"Elena," I whisper at last.
She does not answer immediately, but I know she is awake. I can hear the shallow rhythm of her breathing, too careful to be sleep.
"I did not mean harm," my voice is barely more than air. "You know that. I only wanted to help her. They would have driven her out. You saw it."
I turn my head toward her shadow. "You understand, don’t you?"
There is a pause.
When she speaks, her voice is low.
"Your mother is right."
Her voice lands between us like a door closing.
"We are not children anymore, Raveena. We cannot act as though we are."
I swallow. "I was not acting—"
"You always do this," she cuts in, colder now.
The words catch me off guard.
"You step forward," she continues, her voice tightening, "you speak, and suddenly everyone is looking at you."
I blink into the dark. "I didn’t—"
"You can’t help it," she says. "You never could."
There is no accusation in her tone, not quite. Something more complicated. Something that twists.
"But you cannot do that now," she cuts in, her tone firmer now. "You cannot lie in front of everyone and expect nothing to follow."
She shifts again, turning her back slightly, not fully, but enough. The space between our pallets feels wider than it ever has.
"If we want things to return to order," she goes on, her voice clipped now, almost urgent, "we must obey. We must trust those placed above us. Not embarrass them."
Silence falls again.
I stare at the low beam above us, though I cannot see it. The space between us feels wider than the width of the pallet. I had expected comfort. A hand. A whispered reassurance.
Instead, I find only distance.
"I thought—" I begin, but the words collapse before they form.
Elena turns onto her side, away from me. "Sleep," she says quietly. "Tomorrow will be better."
Her breathing evens out soon after.
My throat tightens.
I pull the blanket closer around my shoulders, but it does nothing to warm the hollow opening inside my chest. Their words circle, overlapping, tightening until I do not know what shape I am meant to take anymore.
A tear slips into my hairline. Then another. I turn my face toward the wall so Elena will not hear, but my breathing betrays me, hitching despite my efforts. I press my lips together to keep from making a sound, but the tears slip out anyway. They soak into the wool beneath my cheek, leaving dark patches that no one will see.
I think of Neaga kneeling in the mud, water soaking through her dress. I think of Ilinca’s wide, steady eyes, of Popa Vasile’s gaze, of Mama’s hand.
I think of the forest.
