The terrain begins to level. We’ve reached the high pass. I feel it in the shift of air pressure, the change in wind direction. Beyond this ridge lies the valley where my instincts promise safety.
Where I might finally find answers.
We crest the ridge.
The valley spreads below. Terraced fields still green despite the season, stone buildings clustered near a central square, smoke rising from chimneys.
My chest contracts.
Not pain. Recognition without memory. Like my body knows this place, even if my mind refuses to surrender it.
Heat floods beneath my skin. My pulse kicks—too fast, too hard. I press my palm to my sternum, trying to contain whatever this is. This pull. This impossible knowing.
Home.
The word arrives unexpectedly. Certain.
My people lived here.
I glance at Mara. She’s watching me, wariness in the set of her shoulders. For a moment, I forget the tension between us. Forget everything except the need to… What? Ask if she feels it too?
“Is this it?” Her voice is careful. Guarded. “Your home?”
I look back at the valley. At the place my body knows, and my mind can’t reach.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But yes. Perhaps.”
Something shifts in her expression—too quick for me to read.
“Well,” she says. “Let’s find out.”
We descend.
The path switchbacks down the ridge face, well-maintained despite its rustic appearance. Someone tends this route regularly. Cares for it.
As we near the village, I feel eyes on us.
Not hostile. But watchful.
I scan the buildings. See movement in windows, shadows shifting in doorways. People emerging from homes and workshops to observe our approach.
Their attention focuses on me specifically.
Not Mara. Me.
My spine tightens.
A woman steps out from a stone building near the village center. Old. Perhaps eighty, perhaps older. Her face is weathered like mountain rock, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. She wears traditional clothing—long skirt, embroidered vest, headscarf tied in a style I don’t recognize but somehow know.
She studies me with an intensity that raises the hair on my arms.
Then she speaks. Romanian. I understand every word despite having no memory of learning the language.
“We did not expect to see one of you again. Not in our lifetime.”
The words unsettle me.
“I’m sorry,” I say in English. Then, without thinking, switch to Romanian. The words flow easily. “I don’t understand. Do you know me?”
