A single footstep, echoing in a space that belongs to two countries at once. In the pre-dawn quiet of the Athens airport, a cleaner moves through the terminal. The air is cold, thick with the scent of disinfectant and jet fuel, under the constant hum of neon lights.
She notices something out of place. On a row of lockers, small knots of red thread, dabbed with clove oil. They’re arranged like ...
