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I read and read and read, absorbed in the pages until the soft shuffle of slippered feet suddenly breaks through my focus. I quickly shove the diary beneath my pillow just as Karmela steps into the room. It’s an instinctive move—I’m not ready to reveal what I’ve uncovered. Not until I understand it.

“Were you sleeping?” she asks in a gentle, apologetic tone.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer quickly.

“I’m sorry, but I wanted to share some good news. I just went to speak to Luka’s mother, Iva, about catering at the gala. She was a little hesitant but eventually agreed. Their food is the best. Everyone knows that.” She beams. “Also, Tomo agreed to perform with his klapa, once I told him we’d have his favorite wine. He said he would talk to his friends about coming too. You see? The people are much friendlier now.”

I blink at her, struggling to process her excitement while my mind swirls with thoughts of the diary. Wasn’t Tomo one of the men who claimed the mora haunted him? Are money and free alcohol all that it takes for the locals to throw their superstitions aside? A hint of bitterness slides down my throat.

Karmela frowns at my lack of reaction. “Are you alright? You look pale.” She steps closer, pressing a hand to my forehead.

I swallow, suddenly aware of my parched throat and the dull throb at my temples—symptoms I hadn’t noticed until now.

“I’m fine.”

Karmela doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

When she returns, I set the steaming mug on my nightstand. The moment she’s gone, I pick up the diary again.

I read endlessly, diving deeper into Magdalena’s life. Somewhere amidst her tangled thoughts—her fears, her hopes—I feel a shift in my perception. These words can’t possibly come from the same monstrous figure that invades my dreams, tormenting me with nightmares and her crushing weight. Magdalena was an ordinary woman. A healer. Is she even the mora?

That night, I keep my iron medallion around my neck and fall asleep with the diary beneath my pillow, Magdalena’s words painting the landscape of my dreams. The next day, Karmela has more tasks for the gala, and I’m not able to return to the diary until late afternoon. As I read the entry from the night before the exorcism, my heart races with a mixture of anticipation and fear. I’m surprised at how much I’m rooting for Magdalena.

A breeze sifts in through the balcony, brushing goose bumps along my skin. I was so engrossed I hadn’t realized night had fallen. I shut the diary, resolving to continue the next day. For now, I want to savor her words, this small hope that she will prevail.

The past swims through my thoughts as I stare at the balcony. Faintly, I think of Magdalena and Nikola taking in the view after one of their trysts. Her words echo in my mind:

Despite my mere twenty-seven years, I was so happy, I could die.

As if she is luring me, I emerge from my lace cocoon and step outside. The night air is soft and balmy, cloaking me in its embrace. Below, the lavender skitters and sways like rows of ghostly dancers, bending in time to their own secret rhythm. I watch, entranced, as the balcony seems to shift beneath my feet, caught somewhere between Magdalena’s world and mine.

I feel off-balance, like new truths are pouring into me in a raucous clamor, battering the confines of my mind, urging me to open it wider, freer. I line them up in my head:

Magdalena spent time in this house. She may have healed Ana in this very bed.

Magdalena and Nikola shared mutual affection.

Magdalena wanted to help Ana. Save her.

And this final one, which feels the most daunting to accept: Magdalena was not a monster. At least not always.

A sound from my room jolts me from my reverie. I hurry back inside, staring at the lit-up device on my nightstand. It takes me a moment to comprehend that it’s a phone—my phone—as if my mind is still stuck over a hundred years in the past.

I pick it up and open the latest notification. A text from Luka:

Hey. Yesterday I saw you putting up posters for the gala.

Can we talk? I just finished work.

A moment later, another text rolls in.

I’m worried about you.

My heart constricts. I’d expected Luka to give up on me by now—and maybe he would, if I didn’t respond. My fear for him fades, overshadowed by curiosity. What would he think of the diary? Would it change his belief in the mora?

I have to show him. Prove that this is all real.

Before I can second-guess myself, I type out a response.