Chapter 2: Helena

Helena stood in her small kitchen, absent-mindedly her fingers traced the smooth surface of a well-worn serving bowl. The bowl was simple, and made of sturdy clay, but it held a special place in her heart. It was one of the few things she had brought with her from Crete all those years ago. Every time she used it, she felt a connection to the life she had left behind, to the sun-drenched hills and the scent of wild herbs that had once been so familiar.

The flat in Palmers Green was small but comfortable, with just enough space for her and the plants she tended so lovingly. The plants were her pride and joy, a little piece of life she could nurture and control in a world that had so often seemed beyond her grasp. She had a few other cherished items from her past - a pestle and mortar that had been her mother’s, a delicate icon of the Virgin Mary, and a handful of old photographs tucked into the corners of her mirror. These were her totems, remnants of a life that sometimes felt like a distant dream.

Helena had lived in London for over thirty years, but the city had never really become home. It was too vast, too impersonal. The only place that felt familiar was Palmers Green, with its strong Greek community. Here, she could speak her native language, buy the ingredients for the recipes she had learned as a girl, and feel, at least for a while, as though she hadn’t completely severed the ties to her homeland.

She worked at the Aphrodite Grocery store, a small but bustling place where the air was thick with the scent of olives, oregano, and freshly baked bread. The store was a gathering place for the Greek community, a place where people came not just to shop, but to talk, to share news, to maintain the fragile thread of connection to the old country. Helena enjoyed her work, even if it was just a way to pass the time. It kept her busy, kept her from dwelling too much on the past.

But the past was always there, lurking in the background. It was there in the way she wore her black eyeliner, a habit she had never given up since her youth. It was there in the way she still preferred to speak Greek, even though her English was fluent. And it was there in the way she had never been able to return to Greece, not since she had left with Niko’s father.

Ah, her husband. Even now, more than ten years after his death, his memory was a sharp, painful thing, like a stone in her shoe that she could never quite shake out. She had loved him deeply and had followed him without question when he decided they would leave Crete. He had been so adamant, so sure that they needed to escape, to start a new life in London where their child could have a better future. He had never told her everything, but she knew enough to understand that they could never go back. There was something dark in their past, but it was a secret he had taken to his grave.

Helena pushed these thoughts aside as she continued preparing dinner. The flat was quiet, too quiet. She had been alone here since her husband died, but now, Niko was back. Her son, her only child, had returned to her, but not in the way she had ever imagined. He was broken, shattered by grief, and she felt helpless in the face of his pain.

She thought back to the early years in London, and how hard her husband had worked to provide for them. He had been traditional in many ways, insisting that she stay home while he took on odd jobs to pay the rent. He had scrubbed windows, delivered newspapers, worked on building sites - anything to keep a roof over their heads. Eventually, he had saved enough to become a taxi driver, and they had managed to buy this flat. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs, and they had built a life here.

When Niko was born, all their hopes and dreams had focused on him. He had shown such promise from a young age, a natural aptitude for music that had thrilled them both. They had sacrificed to send him to the Purcell School, even though it meant he had to board there during the week. It had been hard, so hard, to let him go, but they knew it was the right thing to do. Niko had flourished there, and Helena had been so proud.

Now, though, that brilliant, talented boy was gone, replaced by a man hollowed out by loss. Helena felt a deep sadness as she thought of how much Niko had changed. He barely spoke, rarely ate, and spent most of his time staring out of the window or lying on the bed in his old room. The opera he had been working on before Zoe’s death was now a source of torment for him, its story of tragic love and loss echoing too closely his own situation.

Helena sighed and set the table. She knew she had to be strong for Niko, to help him find a way through his grief, but she didn’t know how. Every time she mentioned Zoe, even by accident, he would retreat further into himself, and she would curse herself for being so thoughtless. She wished she could find the right words, something that would bring him back to her, but the words always seemed to fail her.

She looked at the photo on the fridge door, an old picture of herself as a child, standing under the vines with her family in Crete. It was faded and yellowed with age, but it was one of the few things she had kept from those days. Seeing it now, a thought began to take shape in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, there was something she could do to help her dear son.