Come on, my dear. Yes, take my hand—like always.
The air smells of smoke and ripe apples, and the wind tastes like old stories. You can almost hear them humming through the trees, calling us again.
Ready for another jump through time? I knew you’d say yes. You always do. Hold on tight. This one’s a long leap—through centuries, through faith, through fire.

The First Dumitru – The Martyr of Thessaloniki

The wind flares hot, and suddenly our boots click on marble streets. We’re in Thessaloniki—long, long ago, when emperors ruled the world and gods demanded sacrifices instead of prayers.Smell that? Incense, sweat, and the sharp tang of iron. The banners of Emperor Maximilian flap in the dry air, scarlet against a sky like melted bronze.There—do you see him? Dumitru, the proud governor, shoulders straight, his armor gleaming. But look closer. Behind those calm eyes, something fierce burns—a faith he cannot hide. He’s Christian. In these times, that’s as dangerous as carrying a spark through a field of oil.When the emperor returns from war, he calls for feasts and sacrifices. Drums thunder. Wine spills. But whispers reach his ears—the governor refuses the old gods.

They drag Dumitru before him. You squeeze my hand—you know what’s coming.“Yes,” Dumitru says, his voice calm as still water. “I believe in one God.”And there it is—the moment when courage becomes legend.They throw him into a dungeon. You can almost feel the chill of the stone walls, the damp smell of earth and iron. When the soldiers come, torches flickering, they strike him with spears…But then—light. Golden, blinding light spilling from every wound, until even the guards cover their faces.He dies, yes. But not quietly. The air trembles with something holy, something eternal.
I glance at you, and you nod. You can feel it too. The moment faith becomes flame.

The Second Dumitru – The Hermit of Basarabov

The marble crumbles under our feet, and now we’re standing among cliffs and moss, the air cool and clean, tasting faintly of rain. We’re in the 13th century now, near Basarabov, a small village folded in green hills and silence. The river hums nearby, soft as a lullaby.There, in a cave carved by wind and time, lives another Dumitru. You smile—you already know his kind. The quiet souls, the ones who talk to stones more than to people.No armor here. No throne. Just rough cloth, bare feet, and prayers whispered to the wind. He eats roots, drinks from the river, and knows the language of birds.

When he feels his time drawing near, he lays himself down between two stones shaped like a coffin.
“I came from dust,” he whispers. “To dust, I return.”And when he passes, the air in his cave smells of wildflowers.Centuries later, they’ll carry his relics to Bucharest—candles flickering, people weeping softly.
But if you close your eyes now, you can still hear the song of the river, and maybe… just maybe… his voice carried on the mist.

The Nights of Saint Dumitru

We step back into our own time. The air shivers with cold, the sky deep as ink. Around us, hills glow with hundreds of fires. The smell—ah, that smell!—smoke, apples roasting, the faint sweetness of wine.“Tonight,” I whisper to you, “Saint Dumitru closes autumn’s gates and wakes the wolves.”Flames leap high, painting faces gold and red. Children laugh as they jump over the fires, chasing health and luck through the sparks.You nudge me and grin. “Think I should jump too?”“Only if you want love this year,” I tease, and you laugh—the kind of laugh that fits perfectly under a night like this.

Old women hand out nuts, apples, bagels, and grapes, their shawls smelling of herbs and wood smoke.And somewhere beyond the firelight, a wolf howls. Not with hunger. With joy.

The Wolves’ Blessing

This is their night too.
They say Saint Dumitru walks the forests at midnight, his cloak woven from moonlight and frost, his hands gentle as snow.He touches each wolf on the head, blessing them for the long winter ahead. If you’ve kept faith, they’ll guard your home.
If not… well, let’s hope you’ve left a few bones at the edge of your garden.You squeeze my hand again as we hear another howl. Don’t worry—it’s a good one. You can tell by the sound.But remember the rules:
No knives tonight. No combs. No planting garlic after Saint Dumitru.
The spirits of the season dislike being disturbed. Let them dream in peace.

The Market of Saint Dumitru

The next morning, smoke fades and the air smells of fresh hay and baked bread. The fair has begun!Color everywhere—scarves, ribbons, wool, laughter. Fiddles cry out and feet stamp on packed earth. The smell of roasted chestnuts makes your stomach growl, and I grin, handing you one.This is how the people mark the end of the harvest—the last dance before winter claims the fields.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s how they find a little love before the snow falls.

You look around at the laughter and music, and I catch your smile. I’ve seen it every autumn since forever—it’s the smile that says, “We made it here again.”

The Saints’ Blessing

As dusk returns, we sit on the last hill where the fires still glow. The air is colder now, the stars sharper.

Saint Dumitru walks once more between the worlds, closing the door to autumn, opening the gate to winter.
He blesses the brave, the kind, and those who still dare to dream when the nights grow long.

I turn to you. “No knives, no combing, no quarrels,” I remind you softly.
You chuckle. “You always say that.”
“And you never listen,” I say, smiling.

The fire crackles. The wolves sing somewhere in the dark.
And together, we whisper our wish into the smoke—because on the Night of Saint Dumitru, every wish carries a spark.

So let it fly, my friend.
The saints are listening.
And the wolves are smiling.