His massive body barely fit beneath the blanket.
One arm lay beneath his head.
The cabin was silent except for sounds Clara knew Elias could not hear.
Wood settling.
Wind.
Fire snapping.
She wondered whether he could feel the fire pop through the floor.
She wondered whether loneliness became different when silence never stopped.
Then she wondered why she cared.
Morning brought biscuits.
Actual good biscuits.
Clara stared at them.
Elias stood beside the stove.
She pointed.
Him?
He nodded.
She took one bite.
Excellent.
Clara narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
He laughed silently.
She wrote:
You cook.
Yes.
Better than my father.
Elias wrote:
Low standard?
Clara laughed.
Again, he watched instead of heard.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
They developed language.
Some written.
Some signs.
Clara learned quickly.
Food.
Horse.
Snow.
Danger.
Yes.
No.
Wait.
Come.
Help.
Good.
Bad.
Elias taught with patience.
His hands were enormous.
Surprisingly graceful.
Clara began noticing them too often.
That bothered her.
Not because she disliked them.
Exactly the opposite.
The first time Elias touched her waist happened accidentally.
Clara slipped carrying water.
His arm shot around her before she fell.
Suddenly her back pressed against his chest.
One giant hand covered half her waist.
He froze.
Clara froze too.
He released instantly.
Stepped backward.
His face looked almost alarmed.
Clara’s heart pounded.
She wanted to tell him it had been fine.
Instead, embarrassment closed her throat.
Elias grabbed the notebook.
Sorry.
Clara wrote:
You stopped me falling.
He nodded.
Still uncomfortable.
She added:
You may catch me if I fall.
Elias read.
Looked at her.
Then wrote:
Good rule.
Something began changing after that.
Small things.
Clara brushing snow from his shoulders.
Elias placing one hand against her back when they crossed ice, after first looking for permission.
Her fingers touching his when exchanging pencils.
The way he watched her mouth when she spoke even though he could not hear.
Clara began speaking more anyway.
He understood perhaps half from lip reading.
She liked telling him things.
One afternoon she stood kneading dough.
Elias entered carrying firewood.
Clara’s sleeves were rolled.
Flour on her cheek.
He stopped.
Stared.
She noticed.
“What?”
He looked away.
Clara smiled.
She wiped her cheek.
“Flour?”
Elias shook his head.
He put the wood down.
Took the notebook.