After a week under house arrest, I set out to celebrate. I prescribed myself a bookpeace at my parents' house in the countryside—the exact opposite of an adventure holiday. All that's left now is to crown it with a prayer, I think, while my fingers hunt for buttons and buttonholes on the finest dress I brought with me, precious freshwater pearls around my neck, my hair swept into a bun as high as I can make it. 

Golden hour. The temperature is perfect. Before I'm even out of our village, an anthracite blur of fur with saffron-green eyes darts straight across my path, missing me by inches. Everything matches—the eyes with my dress, the coat with my car. I don't even think of panic or turning around. No. It will bring me something important. I am certain of it in a way I rarely am.

I drive on. It should take twenty minutes, but I manage to get lost on a perfectly straight road, as I like to do whenever I have time—and often when I don't. In the end, the journey stretches to nearly forty minutes, including a gravel track between fields. I discover the limbs of villages whose torso was all I had ever known.

At my destination, an apparition awaits me. For the first time, I enter the Chapter grounds through the garden. It feels cinematic. I almost float as my white sandals weave along the path, red pebbles of toenail polish peeking out with every step. From this side, the side entrance to the church is closer, and that's fortunate. I wouldn't have made it through the main doors anyway, because the church is closed for Mass.

Groups of boys of every age. Not a single girl. Not a single representative of any of the other genders we've since invented. Just them and me, and a braided red rope blocking access to the votive candles by the great entrance. The little flames—for money, for gratitude, for prayer—can wait until after dinner. 

That leads me into the embrace of the sacred fortress, wrapped in greenery and twilight, where amber, honey and white globes of drinks glow on the tables. The ventilation purrs. A little angel in black flutters past, a white ribbon woven into her braid. Inside, the walls are lined with kitschy portraits of Our Lord Jesus, and one magnificent überkitsch painting of Spiš Castle with the High Tatras rising behind it in the distance.

I order pumpkin stew with a fried meat patty, a meal I haven't had since my primary school cafeteria. I can't fault it. Then again, I liked it back then too. A bottle of mineral water and a decaf in a grey porcelain cup complete the table. Everything slowly melts into the deepening sky and the wisteria—the scenery for my private soirée in honour of silence and peace.

After dinner, I walk back up the illuminated lane towards the church. Draped in darkness, it looks as though it belongs somewhere in France—or inside one of Eco's novels. An Eco novel is more accurate. I cannot resist taking the first and only photograph of my exile. It leaves me spellbound enough to forget. 

To forget what happened in the Chapter car park two years ago. 

On my way back to the car, an obelisk draws me in. I have to get closer. I have to see. From a distance, it looks like a silent gathering of saffron-green lamps upon a garlanded white square. And from up close, it still does—if only—if only it were not a memorial to three girls struck by a bus on their way towards the light. The driver, spellbound by the beauty of the Chapter, forgot. 

He forgot to pull the handbrake. 

Three silhouettes engraved into pale stone. One wearing a beaded headband. One with a low ponytail. One with nothing more than her hair falling freely over her shoulders. 

Katka, Lucka, and Sofia.