The Cypress Manuscript

It was the kind of story she never meant to tell—let alone publish.

When Petra Barić uploaded the manuscript to Amazon KDP late one sleepless night, she assumed no one would read it. She even used a pseudonym—"Mira Dalma," a name that held just enough shadow to comfort her. The book's cover was an abstract blur of sea green and rust red, a template she'd tweaked half-heartedly. The blurb was vague, poetic, promising introspection and mystery, revealing nothing of its actual content.

And that content was… raw.

"The Cypress Manuscript" was never supposed to exist outside the notes on her phone. It had started as a coping mechanism—tiny entries Petra wrote while recovering from what she could only describe as the unravelling of her life. The affair. The scandal. The move from Zagreb to the sleepy seaside town of Cavtat. She had lost her position as a literature professor, her apartment, her partner, and most cruelly, her sense of self.

So she wrote.

She wrote down the whole truth, draped in fiction but pulsing with recognizable veins. Names changed, timelines blurred, places rearranged—but the heart of it remained: her betrayal, her guilt, her grief, her shame. The manuscript was a confessional, a purge, a scream muffled between diary lines and literary metaphors.

Publishing it was supposed to be symbolic—a way to finally let it go.

But the sea, as she would soon learn, never let go of anything.

Petra's days in Cavtat were slow and salt-sweet. She rented a modest flat on the upper floor of an old stone house nestled between cypress trees and bougainvillaea. From her balcony, she could see the sea shimmer like a secret.

She'd taken up translation work to pay rent—user manuals, legal documents, the occasional romance novella from English into Croatian. She rarely spoke to her landlord, a gentle widower who left her figs on her doorstep every Saturday. She mainly kept to herself, apart from the elderly librarian, Ana, at the Cavtat Library, who would always ask her if she was still "writing anything interesting."

Petra always said no.

That changed the day she saw the poster.

It was taped to the door of the tiny bookshop by the promenade. At first, she thought it was a mistake. But the words were unmistakable:

AUTHOR EVENT – "MIRA DALMA"

Debut reading of The Cypress Manuscript

Dubrovnik Literary Salon, Friday at 19:00

Entry free – Wine & discussion to follow

Petra blinked. Her heart dropped so fast she felt it in her knees.

No one was supposed to read it.

She rushed home and opened her KDP dashboard. Somehow—despite the pseudonym, the lack of marketing, the cryptic description—her book had been discovered. Worse: it had been reviewed. Not many times, but enough. Thirty-two reviews. All glowing. One even called it "a literary exorcism so intimate it feels like a trespass." Another wrote: "This book doesn't want to be read, but you'll read it anyway and leave changed."

How had it spread? She had never told a soul.

She debated not going.

But something in her itched to know—to face whoever had uncovered her words and brought them to light. She needed to understand how her confession, meant for no one, had found eyes. She wasn't angry, not exactly. Just… exposed.

On the evening of the event, Petra took the bus to Dubrovnik. She wore a scarf over her curls and thick glasses that weren't prescription. Her breath fogged in the late September sea breeze, though the air was still warm.

The salon was held in a converted stone villa near the old city walls. Inside, about thirty people sat in chairs arranged in a crescent. At the front, a young woman with an angular face and hopeful energy clutched a copy of the book with both hands.

"Thank you all for coming to this spontaneous evening," she began. "My name is Lara, and I'm the editor at Libar, a small independent press here in Dubrovnik. Two months ago, a book accidentally fell into my Kindle. It was one of the most haunting things I've ever read. I reached out to the author, but… Mira Dalma didn't answer. I understand now that perhaps the author wanted silence. But this book—this story—deserves air. And so, we honor it tonight."

Petra's pulse fluttered. She remained in the back row, anonymous.

Lara read excerpts aloud—lines Petra barely remembered writing.

"There is a kind of silence that's louder than confession. It lives in the pause between being asked 'How are you?' and choosing to say 'I'm fine.'"

"He told me I was his home. So I let him burn mine down to prove it."

"Cypress trees don't bend. They break silently. But no one hears them fall."

The room was utterly still.

Petra felt both proud and terrified. This was her voice—but it was also a stranger's, loosed from her body and walking the earth.

After the reading, a woman raised her hand. She looked to be in her sixties, with silver hair and an elegant posture.

"Forgive me," she said softly. "I just want to ask… how did this author manage to survive all that? The betrayal, the loss, the exile? I feel like the story doesn't end. I feel like the author is still… running."

Petra wanted to speak. She tried to stand up and say, I'm here. I survived. I'm not running—just resting. But she couldn't.

Instead, she slipped out before the wine was poured.

The next day, Petra woke to an email.

Subject: Forgive me for the event — but thank you for the book

From: Lara@libarpress.hr

Dear Mira,

I know you didn't ask for this.

I hope you weren't angry.

I didn't know how else to honor what I read. I didn't mean to out you—I still don't know who you are. But your words spoke of so many things I never dared say. Reading them made me feel seen. And I wasn't the only one. At least six people wrote to me after buying your book, asking, "Do you know the author? Is she okay?" It felt wrong to stay silent.

If you ever want to talk, collaborate, or just yell at me for the event—I'm here.

Respectfully,

Lara

Petra didn't reply. Not for three days.

Then she wrote:

Dear Lara,

Thank you for treating my words with gentleness.

I was never meant to be read. But I'm glad I was.

I am not angry.

Just… still healing.

Yours,

Petra

Weeks passed.

Petra found herself writing again—not compulsively, not cathartically, but curiously. She sat by the rocks near Tiha Bay, a battered Moleskine on her lap. The words came more slowly now but steadier. They were no longer just about pain—they were about the aftermath.

Then, one morning, Petra received another message.

This time, a handwritten letter. No sender address, just a name at the bottom: Ivana K.

The letter read:

Dear Mira,

I don't know who you are, but I hope this reaches you.

I was the woman who asked about survival during the reading.

I want you to know that I lost my daughter five years ago, not to death, but to silence. She stopped speaking to me after I told her the truth about her father. I live by the sea now, in solitude. But reading your story reminded me that survival isn't always loud. Sometimes, it's just a matter of choosing to stay another day.

Thank you for staying. Whoever you are.

If you ever wish to talk over coffee, I live in Mlini. You don't have to reply.

But I'll light a candle for you at the church of St. Roko, anyway.

Warmly,

Ivana

Petra read the letter three times. Then, she folded it gently and placed it inside the back of her notebook.

A month later, Petra walked into the Cavtat Library and asked Ana if they accepted donations of self-published books.

"Of course," Ana smiled. "What did you bring?"

Petra pulled out a newly printed copy of The Cypress Manuscript, the cover redesigned to feature a watercolour cypress tree leaning over a shoreline.

Ana held the book and then looked up at Petra.

Their eyes met.

Ana didn't say anything, but her smile deepened with something like understanding.

Later that evening, Petra wrote her second novel's first line:

"Some stories are written to heal. Others are written to haunt. But the rare ones—the rare ones do both."

And this one, she knew, she meant to be read.