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They are going to burn her. She will be destroyed.

I should be relieved. No more sleepless nights. Luka will no longer be in danger. The curse upon my family will end, and justice will be served for all the lives Magdalena has taken.

But as I watch her shriek and struggle, my stomach churns. Something is different about her, though I can’t place what. I move closer, pushing through the crowd for a better look. Once I’m at the front, just a few feet from the tree, it hits me.

Her eyes are no longer consumed by black. They’re brown with white surrounding them, widened and afraid. Glancing toward the workshop ruins, I wonder if this is precisely what she looked like on that night many years ago, when Nikola struck her down.

Watching the scene unfold, I do not know who the monster is anymore: Magdalena, Davor and his cronies, Karmela and the priest, the crowd for watching greedily—or me, for knowing the truth of what happened all those years ago and standing by as it happens again.

But I do know this: It is murder that brought us here. That began this vicious cycle of revenge. No matter the pain that Magdalena has caused, I know in my gut that this is not how to end it. I need to break the pattern, change, just like Luka did minutes ago, refusing to be silent and repeat his past. Despite what the others think of me, this is my chance to claim my place here, to show that I do belong—and I have something to say.

“Stanite.” Stop. It takes a moment to realize the Croatian word came from my own lips. But as I step forward, my resolve grows. I need to share the truth, as I intended. I cannot let Magdalena die without her story being told.

“Stop,” I say again, more strongly, blocking Davor as he brings more wood.

“Stand aside,” he growls. “This bitch needs to die.”

“Her name is Magdalena.” I clench my fists, glancing toward the tree. She has stopped screaming, watching me warily.

Davor shakes his head, confused. “What?”

Karmela rushes forward, but Luka stops her. “Let her speak,” he says. She places her hand over his, turning to me with a frightened gaze.

Frantically, I pull the diary from my purse. In my haste, my notes scatter to the ground, but I ignore them. This isn’t how I planned any of it, but I need to be fast—I’m not sure how long the restless crowd will listen. “Her name is Magdalena Derokov,” I say again, more loudly. “She lived here long ago. This is her diary. She was a healer on this island.”

I face the crowd as I open the book to the first page. “In this diary, she documented all the people she healed.” My hands tremble as I find the entry I’m looking for, the woman with Davor’s last name. “Ines Bondulić. 4 March 1893. Stomach ulcers.” I read a few more names aloud, including the one that could be related to Luka. “And her final patient was my ancestor Ana Klarin. Her son, Nikola, came to Magdalena asking for her help when his mom became very sick.”

I step closer to Davor, pointing to Ines’s name, but he only scowls in response. His men exchange perplexed glances, as if unsure whether to believe me or dismiss me as mad. When I look at Magdalena, I catch a hint of recognition in her face as she stares at the diary. Seizing the moment of silence, I press on.

“I read the diary and I know what happened. Magdalena tried to help Ana, and in the process, she fell in love with Nikola. And the feelings were mutual, not one-sided. When Ana died, Marko and Nikola blamed her. They called her a mora and chased her into the woods. The people hunted her, forgetting all she did to help them. Eventually, Magdalena realized she was pregnant with Nikola’s child. She came back to tell him the news, but by then, Nikola was engaged to someone else. He refused to believe the child was his. He said she seduced him, called her an enchantress, so that he could protect his status and reputation. And instead of facing the consequences of his actions, he killed her. Right there in that workshop.” I point at the ruins just beyond the crowd. “That is why she haunts our family and the island. To seek revenge for her murder.”

When I finish, my eyes meet Magdalena’s. She stares at me, her expression stunned and afraid. I wait for her to speak, to perhaps challenge me in some way, but she remains silent. Slowly, the shock on her face falls away, giving way to something else—something caught between anguish and sorrow.

Suddenly, a cold voice breaks through the air. “Is this some kind of joke?” Davor asks.

“Excuse me?” I counter.

“That book. Where did you find it?”

“Out in the bunja you told me about. But that was never her home. Her home was destroyed—”

Davor cuts me off. “So you found some old book, and you expect us to believe this whole story, and that it somehow redeems the mora for all that she’s done?” He scoffs. “You’re not even from here. Who are you to tell us what to believe?”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. Embarrassment washes over me, my face burning. I should have anticipated this.

“It is my family that is cursed. We who paid the worst price. That’s why you should listen.”

A burly man steps forward, his nostrils flaring. “This is madness. That mora killed your father. You should want to kill her as much as we do!”

The mention of my dad ignites a blaze of rage and grief inside me. “You’re right. A part of me thinks Magdalena doesn’t deserve redemption. She took my dad from me, my grandfather, and tormented many people on this island.” My voice trembles but the intentness in Luka’s gaze urges me on. “Don’t you see? This all started with revenge. A cycle of violence, spiraling out of control for generations—ever since the island turned its back on her, forgetting all the good she once did. Ever since my ancestor Nikola murdered her in cold blood. Someone has to break this cycle. Someone has to stand up for the truth.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Davor asks, glowering between me and Magdalena.

I hesitate as my confidence wavers. I have an idea, but I’m not sure it will work. Nikola may have apologized once, though I can’t say how sincere he was. I need to take it one step further. “I will apologize for what my ancestors did, and we all agree to stop spreading false stories about Magdalena’s life. Then we ask her to pass on.”

The crowd tremors with resistance, their displeasure palpable. “Ask her to pass on?” Davor scoffs. “Now I know you’ve lost your mind. You think it’s that simple? She’s a monster, a demon, a servant of the Devil!”

I turn to her, fear gripping my heart. Davor may be right about the chances of her dismissal, but I don’t believe she’s fully a monster. Deep down, I have to believe there’s still a part of her old self buried.