Like a faucet, the mother dripped two cool drops into her arms. Two boys. Mark and Demosthenes. They learned to laugh and cry together in the aftermath of war. And just as they ran through the fields playing around the almond trees, so the years also ran, after they carved in their bodies an alien youth. From their souls emerged the longing for the party and the fiery love for the same girl. Mygdalia chose one of the two, the one she believed would make sure her flowers never shed tears. Her fragrant name sowed in the hearts of the twin brothers an unquenchable desire for joint revenge. The wounded brotherhood, what was left, gave way to ideological conflict, betrayal, desertion and flight. The lithe woman, the childless conscience, the vain struggle between the right and the left, the beautiful Anemone, the friends, the family, all entered the mill of memory decades later, on a sunny January. The almonds, in tears, came to the head of life to cheer up those who truly loved at least once in their life, but never dared to offer it as a gift.
The post-conflict Greece of the 1950s through irredeemable events. A powerful secret, well hidden, between Skiathos, Kyrenia and Athens. A justification on behalf of the one who did not forget the dream for the life that did not come.
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