Her gaze searches my face desperately, as if looking for signs already written there.
"You will not go into the woods again. And you will forget those things. You will not whisper those words anymore. You will not touch those plants." Her mouth trembles, caught between command and terror. "For your sake. For mine."
I stand frozen in her grasp, my skin still burning with scratches and resin, my father’s voice echoing faint and forbidden somewhere deep inside me. Mama pulls me into her chest then, holding me too tightly, as if she fears I might vanish if she lets go. The cross on the wall looms in my vision, its shadow stretched long and crooked by the firelight as the incessant prayers continue, whispered against my hair until they lose shape and become only sound.
After a while, she releases her hold and cups my face between her hands, thumbs pressing hard into my cheeks as if to feel something beneath the skin that might answer her fear.
"Promise me," she says.
The word is not raised. It does not need to be.
"The woods are not for us," she goes on. "They belong to the devil and to things that wear skins not their own. Girls who wander too far into them…" Her lips tighten. "They do not come back."
A chill crawls up my spine as the memory rises—moonlight fractured through branches, the wet sound of feeding, eyes burning red as coals piercing through me. My stomach twists, my skin prickles as if the night has followed me indoors.
Mama feels it.
"You see," her grip tightens, head nodding as if the fear itself proves her right. "You feel it. That is God warning you."
I hesitate.
The right answer hangs between us, heavy as a stone. I think of the forest—the way it breathes, the way it knows me. I think of my pouch, my herbs, the quiet work of my hands. I think of the warmth easing Mama’s cough.
"I promise," I murmur at last.
The words feel thin as they leave me. Fragile. Still, they are said, and she clings to them like a lifeline.
"Say it again," she insists.
"I promise," I repeat, my voice dropping.
Only then does she release me. She crosses herself again, murmuring thanks under her breath, her hands still trembling as they fall back to her sides. She looks older in an instant, smaller, as if fear has hollowed her out from within.
I remain standing where she leaves me, arms folded around myself.
My father’s hands come back to me—large and gentle, smelling of earth and resin. The way he used to kneel beside me in summer grass, showing me how to touch a leaf without bruising it. The patience in his voice as he taught me which stems to take and which to leave, how to thank the ground, how to heal without harm. He never spoke of devils. Never of damnation.
It never felt wrong then. There was no darkness in him, no fear. Only care.
But I was a child then. I did not know the world the way grown women do. Children misunderstand things—they imagine magic where there is danger, they mistake kindness for permission.
I lower my head, swallowing the doubt, letting it settle somewhere it can no longer trouble my thoughts anymore.
Still, my hands remain shaking as I turn back to my work.
My body knows what to do even when my head does not. I rinse the cloths, hang them to dry, sweep the floor where ash has scattered. Mama has settled by the fire now, seated low, one hand pressed to her chest as if to keep her heart from wandering. Her shoulders slope inward, her face tired in a way sleep does not cure.
Guilt settles heavy in my stomach.
I notice the sheets folded near the wall, darkened in places where sickness has left its mark. I hesitate, then lift them carefully.
"Mama, do you want me to take these to the river? I can wash them before—"
Her head jerks up, startled as if struck.
"Today?"
I hesitate. "If you’re tired, I don’t mind—"
