A woman asked for a light on a deserted road in Northern…
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A woman asked for a light on a deserted road in Northern Greece. I should have driven past.
​I stopped smoking years ago, right after the events of that night.
I still don't know why I kept the lighter.
There are times I wonder if people would think I'm insane if I ever told this story out loud.
I'm not even sure I'd believe it myself—if it weren't for the lighter still sitting on my desk.
It's red, heavy, metallic, with a silver embossed dragon breathing fire.
I bought it because it stood out. I was tired of my lighters getting mixed up with everyone else's.
Or at least, that's what I tell myself.
Sometimes, when I look at it, I feel like I remember a bar, neon lights, and a pair of eyes.
The memory never lasts long. It always fades into that night.
It was the dead of winter.
Fine, persistent rain hit the windshield in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
I had spent the evening with a friend in a remote tavern in a small provincial town somewhere in Northern Greece, drinking strong red wine, trying to shake off the cold that had settled into our bones.
We were driving back late at night.
I was behind the wheel.
The road was almost empty—fields on one side, low hills on the other, and between them a narrow strip of asphalt disappearing into darkness.
We were talking about nothing in particular when my passenger suddenly screamed.
"Do you see her?"
I looked up.
In front of us, at the edge of the road, stood a woman.
She was waving for us to stop.
I don't know why, but the moment I saw her, something twisted in my stomach—like time itself had stalled.
She couldn't have been older than twenty-five.
Her hair was jet black, soaked and stuck to her face, falling all the way down to her waist.
Her skin was so pale it almost glowed in the dark.
She wore a long white dress, completely inappropriate for that freezing night, yet she wasn't shivering—despite the storm raging around us.
I stopped the car and lowered the window.
A strange smell of wet earth and old incense filled the cabin.
She stepped closer.
She smiled.
A polite smile, but disturbingly empty—like it wasn't meant for us, but for something standing just behind us.
"Boys, do you happen to have a cigarette?"
My friend beside me had frozen completely.
Almost automatically, I pulled a cigarette from my pack and handed it to her.
"And a lighter, if you don't mind."
I gave her mine.
I still remember the sound of the lid opening.
Click.
The flame sparked to life, lighting up her face.
Her eyes were black and glossy.
And for a fraction of a second, I felt something irrational—like I had seen those eyes somewhere before.
She took a drag.
But I didn't see any smoke come out.
"Thank you. Safe travels."
Her voice was calm, almost gentle.
For a moment I thought she might say something more.
But instead, she turned and walked off into the darkness, disappearing instantly.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
Only when we reached the first houses of the village did we finally break the silence.
"Who was she? What was she doing there? Why was she dressed like that?"
My friend's voice was shaking.
"I don't know," I said, trying to sound rational.
"Maybe she got stranded. Maybe she wasn't well... I have no idea."
I dropped him off and continued alone.
I still had about ten kilometers to go.
As I shifted gears, my hand instinctively went to my pocket.
Empty.
"Damn it..."
I had left her the lighter.
The rain had intensified.
The wipers moved monotonously across the glass.
The road was empty.
Then I saw a second woman.
She was standing at the roadside, wearing dark clothes and a black headscarf.
Older.
Maybe mid-fifties.
She signaled for me to stop.
"What is going on tonight?" I muttered.
"Did all the crazy people come out at once?"
Still, I stopped.
I lowered the window slightly.
She approached.
She wasn't smiling.
Not friendly.
Not hostile.
Just sad.
She looked at me like she had known me for years.
"I thought you might need this," she said, holding out her hand.
"It would be a shame to leave it with me."
In her palm was the lighter.
The red lighter with the silver dragon.
For a moment, I didn't understand.
Then I looked at her face again—and noticed something.
Her eyes.
They were exactly the same as the younger woman's.
Not similar.
The same.
I tried to speak, but my tongue wouldn't move.
She tilted her head slightly and looked at me more intently.
Then she said, very calmly:
"Don't you remember me?"
She looked past me and whispered:
"She remembers you. Like before. She came out to reach you."
Then everything started pulling away, as if reality itself was being dragged backward.
The last thing I remember is her hand leaving the lighter on the window sill.
Then—
darkness.
They found me unconscious at dawn, slumped over the steering wheel, the car still stopped in the middle of the road, headlights on.
When I came to, I was in the hospital.
The doctors said it was a sudden fainting episode or extreme exhaustion.
My friend never wanted to talk about that night again.
When I was discharged, I collected my things from the car.
In the driver's door pocket—exactly where the window slides down—was the lighter.
Clean.
Dry.
The silver dragon staring at me with its metal eye.
The next day I went back to the place where I had met the first woman.
There's a small roadside shrine there.
Old.
Forgotten.
Almost swallowed by weeds.
Inside it was a faded photograph.
A young woman with long black hair.
On the back, written in faded blue ink, was a name:
Angeliki
And underneath:
"I'm still waiting for you. —Your mother."
For a moment, I thought I remembered a bar corner lit with neon lights—and a pair of eyes watching me.
Then the image disappeared.
I went home without telling anyone.
The lighter was in my pocket.
Some nights, when I can't sleep, I flick it open.
Click.
The flame rises, and for a moment I swear I smell wet earth and incense.
That's when I remember the woman's last words.
"She remembers you."
