For a moment, everything stills.
The noise fades. The air seems to hold.
Light—faint, trembling—flares between my palms and his skin, barely visible, yet undeniable. It pulses once, then again, spreading through him as though answering a call.
His skin shifts beneath my touch. Colour returns slowly, faint at first, then stronger, creeping back into his cheeks. His chest stutters—once, twice—and then lifts in a shallow, desperate breath.
Air.
He gasps, the sound tearing through the square.
The moment holds, suspended, fragile as glass.
Then it shatters.
His wife recoils with a scream, stumbling back as though struck. "Away from him!" she cries, her voice rising into something wild. Her hand shoots out, pointing at me, finger trembling. "Do not touch him!"
Her voice cracks, rising higher.
"She is tainted—" she cries. "The strigoi has marked her—look at her—look what she does—"
Old Petru’s chest rises again, uneven, dragging air into lungs that had been still a moment before. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, blinking against the light and the crowd leaning over him. His wife grips him beneath the arms, dragging him back across the dirt as though my presence still clings to him.
"Do not touch her—do not let her near you—" she cries, her voice breaking as she pulls him away from me.
"I did not—" The words stumble from me, thin and useless. "He had fallen, I only—"
My hands hover uselessly in the air, the warmth already gone from them, leaving only the memory of it behind.
Petru blinks up at the sky, then at the faces above him. Confusion flickers across his features. He turns his head toward me, slow, uncertain.
His wife grips his jaw, forcing his gaze back to her. "It was her," she cries. "She did this to you. She brought it upon you."
I shake my head, the motion small, desperate. "No. I—"
"She tried to kill me," Petru rasps suddenly, his voice rough with returning breath.
The words land like a blow.
I stare athim. "No," I say, but it comes out too quietly, swallowed by the rising noise.
He lifts a trembling hand and points at me. "She is a witch," he says, stronger now, certainty filling the space where confusion had been. "A deceiver. I saw her last night—" His breath catches, then steadies. "She crept to the door. She meant to flee into the woods. To meet whatever evil calls her there."
My throat closes.
"I did not—" I try again, but the words scatter before they can take shape.
The crowd tightens around us. Faces lean closer. Eyes narrow. The circle draws in, pressing the air thin.
Mama pushes through them, her hands finding my shoulders, pulling me slightly back from the centre. "Enough," she says, her voice firm, though she cannot mask the tremor in it. "He is confused. He has just woken. Let him gather himself."
"Yes," someone murmurs. "He is not himself yet."
"Let him rest."
For a moment, it seems the words might settle things.
Then Petru’s wife lets out a dry, broken laugh. "Confused?" she cries. "Did you not see it? Did you not see the light?" Her hand shoots out, pointing at me again. "It came from her hands. From her flesh. This is no healing. This is corruption."
