Mama squeezes my arm, gentle. "God has been kind to us."
"Amin," Elena echoes.
We walk a little farther together, the path splitting where the houses thin. Doamna Irina stops first, lifting her hand in farewell.
"Noapte buna," she says warmly. "Dumnezeu sa va aiba în paza[4]."
"Noaptebuna," Mama answers. "Domnul cu tine."[5]
Elena turns to me, her smile lingering a moment longer. "Sleep well, Raveena. May God watch over you."
"And you," I reply.
She and her mother turn away then, their figures growing smaller as they head toward their home, shoulders close together against the chill.
Mama and I continue on alone.
Our house waits at the end of the path, smoke curling thin from the roof. I follow her inside, the door settling without a sound, sealing out both the cold and the night.
Inside, the room is dim, shaped by the low, steady breath of the hearth. Mama moves to it without pause, kneeling with a small sound of effort to stir the embers back to life. I set down the basket and reach for the candle stub kept near the shelf. One strike of flint, a brief hiss, and the wick catches in a golden bloom, pulling the walls closer.
"I’ll make something warm," I say.
"Good," she nods without looking up.
I grab the pot from the fire, gripping the handle through a folded cloth so the heat does not bite too cruelly into my palm. The iron hums faintly, steam rising from its rim in thin, wavering threads; I carry it carefully to the table and set it down, mindful not to spill what trembles inside. From the shelf, I take down the bundle of dried herbs tied with twine—things gathered in summer, hung to dry where the sun could not see them too well.
Mama coughs.
It is a small sound, quickly swallowed, but it catches in my chest all the same. She turns her head away from me as she does it, pressing her hand briefly to her mouth before lowering it again.
"I’m fine," she speaks before I can ask.
I nod. "Of course."
The second she bends closer to the fire, I turn, shoulders angling to shield my hands from her sight. My fingers slip into the pocket of my skirt and close around the pine buds I’ve kept there since morning—small, sticky with resin.
I crush them in my palm until they bruise open and release their oil, the pungent scent lost easily among smoke and herbs. I let them fall into the cup meant for her, stirring with the spoon as if nothing were different.
My lips move as I mix.
The words are old, passed to me long before I was tall enough to reach the table on my own. They sit differently on my tongue than prayers do, softer, worn smooth with use. I do not rush them; I never have. I keep them low, barely more than breath, letting the fire swallow their sound. My father’s voice lingers in the rhythm of them, softly spoken, as if secrets were safest when treated gently.
I keep my eyes on the water as it darkens under the steady turn of my spoon—once, twice, always clockwise while the steam curls upward, carrying the crushed pine and herbs together, binding them into something whole. Mama shifts, standing now, and I feel her presence behind me like a warmth I cannot afford to draw attention to. When she coughs again, I pause until the sound fades, then finish the last turn and still my hand. My fingers are wiped on my skirt as if nothing more than herbs have touched them, and I carry the infusion to her.
"Drink while it’s warm," I say, offering it with a small incline of my head.
She accepts it with a tired look, wrapping both hands around the warmth. Heat kisses my skin as I bring my own to my lips, Mama sipping hers in the same breath. Her shoulders ease, just a little, as we sit by the hearth in companionable quiet, the fire breathing low between us. I drink slowly, careful not to rush it, feeling the bitterness settle inside me.
Mama coughs again, a short, restrained sound that his smothered immediately by her lips pressing, as if to keep it from growing.
"It’s better," she nods to herself. "Much better than it was."
I tilt my cup, watching the way the firelight trembles across the surface.
"Popa Vasile was right," she goes on, her voice softening. "Since I’ve kept His words close, morning and night… I can feel it easing." A faint, sincere smile settles on her face. "The body listens when the soul is obedient."
"That’s good, Mama."
