I did not forget how they smelled when crushed between the fingers.
The murmur of prayer from the other room reaches me again, weaving with the memory until they are hard to separate. Eventually, it pulls me back.
I blink hard and shake my head once, as if the movement might scatter what lingers there. Linen shifts beneath my hands as I gather what I can carry—plain cloth, folded twice, faintly scented with dried lavender. My fingers move quickly at first, grateful for something to do.
Then they stop.
A corner of fabric lies caught beneath the others. It is torn along one edge. The threads have been pulled apart by hand, left uneven, curling inward. Between the weave, faint but unmistakable, a strand runs through the fabric. The light from the narrow window catches on it, just enough that it glints against the dull cream of the cloth.
Blue.
I have seen it twist in flame. I have watched it blacken, curl inward, stubborn even as the rest of the bundle shrank and collapsed into ash. It had resisted the fire longer than the hair. Longer than the bone.
My breath falters, the cloth trembling slightly in my hand. Perhaps it was never meant for me. Perhaps the hand that placed it mistook one threshold for another.
Irina’s house stands not far from mine. The doors look alike. Wood the same. Steps worn the same. A mistake. A misstep. The curse meant for her.
Or—
The question forms and refuses to complete itself.
What if it was meant for me, and found her instead?
I grip the cloth tighter, my pulse drumming in my ears.
Marked.
The word rises unbidden.
If the bundle carried death, and I burned it—
Then why is she the one lying on the table?
I stand there, my hand still resting on the lid. For a moment I consider going back into the other room. Kneeling beside Elena. Leaning close. Whispering what I saw.
But what would I say? That I found a thread? That cloth resembles cloth? That fire burns slower in some places than others?
My tongue feels thick at the thought, and Elena’s voice returns to me.
Do not speak of that.
My breath comes slowly, deliberately.
Linen is traded, borrowed, passed from house to house. A thread can come from anywhere. From a shawl. From a scrap used to mend a sleeve. Things are patched and repatched until no one remembers where the first tear was.
The bundle was most likely a child’s cruelty. A foolish prank. A piece of linen stolen and wrapped with bones from the yard, herbs from the ditch. Boys dare each other to leave gifts at doors. Girls whisper stories until they begin to believe them.
And wolves roam.
They slip between houses when hunger drives them close. Irina may have stepped out at the wrong hour. Heard something in the dark. Opened the door without waking anyone.
There are no monsters in the woods. Only trees. Only beasts that bleed when cut. Men who tell stories to make children hurry home before dark.
I press my palm against the chest as if sealing the thought inside it.
The nights have been restless. Dreams press too hard, shadows lengthen where they should not. I have let my mind wander.
We will pray. We will keep the windows open and the candles lit.
