"I won't, Parinte."
His hands fold behind his back as he begins to pace slowly within the narrow space, the hem of his robe whispering against wood.
"These are troubled days. Fear moves easily through a village when blood has been spilled." His gaze hardens faintly. "The Lord requires steadfast hearts, pure souls who do not bend when darkness presses close."
Pure.
"You are called to be one of those."
The flush returns, altered now, carrying relief instead of shame. A quiet smile forms, humbled and grateful.
"I will try," I murmur.
"You will do more than try."
The pacing stops.
"Forty prostrations. Morning and night."
My breath catches faintly at the number, but I nod without question.
"You will bow until your body remembers its place. Until the flesh yields to obedience."
The floor beneath my feet feels colder now.
"You will not seek solitude," he advises. "Do not wander alone. Keep to your mother, to the women. Idleness invites wandering thoughts."
A flicker moves through me at that; I press it down.
"I understand."
He steps slightly aside, as though granting me room to breathe.
"When the vision returns, you take your prayer rope. You repeat:‘Doamne Iisuse Hristoase, Fiul lui Dumnezeu, miluie?te-ma pe mine, pacatoasa.’"[23]
He speaks the words slowly. I follow them with my lips, shaping them in silence.
"Do not leave until you have said it," he adds. "Not once. Not ten times. Until the thought loosens its grip."
I nod again. The dream feels smaller now, contained. Named as trial rather than madness.
I can kneel. I can fast. I can pray.
Popa Vasile's hand raises once more in blessing.
"Now," he breathes, voice lowering again, "show me."
***
The doors open and the air spills in.
We step out in a slow tide of bodies, skirts brushing stone, boots scraping dust from the threshold. The bell rope still sways above us, its last note thinning into the sky. Light catches the smoke from the censers and carries it upward.
The square is fuller than I have seen it in days.
Men speak louder than they did yesterday, hands moving wide as they recount the night. A few have brought their sheep close to the steps, the animals blinking in the brightness while Popa Vasile moves among them, lifting his hand, murmuring blessings. One lamb jerks at the sprinkle of water and a boy laughs at it, unguarded. Another bleats, restless, tugging against its rope.
I step aside to let an elder pass. She presses two fingers to her lips, then to the icon painted above the doorway, before crossing herself again.
