"Yet, we must guard our homes," he says. "Guard our daughters. Guard our thoughts. The devil does not strike without invitation."
Invitation.
My breath shortens.
I have not slept. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth near my skin again. I woke with my heart racing, with heat still caught low inmy body. I pressed my hands together and whispered prayers until dawn thinned the dark.
The bundle at my door. The dreams. The light that burst from my chest.
Threads wind tighter.
Elena leans into me. I feel her shoulder tremble. I shift closer, letting her rest some of her weight against me. The linen around her mother rustles as someone moves past.
Popa Vasile’s voice lowers.
"Let this be a warning," he says. "Let none among us invite darkness into their homes. Let none stray where they ought not walk."
His eyes pass over me.
For a moment they linger.
My stomach twists, my head bowing immediately. The gesture feels carved into my spine. Heat crawls up my neck.
Tonight.
The word settles like a stone in my chest. I will take Tata’s blade from its cloth. I will carry it beneath my skirts. I will walk into the woods before the moon reaches its height.
If it is hunger that walks there, I will meet it. If something walks upright and wears the shape of a man, it will bleed all the same.
Elena’s fingers tremble in mine. I squeeze once, firm.
Popa Vasile begins the final prayer.
"Deliver us from evil."
My lips move with the others.
Deliver us.
***
The church empties slowly.
People move in clusters toward the altar, murmuring, crossing themselves again before stepping aside. I keep hold of Elena’s hand until she drifts toward the women who have gathered near the door. Her eyes are swollen. Someone presses bread into her palm. She nods without seeing it.
I move forward. Near the front, a small cluster has formed. The priest’s assistant stands at the narrow doorway, one hand resting against the frame. He speaks in a low voice, leaning close to each person in turn.
An old man waits before him, cap in hand.
Behind him, Mihai the miller shifts his weight. He carries something wrapped in linen against his chest. The cloth hangs heavy. When he adjusts his grip, there is a soft clink from within.
The assistant’s gaze moves from the old man’s empty hands to Mihai’s bundle.
"Mihai," he says gently. "Father will see you first."
The old man steps aside without protest.
I draw closer. The door opens a fraction, enough to glimpse Popa Vasile inside, head bent toward someone kneeling before him. His hand rests on the man’s shoulder. On the table beside them lies a small stack of coins. One catches the light.
