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Two women slow their feet at the iron gate, casting the House suspicious looks.

“I saw the granddaughter go out with Luka this morning,” one woman says. “On his boat.”

The other lets out a small gasp. “Where did they go?”

“Who knows. But they’ve been gone for hours.”

Tense silence, a shake of the head. “You would think he’d know better. Plenty of other women he could choose.”

As the House glares down at the pair, something pricks at its memory like a buried thorn forcing its way to the surface. It has witnessed this scene before: people whispering about its inhabitants, spreading frivolous gossip and ominous rumors. That is how it always started. Marija and Jadran. Karmela and Šime. Lucija and Filip. Every couple, all the way back to Marko and Ana.

The House prides itself on its history, but not this part.

Nothing is wrong here, the House declares, flapping its shutters defiantly.

The women jump at the sudden noise, then scurry away.

From an upstairs window, a dark voice laughs. “Nothing indeed.”

Fourteen

Petra

June 2026

Like a wave sweeping toward the shore, I am ushered into a house I do not know.

A long hallway stretches before me. I walk solemnly down it. It’s dark, and the only details I make out are photographs hanging on the wall, filled with people, their faces all blurred. A door waits at the other end, slightly ajar, glowing light spilling out. A musty scent of decay weighs heavy in the air, clinging to me like a shroud.

As I move toward the door, wails emanate from beyond. Loud, guttural sobs and chanting prayers. Something bad has happened. I want to turn and leave, but my body continues forward, as if pushed by invisible hands. With every step, the crying grows louder, pumping my heart faster and faster. When I finally reach the door, I push it open—then wake.

Though there is no shadow hovering above me, all my muscles are locked tight. A frigid draft brushes over my skin as I sink lower into the mattress. I can feel a presence in the room, lurking just beyond the canopy.

And then slowly, the temperature climbs. Too cold, then hot and clammy.

Even though I can move again, I merely lie there, blinking up into the darkness. Listening. But all around me is deep, utter silence.

By the time I meet Luka in the evening, my strange dream has faded to the back of my mind. I have more pressing concerns, like if things will be awkward between us.

I find Luka outside Ko Doma, and my tension eases as we stroll through town. I tell him about my day, how I had baked breskvice with Karmela—round cookies, plump and pink like miniature peaches. I give him one to try, which he devours with a satisfied murmur. He tells me about the restaurant, that it was busy, which is good. A group of tourists had ordered octopus peka, one of his favorite dishes to make. It takes several hours to prepare, slowly cooked beneath charcoal in a special bell-shaped pot. “You should come try it sometime,” he says. I agree, intrigued.

As we continue, our conversation drifts to learning more about each other. I discover he’s an avid football fan—not soccer, he says derisively—while I tell him how I enjoy wandering different neighborhoods with my camera or visiting art galleries, though both activities are a little duller without Lily. We also discuss my favorite restaurants, why I like them, the dishes they serve. Talking with him is easy, soothing, but when I realize it’s a quarter past eleven, I tell him I should head back. “Are you free tomorrow?” I ask, hopeful.

He smiles, his brown eyes glimmering in the starlight. “Yeah. Same time?”

The next evening, we play bocce ball at the court near the harbor. Luka brings beer and we have a competition. It’s surprisingly fun—I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much, not since my mom passed. Every time we pass the ball, our fingers brush, sending a silent thrill through me.

And so, over the next week and a half, I develop a routine. During the day, I focus on Karmela. Together we pull weeds from the garden, embroider, or take walks through her favorite olive grove. We bake more recipes, like powdered white kiflice shaped like crescent moons and stacks of thin palačinke we slather with decadent toppings—walnuts and honey, strawberries and Nutella. My Croatian improves quickly, far faster than I would have anticipated. I notice my skin getting tanner, freckles darkening, a summertime glow that seeps into my bones.

Then, in the evenings, I meet up with Luka. Sometimes, we simply chat, sitting on a bench along the shore, drinking a bottle of wine from his restaurant. On other nights, we walk through the town, describing our days or discussing some aspect of Croatia I want to know more about—holidays, places he’s visited, what Tolba is like throughout the year. Things I would’ve asked my mom, if she had been more willing to speak about the past. Luka answers everything with patience, though he never misses a chance to tease me about my American ways, like my complaints about the lack of iced coffee or when I tried to leave a tip at Ko Doma. He still calls me “Hollywood,” but the nickname no longer grates, feeling more like an inside joke between us. With him by my side, the island starts to feel more familiar, and I feel my fondness for it growing.

But even though we keep our conversations light—never discussing anything too personal—I sometimes catch something else stirring in my core, something soft and warm, like an inner candle flickering to life. Like when he walks me by a small gallery featuring paintings of the island by a local artist and suggests that maybe, one day, I can exhibit my photos there. Or when he seamlessly switches between Croatian and English, making me feel like just another islander. Or when I go to Ko Doma to try their octopus peka, and I watch him play mandolin with the live band. They perform “O Marijana,” a Croatian folk song my mom used to listen to, a lament about a woman who never shows up to a planned rendezvous. When my chest aches, I tell myself it’s only nostalgia, only melancholy.

But deep down, the candle burns.

I ignore these moments best I can, snuffing the flame with a reminder we shouldn’t get too close. Luka, for his part, keeps things friendly, though I sometimes catch his gaze flitting to my lips. I suspect he’s waiting for me to make a move, but something always holds me back. Maybe it’s better we stay friends, I tell myself. It would be safer that way.

As pleasant as the days pass, the story of the mora still prowls the edges of my mind. I continue to have the same dream as before—the unfamiliar house, heart-wrenching wails—though not every night. Other times, I think I hear footsteps trailing me within the house, followed by a taunting giggle, a twin shadow I can never see. And the other islanders are getting worse. The next Sunday in church, a family sitting near our pew gets up and moves farther away as soon as Karmela and I sit down. Another afternoon at the supermarket, a middle-aged woman and young girl scurry away the moment we enter the baking aisle. Karmela says they must be in a hurry, but judging by the fear in the girl’s eyes, I’m not so sure. It happens when I’m with Luka too—people whispering, casting us a frightened or sour look. He ignores them, so I follow suit. They’re just superstitious, I tell myself. Their wariness will die down eventually, once everyone becomes more used to my presence.