"Wait for the police, Kostas. The law is the law."

I told him the law was a piece of paper, and I was the man holding the bleeding girl. We were standing in the assembly room, the air thick with the steam from the pie factory line just outside, the clocks on the wall disagreeing by three minutes, four minutes, the time stretching thin as the sea fret that had erased the town an hour ago. My hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from the weight of the ceramic bowl in my pocket, the one Eleni had given me, the one I had sworn to keep whole. I had driven my service vehicle into the Pindus Mountains, ignoring the superior’s orders, the terrain treacherous, the wind howling through the pines like a warning I refused to hear.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌​‍⁠​⁠​⁠‌⁠​⁠‍‍⁠‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‍​‌​‍‍‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠⁠‍​⁠⁠‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌⁠

I found her car at the overlook, the engine cold, the journal page torn out, hinting at a secret meeting. He remembered, too, eighty-four of Stonecutter Alley — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌​‍⁠​⁠​⁠‌⁠​⁠‍‍⁠‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‍​‌​‍‍‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠⁠‍​⁠⁠‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌⁠

The "ghost" was not a monster, but a man I knew, a former colleague discharged for misconduct, a cover-up for the corruption scandal Eleni had uncovered. He arrived at the cave entrance, desperate to protect his position, his eyes hard with the same institutional betrayal that had driven me there. I attacked him, our bodies colliding against the stone walls, the physical violence mirroring the broken trust of our world. The struggle was brutal, close-quarters, the narrow space amplifying every grunt, every scrape of bone on rock.

I won, but in the chaos, the bowl shattered on the rocks, the sound echoing through the cave as the man collapsed.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌​‍⁠​⁠​⁠‌⁠​⁠‍‍⁠‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‍​‌​‍‍‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠⁠‍​⁠⁠‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌⁠

I held the pieces, my face streaked with blood and tears, as I carried Eleni out into the pale morning light. The weight of our shared trauma settled over us like a heavy, silent blanket. The clocks in the town below still disagreed, the time broken, the trust broken, the world no longer whole. I thought of the mourning brooch with woven hair, the one I had worn for years, a reminder of a love that had become obsessive, a devotion that had led me to this point. The deed existed, but it was not in my name, the land grant surveyed by a bribed man, the truth buried under layers of paperwork and silence. I looked at the Gravenhurst tin whistle in my hand, a small, ordinary object, a reminder of the life I had lost.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌​‍⁠​⁠​⁠‌⁠​⁠‍‍⁠‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‍​‌​‍‍‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠⁠‍​⁠⁠‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌⁠

The account was settled with the dead, the final image, subordinate to the code's ending mood.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌​‍⁠​⁠​⁠‌⁠​⁠‍‍⁠‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‍​‌​‍‍‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠⁠‍​⁠⁠‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌⁠