Exhaustion claims me where vigilance cannot. My grip loosens around the beads. My breath deepens, uneven at first, then slower. The night presses close, heavy and watchful, as sleep finally drags me under. Even then, my hand does not let go. And as the obscurity closes in, the last thing I feel is a quiet, terrible certainty—
Something beyond prayer has already heard me.
Chapter Three
I am dragged back into my body by the rooster's cry, its relentless insistence tearing through the morning stillness. Cold greets me first—seeping through wool and linen, clinging to my skin as if the night has followed me here. I draw a breath and feel it sting my lungs.
Then, light.
Pale morning sun slips through the narrow openings and settles across my face, gentle but blinding. I blink against it, dreams already dissolving into something thin and unreachable. Before thought can catch me, my hand rises to my forehead. Then my chest. Right shoulder. Left. The sign of the cross traces itself into my skin by reflex alone, a habit carved into my limbs.
Only then do I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I climb down carefully, my feet finding the worn rungs, the house creaking awake in its familiar sounds.
Mama is already at the hearth, coaxing life back into the embers with patient hands. Her hair is tied back loosely, a shawl drawn around her shoulders. The fire answers her, glowing, shifting, beginning its slow work of warming the room.
"Buna diminea?a," I say quietly.
She looks up and smiles, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepened by the firelight.
"Buna diminea?a, copila."[11]
Her voice is clearer than last night, loosening something in me with relief.
I cross the room and gather my hair, smoothing it back and twisting it into a tight braid, winding it into order until nothing loose remains. The bucket waits for me by the door, its handle still damp from yesterday.
"I’ll fetch water."
"Don’t be long," Mama replies. "The air will turn you sick."
"I won’t."
She hums in agreement, already turning back to her tasks while I slip my shawl over my shoulders and open the door.
Outside, the village stretches and stirs, smoke rising thin and gray from chimneys. The chill holds its ground, clinging to skin and breath despite the light spreading across the roofs. Somewhere, another rooster answers the first, while doors creak open. A woman laughs, low and brief.
I step onto the path and make for the well, the handle brushing lightly against my skirt, warmth gathering at my face. It drops with a hollow splash, swallowed by the dark below. I let the cord unravel until it goes slack between my fingers, the cold seeping up through the fibres and into my palms. For a moment, I simply stand there, the morning slow to settle in my bones.
Then, my gaze lifts.
The woods stand beyond the last houses, as they always have. Tall. Dense. Stirred by a light breeze that moves through them like a slow breath. Leaves whisper in hushed tones to one another. Nothing more, nothing less. No movement that should not be there. No watching eyes. No shadow bent over blood.
As if last night never happened.
I stare a moment longer than I should.
Then I huff quietly through my nose and set my weight into the rope, drawing the bucket back up hand over hand, muscles warming with the effort. Water sloshes against the sides, catching the light as it rises.
I must have been too tired. Too strung thin by the dark and the running and the way fear grows teeth when you let it.
I won’t let that happen again.
When the bucket reaches the stone rim, I hook it carefully and wipe my damp hands against my skirt. The day is here now—solid and ordinary. There is work to be done. There always is.
Next time, I’ll be more careful. I won’t let the night make a fool of me. Maybe I’ll bring a candle, just a stub, enough to see better.
The thought steadies me.
The forest remains quiet behind my back as I step inside and pull the door closed, sealing it away.
