A murmur runs through the villagers, louder now, less uncertain.
"I saw it."
"So did I."
The space around me contracts further. I feel it in my chest, in the way my breath shortens.
Radu and his parents push forward then, their presence cutting through the shifting mass. Radu’s eyes find mine first, wide, searching, then flick to the others, to the circle, to the fear gathering there. His father steps ahead of him, posture rigid, gaze fixed on Petru.
"If you speak such accusations," he says, his voice measured, "you must be certain."
"If you doubt me," the old man presses, his voice rising with urgency now, "search her house. You will find it. The filth she keeps. The old ways. I swear it."
Mama stiffens beside me. "This is madness," she says too fast. "You cannot—"
Radu’s father raises a hand, silencing her without force, yet without question. He turns to the men standing nearest. "Go," he says. "Search it."
The words fall cleanly.
Mama steps forward, her voice rising. "This is a misunderstanding. Our children are to be wed—"
"All the more reason," he replies, his tone steady, almost reassuring. "We must be certain. There is nothing to fear if all is as it should be."
The calm in his voice does not ease the tightening around my chest.
The men are already moving.
Mama’s hand tightens on my shoulder. "You cannot—" she begins again, but he lifts a hand slightly, not to silence her, only to pause her.
"Do not trouble yourself," he says. "If she is innocent, her name will be cleared, and we shall proceed as planned."
The square holds its breath.
I remain where I fell, my knees pressed into the dirt, the weight of my dress gathering around me like something I have been set inside and cannot step out of. The world feels tilted, too bright at the margins, too narrow at the centre. Voices rise and fall around me, but they reach me as though through water.
"She has done nothing—"
"This is foolishness—"
"She has always been a good girl—"
The words come from different mouths, but none come close enough to reach me. They circle instead, stopping just short, as though there is an invisible line drawn around my body that must not be crossed. I see it in the way they stand, in the careful space they leave between themselves and me, in the way no hand extends to lift me from the ground.
Mama stands near, her presence firm, her voice rising now and then in defense, but her hands remain at her sides. Elena is beside her, closer than the others, yet not close enough. Her fingers twist together at her waist. She looks at me once, quickly, then away, as though unsure what she might see if she holds the gaze too long.
Neither of them touches me.
The absence presses harder than any hand.
I try to swallow. My mouth is dry. Words gather somewhere deep inside me, explanations, fragments of truth, the simple clarity of what I know—that I did not harm him, that I only followed what my father taught me, that nothing here is what they think it is—but they do not rise. They sit heavy and unmoving.
This is madness.
They cannot mean this—not truly. They are frightened. That is all. The night has stretched too long, the fear has settled too deep, and now it spills over, looking for shape.
They will see reason. They will remember who I am. The girl who grew among them, who carried water and baked bread and knelt in prayer beside them. This will unravel as quickly as it has formed.
I lift my eyes, searching faces, waiting. No one meets them for long.
