Outside, voices rise and fall, careless in their brightness. Laughter. Running feet, children chasing one another through the damp grass. Above them, the sky hangs low and gray, trees dripping from the storm, alive with movement. For a moment, the sound pulls me backward, and I remember.
The morning I woke to the same dark stain. The cold, creeping fear. Mama’s face—proud and grim all at once. The way the world narrowed without asking me.
After that, things changed.
I was no longer allowed to climb trees. No longer to run with the others until my lungs burned. No longer to laugh too loudly, or speak too freely, or linger too long near boys.
I learned to sit still. To fold my hands. To keep my knees together and lower my eyes when men passed. I had thought it was temporary. Learning how to disappear without being told to.
Neaga sleeps on, her breath rasping, unaware.
When I turn back to Ilinca, my voice is different.
"Listen to me," I whisper.
She does.
"You don’t need to tell anyone yet," I say gently. "Not right away."
Her eyes widen further, but she nods fiercely now.
"If you want to keep playing," I continue, choosing each word as if they might cut if mishandled, "if you want to climb and run and laugh outside a little longer… then we keep this between us."
My heart begins to race, though I don’t know why. The words come from somewhere deeper than thought, slipping free before I can stop them.
"I’ll help you," I say. "I promise. As long as I can."
She lets out a small sigh, something like relief, and reaches for my sleeve. I gather her into my arms, smoothing her hair back, my pulse loud in my ears.
Outside, the children’s laughter rises again.
Inside, I rock her gently, holding her close—shielding her from the bed, from the window, from whatever waits beyond this moment.
Chapter Six
"I have sinned, Father."
My voice sounds smaller here, swallowed by the stern walls.
I stand beneath the great wooden cross, its shadow falling long and dark across the floor. Christ watches from above, carved ribs stretched beneath tightened skin, head bowed in endless suffering.
"The Lord hears you," Popa Vasile intones calmly. "Speak."
My hands are folded tight in front of me, fingers laced to the point of aching. I keep my eyes lowered, fixed on the worn grooves in the floorboards, the places where others have knelt before me.
"I danced," I begin, carefully. "Last evening, at the tavern. I forgot myself. I let the music carry me. I didn’t think about how I was seen."
My throat tightens.
"I invited the gaze of men. I did not mean to, I swear I did not. But I felt their eyes, and I did not stop."
Popa Vasile listens without interruption. When I falter, he inclines his head slightly, a wordless encouragement.
"I laughed," I whisper. "I moved without restraint. I didn’t lower my eyes as I should have."
He does not scold or sigh. He does not rush to absolve me either. His face remains calm, carved into patience by years of listening to other people’s shame.
"The body is easily misled," he hums thoughtfully, a deep sound. "Especially when it is young."
