The broken marble of the morning market

Dear Delyara, I am thirty-one, and my family’s olive stall in the market has been empty for two weeks because the suppliers will no longer give us credit. The tax collectors sent their third notice yesterday, stamped with red ink that looks like dried blood on the kitchen counter. I spent the night walking the ancient streets near the Acropolis, watching wealthy tourists drink wine on brightly lit balconies, while my pockets held exactly four euros and a handful of unpaid invoices. The sheer weight of what I owe to keep my father's name from being shamed—it feels like a heavy block of stone dropped on my chest. The sun is coming up over the sea, but for me, the sky is completely black.