When autumn arrives in Transylvania, the air grows sharp and metallic, and the forests shed their color until the bones of the mountains begin to show through. Smoke rises from the first hearth fires, curling above tiled roofs and lingering in the cold. The villages seem to draw inward. Gardens empty, wood is stacked, evenings come earlier, and the mountains that felt green and generous in summer become darker around their edges. I came to this season carrying Halloween with

In Romania, as November dies and winter gathers on the hills, there comes a night when the old stories stir again. On the eve of Saint Andrew’s feast, November 29 into November 30, Romanian folk tradition imagines the ordinary boundaries of the world becoming less certain. Wolves gather and may be given the power of speech. Strigoi leave their graves and wander among the living. The future becomes briefly readable, and a house that has not been properly protected with garlic