«About Grandmother. She treasured that ring so much. It wasn’t just jewelry to her; it was a part of her life, a memory of her ancestors, of family. I have to get it back, Kenan. I have to do it for her, for her memory.» Tears welled up in Aurora’s eyes. Kenan held her close, trying to comfort her. He knew that for her, this was not just a piece of jewelry; it was a part of her soul.

In Porto, they were met by a sharp, cool wind from the Douro, saturated with the damp smell of port wine – the city’s signature scent. This aroma, simultaneously intoxicating and tart, mixed with the smell of fish and salt from the Ribeira waterfront, creating the unique fragrance of Porto. Aurora shivered. The wind cut right through her, despite her warm jacket, reminding her of the cold that had always permeated her childhood.

They got into an old Mercedes taxi that reeked of cigarettes and cheap cologne. The driver, a sullen man with a thick gray mustache, silently nodded at the address and jerked away from the curb. The taxi sped across the Dom Luís I Bridge, a masterpiece of engineering connecting Porto with Vila Nova de Gaia, home to the famous port wine cellars. Aurora automatically looked up at the majestic arches of the bridge and remembered how, as a little girl, she had been afraid of heights and would always close her eyes when the bus crossed it.

The city changed outside the window. From the gleaming shop windows of modern stores, they entered the narrow, winding streets of the old town, paved with cobblestones. The houses here were shabby and dilapidated, with peeling paint and sagging balconies. Laundry dried on clotheslines strung between buildings, creating a sense of chaos and clutter. But within this chaos, one could feel a special, unique life.

«Nothing has changed here,» Aurora whispered, looking at the familiar streets.

«You remember this neighborhood?» Kenan asked.

«I remember,» Aurora replied. «Every stone.»

Finally, the taxi stopped in front of an old, dilapidated house with crooked windows and peeling plaster. Silence reigned around the house, broken only by the cries of seagulls from the river. This was the very house where Aurora had spent her childhood years. The house she had tried to forget.

The house greeted them with the empty, broken eye-sockets of its windows and flaking paint, like a starving ghost from the past. The paint on the walls was peeling like an old man’s skin, revealing layers of faded, patterned wallpaper beneath. The house itself seemed to breathe its last, exhaling scents of decay and damp leaves – smells Aurora remembered from childhood. The smell of abandonment. Aurora, taking out the key, fumbled for a long time, trying to remember where it was hidden. Under which stone? All the stones by the porch looked equally gray and rough. She remembered how, as a child, she had thought this key was a passport to another world, a world of adventure and fantasy. Now it just felt like a heavy burden, a reminder of the past.

Finally, her fingers found a familiar ledge. There it is. Click… The door creaked open, letting them inside. The creak was so loud it echoed through the entire house, like a greeting from an old friend (or foe?). Stagnant air hit them with the smell of dampness, dust, mold, and years of sorrow. This smell, ingrained in the walls and furniture, felt tangible, like a heavy blanket thrown over their shoulders. Aurora felt nausea rising in her throat.

Inside, it was dim. Sunlight barely penetrated the dirty glass, creating bizarre shadows on the walls. Aurora turned on her phone’s flashlight, dispersing the darkness in the rooms. The beam of light picked out shabby furniture covered in a thick layer of dust, old photographs in faded frames, and broken toys lying in a corner. Everything here was marked by the seal of time, as if preserved in the past.

«Everything is still here… as if time has stopped,» she whispered, her voice trembling. Room by room, she recognized every corner of this house. The worn-out sofa in the living room where she and her mother had watched old movies on TV. The kitchen with its peeling tiles where they had cooked simple, tasty meals. The bedroom where she had fallen asleep to the quiet sound of her mother’s voice telling stories. It was as if she had left this house only yesterday, not many years ago, running from her past. And that past seemed to be waiting for her here, ready to pounce and swallow her whole.

They went into the living room. The old, dusty furniture, like forgotten relics in a forgotten room, was shrouded in a pall of dust. It seemed that if someone sneezed, the dust would rise and choke them both. I wonder if anyone has cleaned here since my «evacuation»? Aurora thought with irony. Kenan winced in disgust and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose.

