"Mama!" I cry.
My voice breaks against the walls and falls uselessly to the floor. Cold air slaps my face as I wrench the door open. Light spills across the yard, thin and pale. I step out barefoot into the damp earth.
"Elena!"
My feet carry me forward into the damp grass. Dew soaks the hem of my shift. The village lies awake now—thin smoke rising from chimneys, a bucket knocking somewhere against stone.
I run toward the path, skirts gathered in my fists.
"Mama!"
A door creaks open to my left.
Old Doamna Marica stands on her threshold, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She squints toward me, one hand raised against the light.
"Child," she calls. "Why are you shouting so?"
I turn to her, breath tearing in my chest.
"They’re gone," I say. The words trip over each other. "I can’t find them. Mama and Elena—"
She blinks at me, then lets out a low laugh.
"Gone?" she repeats. "They went to the lake with the others. Washing day."
The word strikes through me.
"They left at first light. You were sleeping like a stone. Your mother said to let you rest."
The air floods back into my lungs.
I sway where I stand.
"To the lake?" I ask, my voice barely holding.
"Where else?" she says, adjusting her shawl. "Half the village is there. Go back inside before you catch cold."
My hands tremble at my sides.
"I—" I swallow. "I must not have heard them leave."
"You look feverish," she says, studying my face. "Are you well?"
I nod quickly.
"Yes. I just need to wake."
The word feels thin on my tongue.
She watches me a moment longer.
"Go back inside," she says. "Wash your face. You look pale."
I incline my head as she closes her door with a soft thud. I stand there another breath, the damp earth cool beneath my feet, the sun pressing faint warmth across my shoulders before I turn and walk back inside the house, pressing my back against the door.
They are alive. Safe. The relief leaves me weak. My head tips back, my eyes fall shut. For a moment I let the air fill my lungs and empty again.
Then the other truth rises.
