Globetrotter Ingrid gets a fabulous fresh start when her job takes her to Melbourne, Australia. Here she meets wise and sweet Oliver, who makes her forget she doesn't have a heart.
This successful stability prompts Ingrid to accept an invitation to...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
September 2018
It had rained all night and now the fine, mist-like drizzle made for an atmospheric morning. Filip had volunteered to drive Ingrid to the village cemetery, so they could pay their respects to Granny Lena's grave. Frau Ionescu had insisted on providing her former pupil with a bouquet of autumn roses from her garden, which sat on Ingrid's lap as she watched raindrops trickle down the windshield.
"Wait here, I'll come round," Filip said.
He'd just parked the car on the side of the road, across from the cemetery. Unfastening his seatbelt, he reached for his umbrella and braved the annoying downpour. He made an awkward little jog round the front of the car and opened the passenger door for Ingrid, holding the umbrella high above her head.
"Thanks," Ingrid mumbled, stepping out.
Sharing an umbrella forced them to walk quite close together. Ingrid held onto the roses as if they were anchoring her to reality itself. The sweet, fragrant smell made her light-headed, almost. But deep down, she knew it wasn't the roses.
Ingrid didn't expect to remember the exact twists and turns that needed to be taken to reach her grandma's grave, so she let Filip lead the way. They weren't the only ones crawling about at that time of the day, yet a solemn silence reigned supreme.
"Here we are," Filip said, stopping in front of an imposing twin tomb.
Ingrid frowned. "This can't be it. What..."
When she'd left, Granny Lena's grave had consisted of a mound of dirt and a wooden cross. Now an elevated block of cement stretched at her feet, dominated by a marble headstone with a square cross carved on top of it. Squinting, Ingrid read the faded dedication: Elena Covaci, 1950 – 2000, and studied the oval picture embedded into the headstone. It was her granny, all right.
"What the hell..."
An identical, yet gaping empty, tomb right beside it, bore the inscription Petre Covaci and an open-ended date: 1940 –
"Looks like your mum came into some money," Filip said, "and upgraded her parents' final resting places."
Ingrid had to wrestle the urge to cackle out loud.
*
The humidity had done a number on Ingrid's thick, dark hair and she was too busy taming it down to notice her teacher had a guest.
"This damn drizzle, I swear, it's worse than an actual storm," Ingrid mumbled, waltzing into the kitchen. "You feel like it's nothing, but you're drenched before – "
She came to an abrupt halt once her brain registered the slouched figure perched on a chair at one end of the kitchen table. A scraggy woman, so thin her collarbones protruded above the torn neckline of her ragged shirt. Silver hairs streaked her temples, her hair looking more like a bird's nest than an actual human head.
