Page 12 of Whispers of Helena
“First aid kit’s in the pantry,” I manage, my voice strained.
She nods and steps away, the distance between us pulling like a thread stretched too tight. As she moves toward the pantry, the low murmuring of the men’s voices returns, muffled at first, then louder, as though the room is slowly waking up.
But the discomfort doesn’t lift.
Something lingers, heavy and unseen, brushing the edges of my awareness. It’s not gone, whatever it was. Instead, it’s just out of reach, like a shadow slipping back into the dark.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breath. The room feels colder, despite the lingering heat of the stove.
Helena reappears, the first aid kit in her hands. She sets it on the counter, her eyes briefly meeting mine, before flicking away.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice tight.
I don’t respond. My eyes are drawn to her hand, to the angry red burn still glowing against her skin. I can’t look away from it. For a moment, I consider reaching for it again, but something stops me. It’s a flicker of unease, like the remnants of that voice still whispering in the back of my mind.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asks cautiously.
I force a nod. “I’m fine.”
Her brows knit together, revealing a flash of something in her eyes. It’s a look of concern, or maybe suspicion. But she doesn’t speak on it.
“I’ll take care of this,” she says, gesturing to her burn. “You should get back to your food before it gets cold.”
Her words are dismissive, polite, but there’s a finality to them that makes my jaw tighten.
“Right,” I mutter, walking back to the table.
Returning to my seat, I look at my plate, but my appetite’s long gone. I can feel Eli’s eyes on me from across the table. The conversation picks up again, but I’m still listening for that whisper, waiting for it to come back.
That evening,as I push open the back door, the kitchen greets me with shadows, the only light spilling from the bulb above the sink. Something foreign fractures the familiar silence of the house—laughter, tender and unrestrained, floating in from the living room. I stop mid-step, my hand still on the doorknob, the sound catching me off guard.
It’s not just Kiran’s light giggle or Eli’s low chuckle. There’s Marcel’s booming laugh, joined by a softer, melodic one that can only be Helena’s. Together, they create a strange symphony, one that doesn’t belong in these walls. It twists something inside me.
I move slowly, hanging my hat and coat on the peg by the door. Crossing to the sink, my boots make soft thuds against the floorboards. The warm water rushes over my hands, but I barely feel it, captivated by the faint voices. They swell and dip, overlapping in easy rhythm, filling the space like it’s theirs. It feels intrusive, an unknown presence inhabiting the bones of my home.
Drying my hands, I turn and step into the doorway of the living room. The sight before me is one I don’t recognize. The four of them are huddled around the coffee table, the soft glow of the lamp throwing gentle light across their faces. Between them lies a deck of cards, their laughter breaking with every playful jab and exchanged glance.
Kiran, grinning and with excited eyes, is the first to see me. “Hi, Pa!” he calls out. “Ms. Helena was telling us stories.”
Helena’s head turns at the sound of his voice, her laughter fading as her gaze meets mine. Her cheeks are pink, her shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t say anything.
“It’s time to get ready for bed, Kiran,” I say, my tone even.
His smile falters just a little, but he doesn’t argue. “Yes, sir,” he says, sliding off the couch and gathering the cards.
As he heads toward the stairs, the warmth in the room seems to dim, the air shifting back to something more familiar. Helena watches me for a moment longer, her hands resting still on the edge of the table. Then she looks away, her laughter now just an echo in the heavy quiet.
Saturday
Helena
Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.
Luke 15:10
The daysat the ranch blur together with a steady rhythm of work and quiet. Time slips through my fingers like grains of sand, and before I know it, a month has passed. The routines settle into me. Cooking meals, guiding Kiran through his lessons, sharing the table with men who barely notice I’m there.
Silas, however, remains elusive—a presence that lingers at the edges. His muddy boots by the door, the scent of leather and earth in the hall are reminders he’s here, but he keeps his distance. Some days, I only catch glimpses of him riding out before dawn or returning long after the sun has dipped below the horizon. He’s a figure carved from the land itself, stoic, slipping into the shadows as easily as the wind through the trees.
