My voice dissolves into the dark.
My fingers draw the blanket higher over her shoulder, the wool dragging in a light rasp; I smooth it down, careful not to wake her. My lips linger on her hairline. She smells of smoke and rosemary and something that has always been hers alone. I draw it in, slow and deep, as though I could carry it with me.
"Forgive me," I whisper against her temple.
She shifts faintly beneath the cover, but her eyes remain closed. A sigh leaves her, her hand moving once, then settling again.
I straighten and step back, the curtain falling closed between us.
At the hearth, I kneel once more and feed the embers thin sticks of wood. Flame catches slowly, then steadies, rising in quiet tongues; I place thicker logs beside it, close enough to hold until morning. The scripture hangs just above, its leather is cracked where Mama’s fingers have pressed it most. I take it down and hold it close.
The latch lifts with a soft click when I open the door. I part it only wide enough to step through, pausing briefly to draw a pinch of salt from the small pouch at my waist. White grains scatter over wood and earth as I let it fall in a thin line across the threshold. My hand lingers a moment above it, before I step over and pull the door closed.
A few windows glow faintly, then dim as I pass. The well, the barn, the dark shape of the granary—each falls behind me. My feet move quickly over the packed earth while the houses thin and the path narrows. The trees gather ahead, and for a breath, the wind moves through the leaves in a long, low murmur as I still at their edge.
I cross myself once, slow and deliberate.
"In Your name."
From my pocket, I draw the mugwort. The leaves are crushed already from the press of my palm. I rub them hard against my wrists, grinding them into the skin until their scent rises, then across the hollow at my throat, down the centre of my chest beneath the cloth, letting the oil cling there before I step in.
The forest closes around me, the ground softened from the storm prompting my boots to sink slightly with each step. Branches shift overhead, shedding droplets that strike my shoulders.
I walk.
The path does not matter; my feet carry me where they must. I feel the pull of it low in my body, like a cord wound tight and drawing me forward.
Anger burns steady beneath my ribs, replacing the fear.
"Come out," I call into the dark.
My voice travels between trunks and returns to me thinner.
"Show yourself."
Only the wind answers, threading through leaves. An owl hoots somewhere to my right as I move deeper, the silver weight steady at my side.
"You think I will wait?" The words tear at my throat. "You think I will hide in my bed?"
My breath fogs before me and vanishes, and still, silence presses in.
I walk faster.
"You wanted me. Here I am."
The trees thin, then gather again. My heart beats hard, but it does not falter.
Another step, when a branch snaps behind me.
He stands near, one shoulder resting against a trunk as though he has always been there. Moonlight slips between the branches and settles across him in thin bands, on his folded arms, on the faintest curve that touches his mouth.
"I am pleased," he murmurs, his voice threading through the leaves. "You return to places you are warned against."
My heart lurches, hard enough to sting.
"I told you, do not come back."
He straightens from the tree and steps forward.
