"They said—" the boy hesitates, brow furrowing, "they said wherever the road takes them."
A brief tightening touches the Popa’s mouth. "Do they have a priest with them?"
"No," comes the quick answer.
Then, as if unable to hold it back any longer, the boy's eyes widen. "But they have many animals. Horses. Dogs. And carts—painted carts, full of things. And the women—"
He falters, glancing around at the gathered adults.
"What about the women?" Doamna Irina prompts, curiosity mixing with weariness.
"They wear skirts all in colours. Red and blue and yellow. And their hair—" He lifts his hands helplessly. "It’s loose. All of it. And they look straight at you."
A collective intake of breath runs through the women.
Doamna Irina crosses herself. "Lord preserve us."
Mama stiffens beside me. Elena doesn't speak, but her fingers curl into her sleeve.
Around us, voices begin to whisper.
"Gypsies," someone mutters. "Or worse."
"They bring trouble," another adds in confirmation.
I listen, silent.
Horses. Dogs. Painted carts. Women who look where they please.
Something stirs in my chest as I imagine colour moving through our gray paths, sound where there is usually only restraint. The thought feels dangerous.
The murmurs grow louder, folding in on themselves, until all eyes turn to Popa Vasile. He stands a little apart from the rest of us, hands folded before him, gaze lowered in thought. For a moment, he remains silent. Then he lifts his head at last.
"We must be careful," he begins, voice carrying easily across the gathering. "Hospitality is a virtue, yes. But it is not the same as foolishness."
A few heads nod in agreement.
"Not all who wander do so in God’s name," he continues. "Some people do not live as we do. They do not settle. They do not place themselves under God’s order. Their ways are… wandering."
The word lingers, uneasy.
A man near the back snorts. "We should not welcome them at all. People like that bring sickness. Trouble."
A ripple of assent passes through the crowd.
"And yet," Popa Vasile interjects, gently now, "we are believers. We are called to keep our hearts open. Kind. Christ Himself did not turn away those who came before Him."
Doamna Irina exhales through her nose, unconvinced, but her lips remain sealed.
"We will not decide from a child’s words alone," the priest goes on. "We will see them for ourselves. We will listen. And if they are as you say—" his gaze flicks briefly to the boy, still standing wide-eyed among us "—then the Lord will make the right course clear to us."
There is a subtle shift in the air, something tightening beneath the calm of his words.
While the crowd shifts into uneasy acceptance, the matter seems settled, for now, and we move as one body toward the outskirts.
Boots scuff the dirt. Shawls are pulled tighter. Voices rise and fall in low, guarded whispers that brush against my ears without ever quite forming sense. I keep close to Mama, but my gaze drifts ahead, pulled forward by something I feel before I understand it: a quickening, light and dangerous as breath held too long. Curiosity. Excitement. I try to press itdown, to make myself solemn like the others, but it slips through me all the same.
Radu walks a few steps ahead, his father besides him. His eyes catch mine for the briefest moment before he looks away again, expression is unreadable.
