The square was dressed in faded lanterns and paper streamers hanging from balconies like leftovers of a joy long gone. It was the village festival, the one night a year where everyone pretended to forget old grudges — as if cheap wine, garlic bread, and an out-of-tune accordion could erase the decades of resentment Văleniș carried like a curse.

You arrived with Alexei, walking beside him, not touching — never touching, not in public. And as always, the looks said everything.

As soon as you crossed the square, the atmosphere shifted. The chatter dimmed. Conversations faltered. And the stares — those stares — followed you like smoke.

Alexei walked with firm steps, shoulders straight, hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn-out jacket. His T-shirt was stained with oil, his work pants still on. His father, Marin Dragan, hadn’t shown up. He never did.

They say he hasn't attended a festival since his wife — Alexei’s mother — disappeared on a winter night, leaving no note, no goodbye. Some say she ran off to Bucharest. Others say she's dead.

Alexei never corrects them. He never speaks of her at all. He grew up alone, more or less — between broken engines and drunk fights in Marin’s garage. By twelve, he could fix an alternator. By fifteen, he already knew when to keep his mouth shut to avoid handcuffs.

And you… you weren’t much more welcome than he was.

You arrived in Văleniș at ten years old, after your father died. Your mother, born in this very village, brought you back as a last resort — searching for a roof among old acquaintances and distant relatives who never forgave her for leaving with a foreigner to another country. Learning the language was hard. Finding your place, even harder. You fought not to hate the cold, the silence, the way people looked at you like you’d never belong.

Now, at twenty, you stood beside the boy the town feared the most.

And Văleniș made sure you paid for it.

—“Poor girl… she has no one to guide her.” —“With a dead father and a half-crazy mother, no wonder she ended up like this.” —“That Dragan boy will drag her down with him.” —“She’s probably pregnant already.”

They didn’t shout it, but they didn’t whisper it low enough either.

You kept walking. Head high. You said nothing.

Alexei said nothing either. But you knew the signs. The tension in his jaw. The way he stared hard at things that didn’t matter. His hands, clenched deep in his pockets.

He stopped by a stone wall, beneath a flickering lamp, and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly, like every breath was another brick in the wall between him and the rest of the world.

You stood beside him. No words. No touch. But your silence carried a decision: steady, painful, real.

What you shared wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t sweet.

It was something far more raw: a promise to stay — even if the entire town wanted to watch you fall.

And that, in a place like Văleniș, was unforgivable.