A strand of Elena’s hair has fallen loose across her cheek. I lean toward her and tuck it gently behind her ear, my fingers lingering briefly at her temple. Her skin is warm. She does not look up.
"You should rest," I say quietly.
She does not answer, but her shoulder leans faintly against mine.
The candle flame wavers, then steadies. The basin holds its silence.
We finish and clear the table without speaking.
Bowls are stacked. Mama pinches the last candle between her fingers; it dies with a thin curl of smoke. One remains near the hearth, its flame narrow and patient.
Elena climbs the ladder first, her steps slow, the boards answering under her weight. I follow. The loft is close and warm with breath. We lie side by side, until she turns toward the wall and curls in on herself. I pull the wool higher over her shoulder. Her hand finds the blanket and holds it there. Mama settles behind the curtain in her small chamber, the fabric whispering once more along its cord.
Obscurity gathers close, but my eyes remain open.
Above us, the boards tick faintly as they cool. Wind presses once against the roof, then slips away. Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barks and another answers, endless.
I wait.
My face turns to the small opening near the roof; a thread of moonlight rests there, faint and cold.
I see my father in the dark as I once saw him in the trees—moving ahead of me, never hurried. His hand would close over mine when I wandered too close to the traps.
"The woods take when it’s time," he had said, loosening the iron teeth from a rabbit’s leg. "We do not beg them to hurry. We do not beg them to spare."
The words settle in me now, steady as bone. I press my palm flat against my chest and feel my heart beat beneath it. It does not falter.
Light flared from my hands last night; I felt it rise, fierce and clean as it tore him from me and left me standing. I do not know where it came from, only that it answered.
The travellers’ voices return to me, their words carrying the cadence of the old paths.
Silver defeats the strigoi.
I picture my father's blade.
The house settles.
Mama’s breathing deepens beyond the curtain until it grows slow and even. Beside me, Elena settles into a soft, steady cadence near my ear.
Outside, silence.
I count the space between one breath and the next.
When I am certain they sleep, my arm slips free from beneath the blanket.
The floorboards cool my feet as I kneel and reach beneath the bed. The cloth bundle rests where I left it. I draw it out and unwrap it slowly. The silver blade catches what little light remains, a thin gleam along its edge. I close my fingers around the hilt, strangely feeling heavier than I remember. I kneel there for a moment longer, looking at Elena. Then I bow my head.
"Keep her safe," my whisper comes. "Let this end clean."
The ladder does not creak this time. I climb down slowly, the dagger held close in its sheath. The fire has thinned again, its glow low and red, the house holding the last of the night in its beams.
For a moment, I pause before the wool curtain and listen. Mama’s breathing moves steady behind it, undisturbed as I lift the edge of the fabric and slip inside.
She lies on her side, hands tucked beneath her cheek. Firelight grazes her face in a soft line, tracing the hollows beneath her eyes, the faint crease at the corner of her mouth, the strands of gray threading through her dark hair.
I stand there longer than I mean to.
"Guard her. Keep her from harm."