On the walls, like ghosts, hung faded photographs. Mostly portraits of relatives whom Aurora barely remembered, or didn’t remember at all. Stern faces looking at the camera with silent reproach. Seems I have a very «cheerful» family, Aurora thought, looking at another uncle with a severe gaze.

Aurora began methodically examining the photographs, hoping to find the cherished image of her grandmother with the ring. It was the only thing connecting her to the past, the only thread she could grasp. She went through the photos one by one, as if turning the pages of an old, forgotten album. Here was her mother, young and beautiful, with a naive smile on her face. I wonder what she was dreaming of then? Did she know what awaited her? Here she was herself, a little girl with big, sad eyes, looking at the world with distrust and fear. I wonder when I forgot how to smile?

Suddenly Kenan sneezed, breaking the silence. «Sorry,» he said, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. «I’m allergic to dust. Maybe we should wear masks?»

Aurora gave a wry smile. «I’m afraid masks won’t help here,» she said. «We need a team of exterminators.»

Kenan sighed. «Alright, let’s finish with the photos and go to the hotel. I think I’m starting to suffocate.»

She looked through dozens of photographs, but – alas! – nowhere was the one picture that could prove her right. Despair, like poisonous ivy, began to entwine her soul. She could already feel its roots digging into her heart, sapping her will to fight. Perfect. It seems my family tree has decided to play hide-and-seek with me.

«Maybe the photos are in another room? Don’t give up, amor! We’ll find them!» Kenan tried to encourage her, but his voice also sounded tired. Apparently, his dust allergy was acting up.

They searched the entire house, looking in every corner, every crevice. It seemed the photographs were deliberately hiding from them, playing some cruel game. Aurora, having lost all hope, sat down on the old sofa and buried her face in her hands. Imagine, this sofa has survived three generations of cockroaches and two world wars, and it’s still here… Just like my problems.

«I don’t know what to do… It seems I’ve hopelessly lost everything.» Her voice sounded hollow and desperate.

Kenan sat down beside her, carefully putting his arm around her, trying to warm her with his presence. He felt her despair, her pain. «Don’t you dare say that. We’ll think of something. Maybe you just forgot where you put them? Don’t be upset, Aurora, everything will be alright now. Come on, focus, remember everything you know… You’re an architect, not some random person. Remember where your grandmother kept her treasures! Surely not in a Swiss bank?» He tried to joke to lighten the mood.

And suddenly, like lightning piercing the darkness, it hit her. «Wait! Grandmother always kept her most valuable things in an old chest, in the storage room. The photos must be there! That’s it!»

They found the chest in the storage room. Heavy, covered in dust, it seemed to have been waiting for its moment for centuries. It seemed even the spiders were afraid to approach it. Kenan, grunting, helped Aurora open it.

Inside the chest lay old letters, yellowed documents, lace doilies smelling of mothballs, jewelry, and stacks of photographs, as if history itself was guarding its treasures. Aurora began to sort through them, like an archaeologist hoping to unearth something important. I wonder how much dust one has to inhale to find the truth?

And then, at one of the most unexpected moments, her gaze fell on an old leather-bound photo album. Her heart began to beat like a trapped bird in anticipation. She opened the album, turning its pages, trying not to breathe so as not to scatter the fragile memories.

And there it was! On one of the old, yellowed photographs was her grandmother, dressed in a beautiful dress, smiling elegantly at the camera. And on her finger – the very ruby ring they were looking for! Aurora took out the photograph, holding it up to the light as if it were a holy relic. Finally! At least someone in this family decided to help me!

«Here it is! Proof! Now we can prove that this ring belonged to my grandmother!» She rejoiced like a child who had found a long-awaited toy.

Kenan, beaming with joy, hugged and kissed her. «I knew you could do it, my dear! You are the best woman in the world! And the most stubborn.»

But their triumph was short-lived. Suddenly, like a harbinger of trouble, the sound of breaking glass echoed through the house. What the hell? Someone was in the house…

 
Chapter 8
The Trembling Tram
 

Aurora and Kenan froze in each other’s arms, like two startled deer in a forest. Or, rather, like two frightened cats caught off guard. They both heard it: a faint creak coming from somewhere deep within the old house. As if someone was cautiously stepping on a squeaky floorboard, hiding in the gloom.

