In the sweltering summer of 1991, amidst the crumbling Baroque façades of Kotor, a young woman named Anaïs tended to the silkworms that slept in the attic of her family’s ancient stone house. As a descendant of the revered silk weavers who once supplied the Ottoman courts, Anaïs was destined to master the intricate art of sericulture. But her dreams were far more wayward, fueled by the whispers of the old-town gossips and the eerie legends surrounding the abandoned fortress of Sv. Ivan.
It was on one of her nocturnal strolls, while avoiding the prying eyes of her overbearing mother, that Anaïs chanced upon a charismatic stranger in the deserted alleyways. His eyes gleamed with the promise of adventure, and his worn denim jacket seemed out of place amidst the terracotta-tiled roofs and Byzantine domes. He introduced himself as Marko, a free-spirited traveler drawn to Kotor’s mystique, and Anaïs found herself inexplicably entwined in his tales of offbeat escapades and ramshackle road trips.
As their clandestine meetings became more frequent, Anaïs began to sneak glances at Marko’s weathered copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, the dog-eared pages whispering secrets of a world beyond the bay. The world outside was abuzz with the news of Slovenia’s declaration of independence and the looming specter of war, but within Kotor’s walled city, time seemed to slumber, as if the old town’s limestone stones were absorbing the chaos.
One fateful night, as they strolled along the battlements, Marko revealed to Anaïs that he was, in truth, a musician, and that the haunting melodies he played on his guitar were inspired by the Byzantine chants echoing within the Cathedral of St. Tryphon. Enchanted, Anaïs found solace in the harmony, and as the music drifted across the still waters, the silkworms in her attic began to stir, as if drawn by the sweet resonance.
When Marko vanished as suddenly as he appeared, Anaïs felt an aching void within her. The silkworms, now restless, devoured the mulberry leaves with an unnerving fervor. As she tended to them, Anaïs started to weave a fabric infused with the memories of Marko’s presence: the scent of worn leather, the cadence of his voice, and the intricate patterns that seemed to dance within the threads. And when the fabric was complete, she draped it across her shoulders like a cloak, feeling an uncanny sense of liberation, as if the silk itself had absorbed the essence of her wanderlust.
As the war drums beat louder, and the skies above Kotor grew thick with foreboding, Anaïs stood at the edge of the old town, the Adriatic Sea stretching before her like an expanse of uncharted possibility. The silken fabric billowed behind her, a banner proclaiming her readiness to follow the whispers of her heart, into a world as uncertain and beautiful as the tender threads she wove.
Leave a Reply