The mural she came all this way to see is gone, erased from the rough mountain wall as if it never existed. Lena is sure she walked up the correct ravine, sycamore trees by the stream and everything, but instead of the colourful suffering woman she expected to find painted here all she sees is the narrow opening of a lightless cave. She takes a step closer, waiting for the wet smell of rot to hit her, but instead she’s met with the stench of burning metal and ethanol.

It’s daylight, but she is alone, and she probably shouldn’t try her luck, but she picks a bleached white pebble and throws it inside.

Nothing. She takes a step closer, throws another.

At first she isn’t certain what is wrong, but then it dawns on her. The stones didn’t echo, didn’t even make a sound. Perhaps the waterfall around her or the sounds of the summer forest are to blame though; she picks another stone, and takes a step closer to the opening.

“Don’t.”

She turns, stone in hand, and sees a man hurrying towards her, hand outstretched.

“Oh,” she says, but doesn’t let the stone down just yet. “Is it dangerous?”

Of course it’s dangerous, you idiot, it’s a mountain cave. A mountain cave that shouldn’t be here. But she often gets like that when she finds herself free of the city for a few days, childishly poking at things, taking wrong turns on purpose, going farther than she should. And now she has been caught, so all she can do is smile and pretend not to know better.

The man smiles back and puts his hand down. He is pretty handsome, in a t-shirt and a swimsuit just like her, towel in hand, probably another tourist. “Well, no. Unless you believe in folk tales, in which case you’ve just doomed yourself.”

She laughs, and splashes the stone in the stream. It lands between two black toads. The cave is now at her back, sending rays of chill on her sun-warmed skin. She moves farther away, closer to him. “I'm Lena,” she says. She doesn’t give him her hand; handshakes in swimsuits are stupid.

“I’m Stavros. Are those yours?” He nods towards her canvas and her painting supplies, balanced as they are on the flat grey rocks.

“Yes. But the water was too pretty to paint. I went for a swim instead.”

“Good choice,” he smiles again. “Sorry if I scared you just now. The cave is supposed to be a fairy home. The seven handmaidens of the Virgin Mary are supposed to live inside, or something like that. We were always told not to go near, and never to disturb them.”