In the house that Aurora thought would be her refuge from the nightmares of the past, a new anxiety had now taken root. It was an ominous silence, thick and sticky, like the Portuguese «Mel de Bragança» honey they had tried at the fair last week. That honey, viscous, golden, with a subtle scent of heather, now seemed a symbol of something clinging and dangerous. A silence in which only the ticking of grandfather’s clock in the hall could be heard, counting down the last seconds of their peace, and the persistent cracking of old floorboards, as if the house was complaining about the weight of time, about being disturbed.

Kenan carefully held Aurora tighter. He could feel her trembling. «It’s alright,» he whispered, «probably just the wind.» But the wind, of course, had nothing to do with it.

«Who’s there?» Aurora whispered, her voice shaking like Lisbon’s Tram 28 on a steep climb in Alfama. That tram, conquering the steep slopes, had always seemed to her a symbol of courage and perseverance, but now she felt just as fragile and defenseless. The fear familiar from her childhood was rearing its head again, like a snake from a basket. And it wasn’t just fear; it was a cold, clammy horror, paralyzing her will and making her heart beat in a frantic rhythm. She remembered all the scary stories she had been told as a child, all the ghosts and monsters inhabiting old houses. And it seemed to her that they were here, nearby, in the dark.

Kenan slowly moved Aurora behind him and looked in the direction of the sound. He knew better than to underestimate the danger. «Stay here,» he said in a quiet but firm voice. He bent down, picked up a heavy vase of flowers from the table, and, ready for a fight, cautiously moved towards the hall. Aurora, afraid to move, waited, pressed against the wall, trying to catch her breath. The most terrible thoughts swarmed in her head. What is it? Burglars? A ghost? Or… him again?

Like a knight without fear or reproach, Kenan moved slowly, trying not to make a sound, towards the suspicious noise. Aurora, holding her breath, watched him, clutching the old photograph of her grandmother in her hand – her only connection to the past she didn’t want to lose. Her grandmother in the photograph looked like a true silent movie star, with a mysterious gaze and an elegant dress. Fear gripped her heart with an icy grip, like Portuguese ivy clinging to old walls.

Kenan reached the living room. He peered inside, trying to appear calm, like a sardine merchant at the Mercado da Ribeira. The room was empty… almost. The large window overlooking the garden was broken, and the floor was littered with sharp shards of glass, like icy daggers.

«There’s no one here,» he said, returning to Aurora with feigned calm. «Looks like it’s just vandals. Maybe they wanted to steal your grandmother’s silver service. You know, vandals do worse things.»

But Aurora didn’t believe a word he said. She felt someone’s presence in the house, someone’s malevolent, clinging attention, like cheap wine. «I don’t think it’s vandals,» she objected. «I feel like someone is here… someone who knows about us.»

Kenan sighed, cursing his habit of being an optimist in any situation. He understood that Aurora was frightened and that now was not the time for sarcasm. «Alright, let’s check the whole house, together,» he suggested, taking her hand. «Like real detectives, like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Only we don’t have a pipe or a magnifying glass.»

They slowly, cautiously, went through all the rooms. The house was dark, like the Portuguese Alcátara cave, and every rustle seemed a sinister threat. In one of the rooms, they discovered signs of real chaos. Things were scattered on the floor as if dumped from a truck. The dresser drawers were pulled out, their contents lying around like trash after a street carnival.

«They were looking for something,» Aurora whispered, looking at the mess. «But what? Grandmother’s recipes for pastéis de nata?»

«Perhaps they were after the family jewels,» Kenan suggested, picking up an old mother-of-pearl-inlaid box from the floor. «You said your grandmother had a diamond brooch she received as a gift from some countess.»

«But how did they know about them?» Aurora asked, frowning. «No one knew about the jewels except me and my grandmother.»

Kenan shrugged. «Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe someone overheard a conversation in a café or saw you on the street.»