Silence Is Golden Read Free Page A

my vision. A woman enters, and the man whirls around. Our mutual gaze broken, my eyes close to preserve his image. When I force myself to open them, I pull back from the window and look in again. I realize she’s the same woman I saw at the supermarket that morning, the one who wondered why I’d strayed from my neck of the woods. I walk away abruptly, back to the main road. That woman scares me.

CHAPTER THREE
    Leaving my hometown of twenty-six years was easy. With a rolling suitcase, a canvas bag, and the little money my mother set aside for me, I jumped on a train. Deciding where to go was slightly more difficult, but on the way to Rome, I was reminded that one of my mother’s greatest wishes was to return to the North, so the choice became simple. What does it take to make a person leave everything behind? I grew up in a place surrounded by rough, almost savage mountains, but the mountains around Bren are lush and hospitable. Unlike those other mountains, looming over me threateningly, these mountains surround me like an embrace.
     
    Walking through the streets of Bren, I see that villagers are finally starting to notice me. Apparently the people here need time to process anything new, and I’m certainly a novelty. Perhaps they originally assumed that I was just passing through, but now that I’ve rented a house, they must have realized that I’m here to stay. I’m sure the woman from the supermarket has no desire to get to know me, and I have to say, the feeling is mutual. I want nothing to do with her. The person I’m most eager to get to know is the blond man, although I remember I almost felt intimidated when I was looking through the window.
     
    I didn’t end up going to the bookstore yesterday. After leaving the carpenter’s shop, I decided to go home. I still feel emotionally fragile, and I needed some time to regain my composure and my courage. I briefly stopped at the supermarket to buy some rags and cleaning supplies. Once home, however, I decided not to clean and enjoyed my new freedom to make such a choice. Instead, I spent the evening reading in my chair. I’ve never had so much downtime; it seems like a miracle to me.

    I feel stronger this morning. I push the door of the bookstore open, smiling and ready to cheerfully greet whoever’s inside. My smile is wasted, however, as no one’s there. The room is quite large, and wooden bookshelves rise up from the carpeted floor. At the center of the store, there’s a counter on which sits a tray with a dirty cup that must once have contained tea. There’s an empty chair behind the counter, off which a gray cardigan hangs. The owner of the cardigan must have stepped out, apparently unconcerned that someone could come in and steal something. Looking around, I note that books seem to be strewn about, and there’s a general air of disorder to the place. I walk over to a shelf, and I see that the books are arranged alphabetically, with no regard for literary genre. I sneeze twice; the place is really aggravating my dust allergies. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Where are the customers? As I continue to wander around, checking out book titles and authors, I hear the door open. Someone enters, their face hidden by the big box they’re carrying. Behind them follows a middle-aged woman with graying hair arranged in a bun.
    “Put it on the floor, and then I’ll look at it,” the woman says, with no sign that she has seen me. Her accent is odd, as if she’s foreign.
    Once the box is on the floor, I can see that a young man was carrying it. His gaze immediately shifts to me, causing the woman to do the same.
    “Can I help you?” she asks without a trace of kindness in her voice.
    Not a great sign.
    “Good morning,” I say, trying to smile, though her grim expression stifles all my optimism. I wasn’t going to start with my request right off the bat, but she doesn’t seem like the type of person who enjoys casual conversation, so I forge