Page 54

Yes.

I’ll meet you at Ko Doma.

After placing the diary carefully in my purse, I throw on a light cardigan and swipe some concealer over the dark circles beneath my eyes. No heels this time—I need to be quiet and quick. Jamming my sandals onto my feet, I slip out the front door and jog toward the harbor.

Interlude

What filth has Petra brought into this home?

At first, the House did not know what to make of the book. It seemed so small, frail. Innocent. And then, looking down from the ceiling, it caught a glimpse of the words and a tremor of anger shot up from its foundation.

It is lies, all of it. Though the House remembers when the Nightmare first entered its domain, how she used to rub Ana’s limbs and sing a haunting melody, it sees now how deluded the creature was in her interpretation of events. She almost writes as if it was all a fairy tale, and not some twisted game.

She never belonged here—not then, not now.

The House must be rid of her poisonous words, before they infect Petra. But she has taken the book with her.

The House shifts and sulks, like a restless parent awaiting their child’s return. It must protect her. It must keep her. It will find a way.

Twenty-Three

Petra

July 2026

The harbor glows with pockets of light from the scattered businesses along the shore, their reflections cutting across the water in shards. It’s quieter than usual, though a few stragglers linger—a group of young people drinking beer at picnic tables, some older men crooning a wistful song. I rush past them all, focusing on Ko Doma.

The front door is closed but yields easily when I push it open.

Inside, the space is dim and cozy, thanks to the soft lighting and tea candles burning at the rustic wooden tables. There’s no sign of Luka, and so for a moment, I just admire the atmosphere. I’d missed the cozy vibe, the nautical decor and historical photos of Tolba adorning the walls. The warmth emanating from the brick oven in the corner. Like at home. The translation of the restaurant’s name has never felt more accurate.

As I’m standing there, Luka walks through the door behind the bar. He falters as he notices me, and my insides respond with a flutter of nerves.

I take in the broad set of his shoulders beneath his crisp white T-shirt, the dark tousle of his hair, the sharp angle of his cheekbones disappearing into the scruff of his beard. It’s grown thicker since I last saw him, giving him a wilder look than before.

His expression is inscrutable, but as his eyes lock onto mine, they glint like the spark of a match, igniting a phantom memory of his lips pressed against mine.

“Hey,” I stutter.

“Hey,” he replies. Steady but with an edge of caution. He quickly glances away, grabbing a rag and wiping the counter of the bar.

“How’s it going?” I ask tentatively, moving closer.

“Oh, you know, same old. You?”

My mind churns with a storm of emotions as my grip tightens on my bag, the diary inside. But before I can get to that, I need to resolve what happened with Davor. “Why didn’t you tell me that people were having nightmares and blaming it on me?”

Luka stops cleaning and leans over the counter with a heavy sigh. “Remember what I told you about my father leaving?”

I nod.

“Well, after he was gone, people came up with all sorts of reasons why. They said we didn’t go to church enough, that my mother wasn’t a good enough wife, or that I was too neposlušan.” He scratches his beard, searching for the right word in English. “That means, uh—”

“Unruly,” I offer. I don’t recall ever learning that word, but somehow it’s there, as if someone slipped it onto my tongue.

“Yes, exactly. And the worst part was I believed them—at least the part about myself. I became an altar boy at church, started dressing better, working harder in the restaurant . . . But no matter what I did, the gossip never stopped. The people here just like to talk, act like they know everything, and blame things on other people. So when I heard that Davor and some others were having nightmares, and they thought it was your fault, I thought it was better to just ignore it. I didn’t think it mattered, and—” his expression softens “—I didn’t want to frighten you.”

My annoyance immediately dissipates, replaced by guilt. Luka’s explanation seems reasonable enough. And yet I was too absorbed in my own shame and anger to even think that he might understand. Faintly, I wonder if my mom worried the same thing, withheld information for fear of scaring me. “I could’ve handled the truth.”