It’s late afternoon when I turn off the highway. The signpost is so weathered that I can’t read it. 8 km of gravel road ahead.

After what feels like hours, I stop the car in the middle of the road. There is nothing and no one for miles. With my eyes closed, I lean against the window. What am I doing here? A woman alone on a dust road heading somewhere in the middle of nowhere; the romance of it, the adventure. However, the disillusionment of this trip makes me start the engine and drive on.

I barely look around as I drive. There’s nothing to see anyway. A few kilometres further on, the bumpy gravel becomes more even. The silence after the rattling is intense. I barely notice how the road makes a turn and disappears between two heights. For a moment, it is dark. Then, through a drift. Out. Onward. One more lazy turn, and I see the poplar trees pointing skyward with yellow fingers. My eyes follow, but only long enough to spot a few sparse clouds in the half-light.
I am tired. From the long road and the many thoughts. Of everything. I wonder if there is somewhere to sleep in this town. Is there ever a town here? I slow down. The road that leads into the town is also untarred, but there are still strips of cement left in places.

Past the first houses, I start looking for something resembling a guest house, restaurant, or something. I see nothing, only the derelict houses that stand far apart as if they don’t feel like company either. It’s already dusk. The doors and windows to these homes are all closed. It’s almost winter. At the thought of another winter, coldness crawls over my skin, and so I put on a sweater.

Finally, I end up on what seems to be a street in a town; nowhere can I see a soul.

I instinctively turn left and drive on a bit further at a junction. Here, the houses also all look the same. The gardens too. Still no sign of life, except for small squares of light that now decorate the buildings. Then it’s as if the town just ends.

With a sigh, I turn the car around, stop, and see the large olive tree in the garden in front of me. The wind must have come up because the leaves stir like little silver hands, waving, calling me closer. The tears come naturally—unsolicited, quiet. The engine dies, and I sit there, crying, but not for long. I never cry for long.

When I look up, I see a woman standing by the gate under the tree, just a short distance from the car. I wipe away the tears, get out and walk closer. With a smile, she opens the gate.

When I get to her, she turns and walks along the path to the front door. Halfway, she turns back slightly, and I realise that she wants me to follow her.
The woman invites me inside. The corridor is dark, and I can’t see much. She closes the door gently behind us and walks towards the kitchen. I follow. The room is warm and smells of ground coffee. She motions to a chair next to the large wooden table. I sit down.

Incoherently, I start telling her who I am and how I ended up here and asks if she knows of a guest house where I can spend the night, that, in fact, I don’t even know where I am. However, she doesn’t seem to hear me. An extra cup is taken from the shelf. Before I can stop and explain that the coffee will keep me awake, she fills the cup and moves the milk jug closer. I swallow the bitter coffee.

She takes her seat across from me and picks up her cup. By the spots on the back of her delicate hands, I can see that she is older than I initially thought. She must have been a beautiful young woman. Her grey hair hangs down her back in a long braid. She smiles again, and we finish the coffee in silence before she gets up and motions for me to come along.

The house has little light, so I can’t make out the faces in the portraits on the walls. A door creaks softly as she pushes it open. Is this a guest room? On the washstand in front of the window is a dish with water, a towel, and soap. It seems she has been expecting someone.

My luggage is still in the car, but I’m too tired to go get it. When I turn around, the room is empty and the door closed. The water in which I rinse my face and hands is ice cold. I look around the tidy room. Fresh, white linen on the bed, a lamp that shines faintly, a cupboard, the washstand and a chair. The curtains are a strange shade of blue, the same blue as the woman’s eyes.

I lie down on the soft bed. When I wake up to noises from the kitchen, I don’t know how long I slept. It is pitch dark outside.
In the kitchen, I look gratefully at the soup, bread and butter on the table. I am hungry. The woman is standing by the sink and doesn’t look around when I come in. With her back to me, she stares out the window into the thick darkness. She raises her hand to her cheek. The pane reflects her face: soft eyes, maybe sad, mouth slightly open as if she is about to say something. I go to stand next to her. I see my own face’s reflection.

One dark window. Two women looking but not knowing what the other sees. She suddenly becomes aware of me standing next to her, smiles, and sits at the table. Her head bows, and I know she is asking for a blessing over the modest meal. Embarrassed, I bow over the plate of soup. The bread she cuts off and hands me is still warm. I want to thank her, but words are unnecessary in the silent kitchen.

After the meal, I help with the washing up. Again and again, I find myself looking up to see the reflection of her face in the pane, but she remains busy with the dishes. I then look at myself. My face looks rough. My eyes are tired—long road tired. My hair is dull—long road dull. How must I not look to the quiet woman? Only when she takes the cloth out of my hands, do I realise I had hardly helped. How long did I just stand there?

In the living room, she sits on a bench and picks up her crocheting. Along the walls are shelves and shelves full of books, most of which I have never heard of. I also mark a shelf with children’s books. A question crosses my mind when I realise she is watching me. She gets up and takes a weathered book from a shelf. She places the book in my hands without looking at me, sits down and continues crocheting. The book is unknown, and I curiously start reading it, but after only a few pages, my eyes get heavy. With a yawn, I get up and walk to the door with the intention of collecting my luggage. Sleep is near, and I want to brush my teeth at least.

I hesitate on the porch. It’s a dark night. The moon must be somewhere above me, but I don’t see it. In the light from the front room, I see a chair in the corner. The pillow is soft and deep but cold, and I pull my sweater tighter around my shoulders.

I sit back comfortably, luggage forgotten, and I start listening. I hear the wind softly chattering in the olive tree. Crickets and frogs far away. Other night sounds I don’t know. I sit, and I listen. To my own breathing here in the chair, on the porch. Then, it goes quiet. It’s a silence that stretches far. Past the garden. Past the street and the dirt road, out of town. Beyond the highway. Beyond everything. And all I can do is listen.

The light in the front room goes out, and the woman walks slowly to her room. It’s the end of another day for her in this town where silence began. Still, I sit without feeling the cold on my cheeks or seeing the moon pass. The silence gets even quieter.

A lifetime later, I get up from the chair, open the front door and go to the room where I will sleep. I carefully open the curtains. The night is still dark, but not for long. I see my reflection again, this time in the bedroom window. There is no need to rinse my face with the cold water. My eyes are awake. I am rested. I smile.

A little while later, when the day is almost breaking, the woman and I sit opposite each other in the warm kitchen. The coffee is fresh and deliciously bitter. She fills a flask and puts it together with some sandwiches in the small basket on the table in front of her. Underneath is also an old, weathered book with a crocheted cross between the pages, but I won’t find that until later. It’s time to leave.

The woman walks outside with me, stands by the garden gate, and first looks up at the big tree with her quiet, blue eyes and then at me. She presses my hand quickly, turns around and walks back towards the porch.

As I drive away, I see her sitting down in the chair and pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders.

I’m on my way again, but I am going home this time.