“What about the hunting lodge?”
“It’s just sitting out there, abandoned. We cleared out the weapons, and I don’t believe anyone has set foot inside since. I’m not even sure I’d have the heart to go there myself. I walk by it often, and I always steer clear. The soil up there is still black with their blood. That place is worse than a graveyard.”
Hearing this, Hanna knew the next favor she had to ask Jorge would be difficult for him to grant. She wanted him to take her up to the lodge. She needed to set foot in the place where her father died. Only then would her mourning truly be complete.
“All right,” replied Jorge after a moment. “Perhaps it would do me good as well. Maybe going together will make us stronger.”
They rode his motorcycle to the trailhead, then climbed up the same rocky path that Hanna and Robert had used to flee in the dead of night just two years before. Several times, Hanna grew short of breath and had to stop, the memories making her weak. She would take a deep breath to stop her body from trembling, and then press on.
After what seemed like an eternity, the hunting lodge finally appeared at the top of the hill. No smoke rose from the old stone chimney now. Everything was calm, so much calmer than Hanna could have imagined.
Jorge was the first to cross the threshold. He stood in the exact spot where his brother died, kneeled, and made the sign of the cross. Hanna entered her old bedroom. The wardrobe had been reduced to a heap of rotting plywood, the box-spring mattress nothing but a tangle of rusty spirals. And yet, strangely enough, the chair in which Hanna had sat for hours on end had survived intact, just like Hanna herself. She sat in the chair once more, with her hands in her lap and her eyes drifting out the window into those woods just as she used to, what seemed like a lifetime ago . . .
“Are you all right, Hanna?” asked Jorge, poking his head into the room.
“I think I’d like to see the cellar now,” she whispered.
“Are you . . . sure about that?” he asked.
Hanna gave a solemn nod and Jorge pulled up the trapdoor. He sparked his lighter and climbed down first, testing the rungs of the ladder to make sure it wouldn’t snap under their weight. Luckily, the stone cellar had kept it dry. Hanna climbed down to join him.
“So, this is where you hid . . . the whole time—”
“Yes,” Hanna cut in before he could finish. “I hid down there at the end of the tunnel. Follow me.” Taking Jorge’s lighter in hand, Hanna took the lead, tracing the length of the tunnel and stopping before her father’s hiding place.
“That wooden beam. Give it a nice hard tug, please. It should slide out. Just a few centimeters is all I need.”
Surprising as her requests were, Hanna looked so beautiful in the glow of the flickering flame that Jorge would have moved heaven and earth for her at that moment.
“You know, whenever I came up here with provisions or laundry, just getting one single look at you would give me strength. Every time. Knowing you were waiting at the top of the path was the only thing that made the climb worth it.”
“I know,” Hanna replied. “I’ve always known. Looking at you gave me strength, too. But that was a long time ago. I’m married now.” Jorge shrugged and pulled out the beam to reveal the cavity dug into the wall. Stepping in closer, Hanna gave Jorge back his lighter and asked him to give her some light.
Jorge did as she asked, and Hanna slid her hand into the crevice until her fingers closed around the metal tube. She pulled the precious container out of its hiding place and announced that it was time to leave.
Jorge was not an especially talkative man, but he couldn’t resist asking Hanna a few questions as they climbed back down the trail.
“That tube, is that what you came here for?”
“I came to mourn my father,” she replied, resting her eyes on the precious cylinder. “This is part of that.”
The two arrived at the end of the trail and hopped back on the motorcycle. “Where to now?” the blacksmith asked.
“The station, if you’d be so kind.”
As the motorcycle roared down country roads, Hanna gripped Jorge’s waist firmly with one hand and clutched the metal tube with the other. The wind biting at her cheeks filled her with a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in ages, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Jorge accompanied her all the way to the platform and stood by her side to await the train. When at last Hanna boarded, he grabbed her hand and stopped her halfway into the train carriage.
“Tell me what’s inside that tube,” he said.
“My father’s personal belongings.”
“In that case, I’m glad they stayed hidden in that hole all this time, and that you were able to reclaim them.”
“Thank you, Jorge. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re never coming back, are you?”
“No, never.”