The room stills almost instantly.
He steps forward from the altar, hands raised, gaze stern but composed.
"We will not condemn a soul without cause," he says. "We are Christians. We do not devour our own out of fear."
A flicker of relief rushes through me so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
He sees it. He will stop this.
"But we must not be naïve."
His gaze sweeps over us, deliberate, assessing.
"These are uncertain times," he says. "When evil lingers, it does not strike at random. It attaches itself to weakness. To isolation. To those who remove themselves from prayer."
The relief drains from my chest.
"Those who do not join in the light," he adds, "risk being visited by shadows."
My throat tightens.
Popa Vasile folds his hands before him.
"We do not accuse," he says carefully. "We seek clarity."
His eyes settle somewhere above our heads, righteous and grave.
"If Neaga has withdrawn from us in pride or fear, then we must bring her back."
A man near the doors nods eagerly. "Yes."
"If she is innocent," the priest continues, "she will welcome our presence."
"And if she is not?" someone asks.
Popa Vasile does not answer that directly.
"In times like these," he says instead, "darkness recoils from light."
The murmur surges again, stronger now.
"We should go now, before night falls again."
"She must explain herself."
My heart begins to pound.
This is wrong. It is unfolding too quickly, like cloth pulled from a loom before the threads are tied.
I step forward without thinking.
"She is ill," I say, my voice thinner than I intend. "She can barely walk. She has not come because she cannot."
Several heads turn toward me.
Petru frowns. "She could have sent word."
"She sent the girl once," someone mutters. "The girl stood outside like a stray."
