On the wall, the cloths hang on their usual hook, ready for use. The water is cold against my skin as I dip the fabric and wring it out toscrub my hands and arms in firm movements. Dirt lifts away in thin, dark trails. Resin loosens. A faint sting rises where the skin is broken, strong enough to make me draw a quiet breath.
Mama joins me without a word, the two of us moving in the same quiet rhythm we have shared for years. For a moment, the room is filled only with the soft sound of water and the crackle of the fire catching properly, before a gasp tears out of her, her hand closing around my wrist with brutal force.
"What happened to your hands?"
My breath stumbles as I glance down.
The marks stand out now that the dirt is gone—thin jagged lines crossing my palms and fingers, some already darkened. Too many of them. My pulse kicks hard beneath her grip.
"I—" I swallow. "I scratched myself yesterday, in the kitchen. It’s just—"
She doesn’t let me finish. Her other hand seizes my skirts and yanks them up roughly, fabric bunching at my hips, shock holding me in place as cold air hits my legs.
In an instant, Mama has dropped to her knees. Her hands are on me again, fingers digging into muscle as she drags the cloth higher, inspecting, searching. Her breath comes faster now—I feel it against my skin. They are everywhere—thin cuts, thorn pricks, streaks of red where skin split and bled. Some are fresh. Some not.
For a heartbeat, the space goes utterly silent. Her hand remains fisted in my skirts, joints paling as if she has forgotten she is holding me at all. When she looks up at me, her face is different—tightened, drawn inward, something hard burning behind her eyes.
"You lie to me."
I go still.
"I—I didn’t mean—" My tongue falters. "Mama, it’s nothing, I just—"
Her grip loosens, but only enough to let the skirts fall.
"You were told," her voice cuts. "Again and again."
As if struck from above, she folds forward at my feet, her knees hitting the floor hard enough to make the crockery on the shelf rattle. Her hands leave my legs only to clasp together, fingers white-knuckled, headbowed so low her forehead nearly touches the ground, and I recognize the words spilling from her lips before I understand them.
"Doamne, apara copilul meu," she whispers. "Cura?e?te-o… nu lasa raul sa se prinda de sufletul ei… nu lasa întunericul sa o atinga…"[12]
The litany tumbles over itself as her fingers trace the sign of the cross again and again over my calves, over my knees, trembling as they go. I can only gaze upon her, heart pounding so hard it makes me dizzy.
"Mama," I plead, my voice small despite myself. "It’s not the devil. It’s not—it’s just what Tata taught me—"
She moves too fast for me to finish. She is on her feet in an instant, her hand snapping closed around my wrist again, tighter this time.
"Shh!" comes the panicked hiss.
It cuts clean through me. She leans close, so close I can see the fear swimming in her eyes
"You do not speak of that," her gaze flicks toward the door, then the window, as if the walls themselves might be listening. "He did not teach you anything. Do you hear me?"
I nod without meaning to.
"He was a man. And that was another time, a foolish time. He did not know better."
A frown distorts her face, as if the words taste bitter.
"If Popa Vasile had been there—if the Church had been stronger—he could have prayed for him. He could have been saved."
Her eyes shine wetly now.
"The Lord might have spared him."
Something inside me recoils.
"We walk God’s path now," she insists, almost pleading. "We do not touch the old ways. We do not mix ourselves with pagan tricks and devilish lies. That is how evil finds its way in. That is how it stains the soul."
