Mary was not mad before Gertruda. She was a widow with a daughter who was pretty enough to draw attention, and Mary locked her in the upstairs bedroom to keep the attention from becoming other things. Gertruda climbed out through the upstairs window on a Nyxvasha night four months ago. She left a note that said, don’t wait for me, mama. Mary has been waiting. She has not come downstairs since. She keeps the upstairs window cracked open in all weathers. She talks through the crack when she thinks no one is listening. The village has stopped correcting her.

The house is dark. Every shutter closed except one on the upstairs floor, cracked open a hand’s width — winter or summer, it stays that way. From inside, weeping. When you knock, the weeping stops. Then it starts again.

Sensory

• Weeping, then silence, then weeping again — audible from the street
• Old bread and untended fire
• One candle burning in the upstairs window even by day