Giannoulis walks towards the front door as quietly as he can, so his mother won’t notice and scold him. She, in the room with the fireplace, is tidying up some things in a chest; among them stands out that box… with his destiny. “Do you see these gloves, my boy? These gloves are your destiny.” “What is… destiny?” he had asked with curiosity – he was very little – the first time she showed them to him. She even made him wear them, even though his small hands swam inside those leather gloves. And Giannoulis looked at them laughing, confused: as if those hands weren’t his, but someone else’s, like a scarecrow’s. And every time, all these years since then, his mother told him the same thing…

“These gloves, my boy, were a gift from your father the day you were born. Touch them. Do you see how beautiful, how soft they are? That’s how your hands should be too: clean and soft. When you grow up, when your hands grow enough to fit inside these gloves, you will wear them and leave the village and the island and go across.” “Why?” “Because in our village you won’t be able to find your fate.” “Why not?” “Because our village has nothing for you. Nothing but soil and stones.” “And over there… what will I do?” “A beautiful and clean job. Where you can proudly wear your gloves on clean hands.” “What job?”

“Any other than the one your father, your uncle, your grandparents, and most people in this village do.” “Why?” “Because your father doesn’t want you to be a stonemason, but a merchant.” “I don’t like it.” “When the time comes, you will like it. And anyway… whether you like it or not, that will happen,” she told him stubbornly, ending the conversation every time. Then she put the gloves back in their box, keeping them in the chest; until that time comes, for Giannoulis to meet his… destiny. But every time he looked at the gloves awkwardly and confused. He was not at all sure they would ever fit his hands.