a folded newspaper as she watched the neighborhood from her balcony. Below, her son Aris sanded a wooden chair in his workshop, the rhythmic scrape-scrape-scrape mixing with the distant hum of motorbikes.

Then the shouting started.

"Ela re, malaka! You think you can steal our women?" A thick voice, angry.

Myrto’s sharp eyes flicked to the street. Two men, Stavros, the butcher’s son, and a tall, blond foreigner, were squared off outside the kafeneio. The foreigner, lean and sunburnt, held up his hands. "I didn’t steal anyone," he said in accented Greek. "Elena is free to choose."

"Choose? Pou sta kala! She’s my cousin!" Stavros lunged, but the foreigner sidestepped, quick like a cat.

Myrto sighed. "Panagia mou, not again." She grabbed her cane and shuffled downstairs.

By the time she reached the street, a small crowd had gathered. Elena, a pretty girl in her twenties with defiant eyes, stood between the men. "Stop it, Stavros! Jens is my boyfriend!"

"Boyfriend?" Stavros spat. "Oloi tha mas lene poutanes!" Everyone will call us whores.

Aris appeared beside Myrto, wiping sawdust from his hands. "Want me to break it up?"

"Not yet," Myrto murmured. She stepped forward, cane tapping. "Re paidia, enough. The whole neighborhood hears you acting like goats."

Stavros scowled. "Kyria Myrto, this xenos thinks he can..."

"Think?" Myrto cut him off. "From what I see, you’re the one not thinking." She turned to Jens. "You. Swedish?"

"Danish," he corrected.

"Same difference," Myrto said. "You love her?"

Jens blinked. "Yes."

"And you, Elena?"

Elena lifted her chin. "Yes."

Myrto nodded. "Good. Then Stavros, pou na pas na gamithis." Go get lost. She smacked his shoulder with her cane. "Elena’s heart isn’t your business."

Stavros flushed. "But the family..."

"Bah! Family means happiness, not prison." She pointed at Jens. "This one works?"

"He’s an architect," Elena said.

"Bravo. Better than a butcher who smells like lamb guts." The crowd chuckled. Stavros fumed but backed off.

That evening, over bitter coffee, Aris smirked. "You’re getting soft. Last year you’d have chased the foreigner off yourself."

Myrto sipped her coffee. "O xronos allazei ton anthropo." Time changes a man. "But if he hurts her…" She cracked her knuckles. "Tha ton kano kima." I’ll make him a wave.

Aris laughed. Some things never changed.

The End