I lie on my side, the straw faintly scratching my cheek, and listen to the quiet that has replaced the fear. The wind still moves outside, slower now, brushing along the walls like a hand tracing the outline of something it intends to claim.
Mama sleeps beside me, one hand still loosely wrapped around her prayer rope. Even in sleep her brow is furrowed, as if she continues to plead within her dreams. The candlelight touches the silver strands in her hair and makes them gleam faintly.
Beyond her lies Elena, her face softer in sleep. The worry that tightened it through the day has eased, though her lips remain faintly pressed together. Her breath is slow and even.
I watch them both for a long moment, a tenderness rising in me so searing it nearly undoes my resolve.
I could lean forward. I could press my lips to Mama’s brow as I have done since I was small. I could brush my fingers against Elena’s hand, let her warmth anchor me one last time.
I do not. If I touch them, I will falter.
The ache in my chest deepens, but it does not undo me. They will be safe without me. Mama will have her prayers. Elena will have her place beside her. They will speak of me as foolish, perhaps, or lost, but they will live.
They will have each other.
I swallow once, steadying myself. I feel no tremor in my limbs, no cold dread in my stomach. Only a quiet, unshakable certainty, an invisible line drawn from where I lie to the forest beyond the fields.
My gaze fixes on the barn door.
Since nightfall, without fail, old Mircea has opened it once each hour to step outside and relieve himself, muttering apologies to no one in particular. The hinges protest each time with the same soft, tired creak. I wait for it now, counting my own breath in the dark.
The barn breathes in its sleep. A child shifts. One of the old women coughs softly into her sleeve. The candle nearest the door gutters and goes out.
Right on cue, it comes—the low, careful creak of wood shifting against wood. A thin blade of night slips in as the door opens just enough to admit a man’s bent shape. The cold air follows him, brushing across the straw.
I rise slowly, lifting the blanket from my shoulders and fold it once, placing it neatly where I had lain.
I wait a heartbeat, then another, listening for any shift, any intake of breath that might betray a watching eye. But the barn lies slack with exhaustion, bodies folded into themselves. The old women remain bowed over their beads, lips moving soundlessly, eyes closed in fierce concentration. My bare feet make no sound against the packed earth. I move between sleeping forms, skirts gathered slightly so they do not brush against cloth or skin. My shawl hangs loose around my shoulders. My hands feel strangely light.
Near the door, I pause.
Mama’s form is barely visible now, curled slightly on her side. Elena’s shoulder presses close to hers. Their breaths rise and fall in fragile unison.
I let my gaze travel once across the rows of sleeping villagers—the hands that fed me, the ones who taught me to knead dough, the feet who once chased me through the fields.
I do not linger long enough for the ache to rise. I turn back and slip through the opening.
Mircea stands outside with his back to the door, shoulders hunched, muttering under his breath. He does not hear me as I slip through the opening, keeping to the shadow of the wall. The mist swallows my shape as I walk swiftly along the side of the barn until its corner blocks me from view.
The mist has thinned, leaving the village washed in pale moonlight.
I pass the square where we used to play, where Radu chased us in clumsy circles and Elena laughed until she fell. The stones glimmer faintly, indifferent to memory. I do not slow.
I pass the well, its rope coiled neatly as always, bucket resting against stone. I remember leaning over its stone rim with Elena, whispering secrets into the dark below, daring the echo to answer. Tonight it stands silent, black and depthless.
My house waits beyond, low and familiar, its roof sloping against the sky. The window of the loft is dark. I know exactly where the ladder rests inside, where the wooden box lies hidden beneath my bed. For a moment, my steps falter.
Then they steady again.
The church looms ahead, its doors sealed, the wood stained darker where morning’s horror marked it. Even in the moonlight, I see the faint outline where the body had hung, a shiver tracing my spine as I pass.
The village thins behind me, houses giving way to fields silvered under the moon. The wind moves softly through the grass, whispering against my skirts. I do not feel the stones that cut my soles. I do not feel the dampness seeping into my skin. The cold is distant, irrelevant.
The forest rises ahead, a dark wall of blackened stems and waiting shadow. Whatever awaits within it, I have already chosen.
Branches shift, leaves whisper, and the dark receives me as though it had been expecting my return. The moon hangs low and pale above the treetops, its light caught in the iron jaws of the wolf traps at the edge. They gleam faintly in the grass, teeth bared like a row of patient smiles.
I step between them without slowing. The metal does not snap. The earth does not give way.
