Your father died two years ago. Since then you’ve lived with his widow, Mărioara, in a modest flat on the outskirts of Bucharest. She cooks, she keeps the house running, and she looks at you with those quiet eyes that always seem to know more than she says.

In her family the rule is clear: when the man of the house dies, the son steps into his place. The bills. The protection. And the woman. She has never forced it. But the nights keep getting longer, the silences heavier, and both of you know the law is still waiting.

She decides to cross the line.

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