Chapter 22 — Processing

Stefan finally fell asleep.

It happened quietly, almost without warning, as if exhaustion had simply reached for him and pulled him under. One moment he sat on the edge of the small bed, his shoulders still tense, his eyes resting on Natasha with a calm, searching look; the next, he lay down slowly, pulling the thin blanket over himself, surrendering to a sleep that came not from peace but from weariness. His breathing steadied, his face softened, and in that stillness, he looked younger—like a child untouched by grief, untouched by silence, untouched by whatever had passed through him only minutes before.

Natasha remained where she was, seated across from him, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. The room felt quieter now, but not lighter. Something of what had happened still lingered in the air, like a memory that refused to leave. She had tried…

Chapter 21 — The Conversation

Natasha did not step fully into the room at first. She remained in the doorway, her hand resting lightly against the frame as though the stone itself was the only thing keeping her anchored to what was real. The air inside felt wrong in a way she could not immediately name—not cold, not warm, but still, as if even sound had learned to hesitate before entering.

Stefan sat on the bed without moving. He was not looking at her. He was not reacting at all, as though whatever had once occupied him had stepped aside and left only the shape behind.

Natasha’s voice came carefully, measured.

“You’re still awake.”

Chapter 20 — Evidence

Stefan sat on the edge of his bed, the stolen journal resting across his knees, both hands wrapped around it as if it might slip away if he loosened his grip. The room was dim, lit only by the faint spill of light from the corridor beyond the door and the dull glow of the small lamp by the wall. It should have felt quiet, ordinary even—but it didn’t. It hadn’t felt that way for a long time.

He looked down at the book again.

The leather was aged and uneven, worn to softness in some places and stiff as bark in others. When he shifted it, the cover gave off a faint, damp creak, as though it remembered where it had been kept. His fingers traced the indentation on the front, following the letters slowly, almost carefully.

Father Petar

Chapter 19 — The Lamp That Would Not Die

Natasha kept her eyes lowered as she moved from one lamp to the next, careful not to spill the oil as she poured. The small flame in each glass flickered briefly when disturbed, then steadied again, as if nothing had happened. The rhythm of the work was familiar—something she had done countless times before—but today it offered no comfort. Her hands continued their task, but her mind remained elsewhere, caught in the lingering shadow of the dream.

She could still see it.

Not like a memory, but like something pressed against her thoughts from the inside, refusing to fade.

The figure. The dark one. The priest.