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Prologue

Tolba, Croatia

1997

It is still dark when the front door creaks open. The House yawns awake, squinting one eye.

Someone slips out—the daughter, Marija. But it is too early for her. The House knows how she likes to slumber till the sunlight bleeds through its windows and the church bells toll nine. A large bag is slung over her shoulder, the kind carried by those departing on a long journey. The House knows all the secrets of its inhabitants—but it knows nothing of this.

Something is wrong. And so the House sits up straighter, its limestone bricks groaning with the effort.

Marija flits down the path toward the twin olive trees overshadowing the iron gate. As quiet as a dormouse, she opens and closes it behind her. Then she turns slowly and looks up at the House. At the MK, the initials of her ancestor, engraved high above the door. But she is not studying it in awe or even fear like the islanders so often do. She is studying it with spite, cold and bitter. In the distance, the clink of something metal echoes from the pocket of a lone boatman at the harbor—gold or jewelry. And now the House knows this: He is waiting. She is leaving.

How long? the House asks. But she doesn’t answer.

Instead, Marija gazes down at her swelling belly, strokes one hand across it—the House knows this secret, at least—and whispers, “Don’t worry, little one. This way, you’ll have a chance at love.”

The teal-green shutters batter in protest. What about the love of her family? Her roots? Marija cannot leave. This House steadied her wobbly feet as she took her first steps. Witnessed her first kiss in the lavender field. Absorbed her tears as she cried over the loss of her husband. She must learn to endure this pain, like her mother did, and the one before, and before. This House is her inheritance. Her blood. She is nothing without it.

Come back, the House demands. But Marija doesn’t listen. She simply turns away and walks toward the sea. Come back, the House calls again. But it’s no use. The girl is gone.

In the shadows, something stirs. A hand with long, rotting fingernails grips the home’s stone facade, sending a shiver down to its foundation. It is soon followed by the face of a woman, though the House prefers other names: Demon. Monster.

Nightmare.

As she watches the spot where Marija disappeared, her blood-red lips curl into a smile.

One

Petra

June 2026

The island looms on the horizon, emerging from the water like an emerald mirage.

As the ferry draws closer, I wait for it to come: a tug near my heart perhaps, a flush of warmth spreading through my chest. That feeling people always talk about when they discover their roots, venture to their ancestral homeland. After all, Tolba is where my mom grew up, where she met my dad, where he died. But all I feel is a faint churning in my stomach, a prickling down my spine. This island has only ever been a mystery, a place never meant to be found. My mom made sure of that.

As a curt voice calls across the ferry, my mind clambers to interpret: Final stop. Tolba. Inhaling a deep breath of briny air, I skim the worn letter in my hands. Though it’s written in sprawling Croatian, I’ve reread it so many times that I’ve memorized the translation:

Dear Petra,

Thank you so much for reaching out, and for telling me about Marija’s passing. It pains me that she deceived you about my death. But it also doesn’t surprise me, with the way she abandoned me, our home, so harshly.

Would you like to come visit? I would dearly love to meet you.

With love,

Your baka,

Karmela

I stare at the word baka. Grandmother. I’m still getting used to the idea.

A photograph had accompanied the letter. I slide it out from behind the parchment. The back reads Jugoslavija 1989, while the front features two women.

I glance over Karmela’s modest blouse and honey-blond hair to focus on her smile. It’s gentle and inviting—an encouraging sign. I’d always been envious of my friends with grandmothers. The sage wisdom they passed down. The soft affection they emanated in a simple touch, a silent look. Maybe, now, I could have that too.

For a moment, I close my eyes and let my dreams dance across my mind: me arriving, us embracing. Her showing me her rustic home, where we eat and talk and laugh together for hours. Ever since I lost my mom, I’ve felt lonely and adrift, but Karmela will change all that. Once we are together, I’ll finally feel whole again. At least, I hope.