IOAKIM IOAKIM
The Santorini caldera shimmered under the harsh June 2032 sun, its turquoise waters a deceptive calm against the rugged cliffs as Mara Kallis knelt in the dirt, her trowel scraping against ancient stone. Seven years ahead from May 29, 2025, Mara, at thirty-eight, felt the weight of the dig, her auburn hair tied back, her brown eyes sharp with focus, sweat beading on her brow. Her linen shirt clung to her skin, a leather satchel at her side, as she worked alone in the ruins of Akrotiri, the Minoan city buried by volcanic ash millennia ago. Around her neck hung a small phoenix pendant, a family heirloom from her great-grandmother Eleni, its bronze surface warm against her chest, a quiet comfort amidst the solitude.Mara’s team had left for the day, their chatter about summer plans fading into the cicadas’ hum, but she stayed, driven by a hunch-a whisper in the earth that had called her since childhood. Her 16-year-old son, Theo, waited at their villa in Fira, likely sketching the island’s curves, his dark eyes a mirror of hers, though his teenage angst had built a wall between them since his father’s death two years prior. Her brother, Nikos, forty-two, a former intelligence operative, hadn’t spoken to her in years, their rift a scar from their mother’s passing. But the dig was Mara’s refuge, a place where history spoke louder than her fractured family.
