He loved the way she filled the silent cabin with conversation.
She admired his competence.
He admired her intelligence.
She laughed at his dry humor.
He learned to smile more often.
Sometimes they spent entire evenings reading beside the fire.
Other nights, she told stories from her childhood while he worked with leather or wood.
Whenever the wind rattled the cabin, he checked the doors before returning to sit near her.
And whenever she grew tired, he quietly moved another pillow behind her back.
He never complained about the additional room she needed.
Never suggested that her body made her difficult to love.
Instead, he learned what made her comfortable and treated those needs as ordinary parts of sharing a home.
She had never experienced affection like that before.
And it terrified her.
Because the more she loved him, the more she feared discovering that she had imagined his feelings.
Then came the night she finally asked.
They were sitting beside the fireplace.
Rain tapped against the roof.
She wore a dark blue dress she had sewn herself.
He was repairing a leather strap.
She watched him for several minutes.
Then said, "May I ask you something?"
He looked up.
"Of course."
"Do you ever think about marrying again?"
His hands stopped.
The room became quiet.
She immediately regretted asking.
But he didn't look angry.
Only wounded.
"Again?"
She stared.
She hadn't known he was previously married.
He lowered his eyes.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he spoke.
"I had a wife once."
Her chest tightened.
"What happened?"
His voice became almost inaudible.
"She died."
The woman looked at him.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
She hesitated.
"How long ago?"
"Seven years."
The answer came quickly.
As though he had repeated it to himself so often that he no longer needed to think.
The woman looked toward the fire.
She wanted to ask more.
But his expression warned her that the subject was painful.
So she simply said, "You must have loved her."
He stared into the flames.
"Yes."
The woman felt a strange mixture of sadness and jealousy.
She hated herself for the second feeling.
Then he looked toward her.
"But grief isn't the only thing a man can carry."
She frowned.
"What do you mean?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
The old distance returned.
She looked down.
For a while, neither spoke.