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My heart aches for Magdalena and the comfort she found in this house. I have to believe my ancestors were not the villains in this tale—because if they were, what does that make me?

“Petra, are you awake?”

“Yes,” I blurt, snapping the diary closed as Karmela enters.

“You slept so long. How are you feeling?” she asks as she pulls back the canopy. Before I can answer, she presses her hand to my forehead. Her brows shoot up in concern. “You feel a little warm.”

I touch my forehead as well. I’m not sure if she’s right, but I don’t feel great after how little sleep I got.

“You should rest more. I’ll bring you soup and rakija.”

I suppress a groan at the mention of the liquor but say nothing, too dazed to object.

When she brings some vegetable soup, she lingers in my room. “I meant to ask, did you see Luka’s mother lately?”

I stiffen. I had almost forgotten about what happened. A hot lick of shame sweeps through me at the memory of kissing Luka, his mom’s horrified reaction. Stay away from my son.

“No,” I quickly lie. “Why?” Did she come here, tell Karmela what happened?

“Well, she left a note this morning, saying she couldn’t cater for the gala anymore. She didn’t say why. I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed.”

Guilt coils in my stomach.

“Don’t worry, I’ll speak with her,” Karmela assures me. “Now, eat.”

I obey, lost in thought. When I finish, sleep drags at me like a forceful tide.

When I wake again, it is dark. The lace curtains of the canopy quiver in an invisible breeze. Slowly, I lift myself, moving toward the balcony.

Cool air greets me, relieving the dried sweat on my skin, brushing goose bumps along my arms. I hug my torso as I inhale, my mind still groggy with sleep. Beyond, the night is still; not even the stalks of lavender rustle. Crickets chirp an erratic tune, and somewhere in the distance, waves crash against the shore.

I focus on the ruined workshop, my thoughts crawling back to Magdalena’s final diary entry. It eats at my insides, not knowing her fate. What happened between then and now?

How, exactly, is a mora born?

A light suddenly flashes in one of the windows. The structure transforms, stone bricks stacking to form solid walls, terra-cotta tiles rippling into a roof. I blink in disbelief. The workshop reverts back to its dilapidated state, boarded-up windows and crumbled exterior. I blink again, and it is new, with the light glowing from within. As if someone is inside.

Am I going mad?

I press my hand to my forehead, checking for heat. It still feels warm—maybe this is some sort of fever dream. My imagination conjuring something inspired by Magdalena’s diary.

The workshop continues to shift back and forth. Destroyed. New. Dead. Alive.

And then I think of what Luka’s grandmother told him. The scream I heard beside the ruins. Could the past have imprinted on the workshop, just like at the bunja? But then why haven’t I noticed it before?

Maybe I wasn’t looking, paying attention like I am now. So many nights passed where I brushed away the mora, refusing to believe anything was amiss in this house.

But now my eyes are open. More open than they’ve ever been.

What happened to Magdalena?

The question echoes like a chant, a summons. I know the final piece of the puzzle is there, in that workshop. I know that light burns for me. The past is calling.

A thought faintly crosses my mind. I could go back to bed, pull the sheets over my head, and forget I ever saw the haunting glow in the dark—for the truth may be terrible. But I quickly stamp down the idea. My body shivers with a swirling tangle of determination and dread. Magdalena’s words pump through my veins, urging me outside. She was a woman once, just like me. An outcast. Only, she was braver, not afraid to embrace love, to challenge the Evil Eye.

I need to be brave too. All my life, I yearned for the truth of my past. I cannot turn away from it now.

Adrenaline charges through me as I return to my room and tiptoe out into the hall, quiet as a ghost.