Wrote.
Then hesitated.
Tore out the page.
Crushed it.
Clara stared.
“What was that?”
He shook his head.
She reached.
He moved the paper away.
Clara laughed.
For the first time, she chased him.
Around the table.
Elias looked genuinely startled.
Then amused.
Clara grabbed his wrist.
“Give me that.”
He held the paper above his head.
She glared.
“You cheat.”
He could read that.
His shoulders moved with silent laughter.
Clara climbed onto a chair.
Reached.
Elias moved back.
The chair shifted.
Clara slipped.
His hands caught her.
One around her waist.
One beneath her arm.
Suddenly they were close.
Very close.
Clara’s hands rested against his chest.
Hard muscle beneath wool.
Neither moved.
Elias’s smile disappeared.
His eyes lowered to her mouth.
Then back.
Question.
Always.
Clara felt breathless.
She whispered:
“You can keep your stupid paper.”
He released her carefully.
Later, after he went outside, Clara found the crumpled note beside the table.
She should not have opened it.
She did.
Three words.
You look beautiful.
Clara sat down.
Read it again.
Beautiful.
No one outside family had ever used that word seriously.
She pressed the paper flat.
Kept it.
The tenderness frightened her more than cruelty ever had.
Cruelty came with instructions.
Harden.
Ignore.
Survive.
Kindness left Clara exposed.
At night, she found herself watching Elias beside the fire.
He removed his shirt sometimes before sleeping.
Clara pretended to be fascinated by the ceiling.
He was broad across the chest, dark hair scattered over muscle, old scars along his ribs.
Once he caught her watching.
Clara immediately turned toward the wall.
She heard nothing from him, of course.
But the next morning a note sat beside her breakfast.
You stare.
She nearly threw a biscuit at him.
Instead she wrote:
You already mentioned this.
He replied:
Still true.
Clara drew an angry face.
Elias kept the note.
Then the pain began showing itself.
Perhaps it had always been there.
Clara simply had not recognized it.
One morning Elias chopped wood outside.
She watched from the window.
His axe rose.
Fell.
Again.
Then stopped midair.
His face tightened.
The axe dropped from his hand.
Elias grabbed his right ear.
Bent forward.
Clara ran.
By the time she reached him, he was on one knee.
Sweat covered his forehead despite the cold.
She touched his shoulder.
He flinched.
Then saw her.
Clara signed:
Pain?
He nodded.
Inside?
He pointed to the ear.
Clara helped him inside.