We arrive in the little chapel, tucked away in the mountains. The wind is brisk. The Greek flag on the flagpole has been ravaged by the wind. All that remains is a tattered blue-and-white rag.

I walk into the tiny church. The beamed ceilings are slightly less than head-high. The interior chamber is adorned with paintings of Saint Nicholas. Long before he was Santa, the patron saint of Christmas and Coca-Cola, he was the protector of sailors.

I enter a little prayer booth through a swinging wooden half-door. I light a candle for a private prayer. I am not Orthodox, but I consider these saints my forefathers nonetheless.

There is a portrait of Christ. He is making the Christogram blessing with his fingers. Sort of like an okey-dokey sign.

I stand for a while, counting my breaths. I am not a big praying guy. I wish I was. But we are who we are. My mind has the hyperfocus of a caffeinated squirrel.

Still, I can count my breaths, blank my mind, and stare into nothingness for a few minutes. And this feels like almost the same thing.

I leave the booth. I sit in one of the cane chairs in the sanctuary. If that’s what you call it—the room is about the size of a residential bathroom.

There is a hanging oil lamp before the humble altar. There is a plywood cut-out crucifix, painted with gold. Someone has braided a wreath of purple wildflowers and hung it from the top of Christ’s cross. The flowers are the same kind we saw growing on the side of the remote trail leading here.

I am silent in the chapel. I am still counting breaths. I get to three and I start over. Sometimes I only count one at a time. Sometimes I don’t count at all. It’s not the counting that matters. It’s the breathing. Each one. A gift.

A woman walks into the chapel. She is elderly. She carries a backpack. She is quiet. She unzips her bag and removes a small bottle. It’s a recycled water bottle of what appears to be oil.

She uses this to fill the lamp. The flame gets brighter with the added fuel. The room flickers orange.

The woman does not smile at me. She doesn’t acknowledge me. But she is careful not to interrupt me.

I close my eyes.

I can hear her buzzing around the room. Doing stuff.

I peek one eye open.

She is dusting. With a rag, she wipes the ceiling, the rough wooden rafters, the windowsills, and the corners. She sweeps the floor. She straightens chairs.

I close my eyes.

Now it is me who does not want to interrupt her.

Then I hear a sniffle.

I open my eyes again.

The old woman is kissing a glass case. Inside is a framed portrait of the saint. There is also the photograph of a boy, early twenties. Handsome. Full head of hair. Disarming smile.

She places flowers on the glass. She weeps.

I feel awkwardly intrusive. We are two humans occupying a small room. And one of us is crying. Shouldn’t I do something? Should I console her? Should I say something?

She kisses the glass again. Then she presses a hand on it. She lights a candle and tucks the base into the sand. And she prays beneath her voice. I hear her whispered consonants in the stillness.

When she finishes, she packs her bag. She rises from her weary knees. She wipes her face. She takes a few cleansing breaths.

“Goodbye,” she says.

“Bye,” I respond.

It is the only word we exchange. But I’m not sure whether she was talking to me.