Her eyes narrow. “Know you? No. But I knowofyou.”
She knows of me?
“And who are you?” I ask, hoping her answer will prompt some sort of memory.
“Dragana is what the winds call me,” she replies. “The earth knows me as one who guards the secrets of those who walk among us.”
Mara shifts beside me. “Um, hi… um… Dragana? Do you speak English? Also, is there any chance you have Wi-Fi? Or a phone I could use?”
The old woman’s attention flicks to Mara briefly. “English, yes. But Wi-Fi?” She pronounces the word carefully. “I do not know this word.”
“Right.” Mara’s tension bleeds through. “Of course not.”
“What’s Wi-Fi?” I ask her.
“Seriously?” Mara rolls her eyes. “It’s how you connect to the internet.”
“What’s the internet?” I say.
“It’s…” She flings her hands into the air. “Oh, for God’s sake. Forget it. This is ridiculous!” She swivels her head, taking in the village around us. I realize I’ve been dismissed.
Dragana returns her focus to me. Switches to accented but fluent English. “You carry the old blood. I see it in your eyes. Feel it in the air around you.”
“I carry nothing,” I say. Heat rises in my chest, frustration mixing with desperate need for answers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here hoping someone might recognize me. Might know who I am.”
“Who you are?” She tilts her head. “Or who you were?”
The distinction feels important, though I don’t understand why.
“Either. Both.” I gesture helplessly. “I have no memory. No past. Only—” I stop. How do I explain the certainty that led me here? “I knew this place existed. I knew I needed to reach it. But I don’t know why.”
“The blood knows,” she says simply. “Even when the mind forgets, blood remembers.”
More riddles. More non-answers.
Heat flares beneath my skin. My jaw tightens. “I came here seeking help. If you cannot provide it, just say so.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then: “You may shelter here. Rest. Recover.” Her tone sharpens. “But understand: we are wary. Your kind have not walked our valleys in many years. There are reasons for this.”
Your kind.
The phrase again. Specific. Loaded with meaning I can’t grasp.
“What kind?” I ask directly. “What do you think I am?”
“I do not think.” Her voice is firm. “I know. But if you do not remember, perhaps it is not my place to tell you.” Shepauses. “Knowledge given too freely can be dangerous. Better you remember on your own. When you are ready.”
The frustration crests. Not just heat now; genuine anger at being kept in the dark when answers are standing right in front of me.
“I don’t have time to wait for memory that may never return. I need answers now.”
“Need and readiness are not the same.” She gestures toward a building at the edge of the square. “There is shelter. Food. Water. Rest tonight. Perhaps clarity comes with morning.”
It’s not an answer. But it’s not a dismissal either.
I glance at Mara. She looks exhausted, pale beneath the dirt and windburn. Whatever my feelings may be, she needs rest. Warmth. Safety.
“Thank you,” I say, though the words scrape out.