And after all these years, I still wish she hadn't.
#entertainment
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​I stopped smoking years ago, right after the events of that night.
I still don't know why I kept the lighter.
There are times I wonder if people would think I'm insane if I ever told this story out loud.
I'm not even sure I'd believe it myself—if it weren't for the lighter still sitting on my desk.
It's red, heavy, metallic, with a silver embossed dragon breathing fire.
I bought it because it stood out. I was tired of my lighters getting mixed up with everyone else's.
Or at least, that's what I tell myself.
Sometimes, when I look at it, I feel like I remember a bar, neon lights, and a pair of eyes.
The memory never lasts long. It always fades into that night.
It was the dead of winter.
Fine, persistent rain hit the windshield in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
I had spent the evening with a friend in a remote tavern in a small provincial town somewhere in Northern Greece, drinking strong red wine, trying to shake off the cold that had settled into our bones.
We were driving back late at night.
I was behind the wheel.
The road was almost empty—fields on one side, low hills on the other, and between them a narrow strip of asphalt disappearing into darkness.
We were talking about nothing in particular when my passenger suddenly screamed.
"Do you see her?"
I looked up.
In front of us, at the edge of the road, stood a woman.
She was waving for us to stop.
I don't know why, but the moment I saw her, something twisted in my stomach—like time itself had stalled.
She couldn't have been older than twenty-five.
Her hair was jet black, soaked and stuck to her face, falling all the way down to her waist.
Her skin was so pale it almost glowed in the dark.
She wore a long white dress, completely inappropriate for that freezing night, yet she wasn't shivering—despite the storm raging around us.
I stopped the car and lowered the window.
A strange smell of wet earth and old incense filled the cabin.
She stepped closer.
She smiled.
A polite smile, but disturbingly empty—like it wasn't meant for us, but for something standing just behind us.
"Boys, do you happen to have a cigarette?"
My friend beside me had frozen completely.
Almost automatically, I pulled a cigarette from my pack and handed it to her.
"And a lighter, if you don't mind."
I gave her mine.
I still remember the sound of the lid opening.
Click.
The flame sparked to life, lighting up her face.
Her eyes were black and glossy.
And for a fraction of a second, I felt something irrational—like I had seen those eyes somewhere before.
She took a drag.
But I didn't see any smoke come out.
"Thank you. Safe travels."
Her voice was calm, almost gentle.
For a moment I thought she might say something more.
But instead, she turned and walked off into the darkness, disappearing instantly.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
Only when we reached the first houses of the village did we finally break the silence.
"Who was she? What was she doing there? Why was she dressed like that?"
My friend's voice was shaking.
"I don't know," I said, trying to sound rational.
"Maybe she got stranded. Maybe she wasn't well... I have no idea."
I dropped him off and continued alone.
I still had about ten kilometers to go.
As I shifted gears, my hand instinctively went to my pocket.
Empty.
"Damn it..."
I had left her the lighter.
The rain had intensified.
The wipers moved monotonously across the glass.
The road was empty.
Then I saw a second woman.
She was standing at the roadside, wearing dark clothes and a black headscarf.
Older.
Maybe mid-fifties.
She signaled for me to stop.
"What is going on tonight?" I muttered.
"Did all the crazy people come out at once?"
Still, I stopped.
I lowered the window slightly.
She approached.
She wasn't smiling.
Not friendly.
Not hostile.
Just sad.
She looked at me like she had known me for years.
"I thought you might need this," she said, holding out her hand.
"It would be a shame to leave it with me."
In her palm was the lighter.
The red lighter with the silver dragon.
For a moment, I didn't understand.
Then I looked at her face again—and noticed something.
Her eyes.
They were exactly the same as the younger woman's.
Not similar.
The same.
I tried to speak, but my tongue wouldn't move.
She tilted her head slightly and looked at me more intently.
Then she said, very calmly:
"Don't you remember me?"
She looked past me and whispered:
"She remembers you. Like before. She came out to reach you."
Then everything started pulling away, as if reality itself was being dragged backward.
The last thing I remember is her hand leaving the lighter on the window sill.
Then—
darkness.
They found me unconscious at dawn, slumped over the steering wheel, the car still stopped in the middle of the road, headlights on.
When I came to, I was in the hospital.
The doctors said it was a sudden fainting episode or extreme exhaustion.
My friend never wanted to talk about that night again.
When I was discharged, I collected my things from the car.
In the driver's door pocket—exactly where the window slides down—was the lighter.
Clean.
Dry.
The silver dragon staring at me with its metal eye.
The next day I went back to the place where I had met the first woman.
There's a small roadside shrine there.
Old.
Forgotten.
Almost swallowed by weeds.
Inside it was a faded photograph.
A young woman with long black hair.
On the back, written in faded blue ink, was a name:
Angeliki
And underneath:
"I'm still waiting for you. —Your mother."
For a moment, I thought I remembered a bar corner lit with neon lights—and a pair of eyes watching me.
Then the image disappeared.
I went home without telling anyone.
The lighter was in my pocket.
Some nights, when I can't sleep, I flick it open.
Click.
The flame rises, and for a moment I swear I smell wet earth and incense.
That's when I remember the woman's last words.
"She remembers you."
And after all these years, I still wish she hadn't.
#entertainment
source
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