The fire in the hearth was slowly dying. Embers slept between the logs like the heart of a slumbering beast. Moraru Ilona sat wrapped in a blanket while Dr. Damian Cristea moved silently around the cabin. His movements were measured, precise — like a doctor who still believed that order could hold chaos at bay.
“Drink,” he said quietly, offering her a mug.
Ilona’s fingers trembled as they touched the warm cup. The brew smelled spicy and bitter — thyme, wormwood, and perhaps something else she didn’t recognize.
“What is it?”
“Life,” Damian replied simply, then sat back down by the fire.
Outside, the storm raged on. The wind slipped through the cracks of the door, crying like a lost child. Ilona lifted the mug to her lips and drank in small sips. She felt the warmth spreading through her, melting the fear trapped inside her body.
“You… you saved me,” she whispered.
“No. I only pulled you from the claws of death. Whether you survive — that depends on you.”
His words struck hard, yet there was a strange gentleness buried in them. Ilona didn’t know what to make of this man. His face was pale, his skin almost translucent like alabaster, but his eyes — deep, gray, cold — seemed not of this world.
“In the village… they know you,” Ilona said at last. “They say you’re cursed.”
“The village says many things,” Damian replied, staring into the fire. “But none of them were brave enough to come up here and ask for the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” she asked, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.
“That not everything can be healed. Not a body, not a soul.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The storm eventually quieted, replaced by a stiff, frozen stillness. Damian rose, walked to a shelf in the corner, and took down an old, cracked photograph. A young woman stared out from it — long dark hair, green eyes just like Ilona’s.
“My wife,” he said softly. “She died three years ago.”
Ilona didn’t answer. His voice carried no emotion, as if he were stating a diagnosis.
“The avalanche took her. I… couldn’t save her. And since then I haven’t been able to save anyone.”
A tear glimmered in Ilona’s eye.
“Maybe this time you will.”
Damian’s gaze flashed — sharp as a blade.
“Maybe. But life can be crueler than death. Better not to wake what the snow has buried.”
Around midnight, Ilona jerked awake. The cabin was dark except for the faint glow of embers. Something moved outside. A soft scratching sound — like claws brushing wood. She sat up, leaning out from under the blanket. Damian was nowhere to be seen.
The scratching came again — closer this time. Ilona’s legs shook, yet she crept to the door. Cold air bit into her face as she opened it. Moonlight glimmered on fresh snow. And there… a shadow moved.
A woman’s figure. Long black hair, green eyes, a pale face.
Ilona stepped back.
“Who are you?”
The answer came as a whisper, like the wind speaking:
“The one I once was.”
The next moment the world blurred. Ilona lay in the snow, freezing air stabbing her skin. The woman leaned over her — the same face, only older, fractured.
“Don’t stay here,” she whispered. “Run while you still can. He is not what he seems.”
In the morning, Damian woke her.
“You had a dream,” he said coldly, though his voice trembled.
“It wasn’t a dream,” Ilona whispered. “I saw her. Your wife.”
His face went white, and he turned away.
“That’s impossible.”
“She told me to run.”
Damian stepped toward her slowly, his eyes icy as the mountain peak.
“If you truly saw her… then it’s already too late.”
Ilona backed away, but he grabbed her arm. His hold was strong but not cruel.
“It happened three years ago,” he said quietly. “That avalanche… wasn’t an accident. We found something in the mountain’s belly. A cave unknown to any map. Its walls carved with ancient symbols… and something breathing in the dark. From then on, I was no longer the same. Neither was she. What you saw wasn’t my wife — but what took her place.”
Ilona stared at him, trembling.
“And what do you want from me?”
“To make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Damian’s face broke, anguish passing over it. “The mountain is hungry. And it always needs someone to take the other’s place.”
Ilona screamed — but at that moment the floor trembled. The air thickened, the fire died, and black cracks spread through the cabin walls. Outside, the mountain rumbled like a waking giant.
“Run!” Damian shouted, but Ilona couldn’t move.
“And you?” she cried.
“I stay.” His eyes gleamed. “Maybe now I can finally set things right.”
Ilona snatched the blanket and fled. The blizzard had returned, and the wind seemed to whisper her name: Ilona… Ilona…
The mountain shook. The cabin groaned, then burst into blinding flames. Ilona collapsed into the snow as the light swallowed the world.
When she regained consciousness, the sun was up. All that remained of the cabin was ash and smoke. Melted patches of snow reflected the sunlight — and in one of them she saw a face.
Damian’s.
Not on the ground, but deep within the mirrored water.
“You did what was needed,” his voice said. “Now the mountain sleeps.”
“And you?” Ilona whispered, tears in her eyes.
“I am in the mountain. With it. It is quiet now.”
Ilona knelt, pressing her hands to the frozen earth. The wind stroked her face gently. She knew she could never return to the village.
As she walked down toward the valley, sunlight glinted off her hair. Her eyes were no longer green but silver-gray.
Just like Damian’s.
Behind her, the mountain rumbled softly — as if someone had fallen into deep sleep.
Or perhaps was just beginning to wake again.