Page 13 of Whispers of Helena
As Eli predicted, the men treat me like part of the furniture. They come and go, their conversations skipping over me likestones on water. I don’t mind. There’s a kind of peace in anonymity, a serene corner of this world carved out just for me.
This morning, though, something shifted. I wake before the sun, the room still cloaked in predawn gray. Winter’s bite has softened; a gentle warmth now creeps through the cracks. Spring is coming. I sense it in the gentle rustle of the curtains when I open the window, the subtle stretch of daylight.
Today, I decided, is mine.
The house is still as I dress. I pull on my snug, comfortable jeans and a thick sweater to guard against the lingering chill of the morning. My dress boots, polished but practical, slide on easily. I twist my hair into a braid over one shoulder and secure it with a simple tie.
Purse in hand, Bible tucked under my arm, I quietly leave my bedroom, gently closing the door behind me. The lock clicks softly, a small assurance of the space I’ve claimed for myself here.
The ranch is still half-asleep, the pale glow of the horizon just beginning to stretch its fingers across the land. Today, I’ll leave the property, step beyond the fences that have kept me penned in for weeks.
Descending the groaning wooden stairs, I make my way to the kitchen. I set my things on the island and move with purpose, reaching for the coffee pot. Scoop the grounds, fill the water, press the button—the familiar routine providing a small comfort.
The sound of a key turning in the back door lock breaks the silence. My hand stills. The faint gurgle of the coffee maker is the only noise in the space as I glance over my shoulder. Silas steps inside, his presence filling the room before the door even clicks shut. He lingers with his hand on the knob, his head bowed slightly as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. When he finally looks up, his eyes meet mine. They’re darker than their usual blue, a deep, stormy color, rimmed in red.
“Good morning, Mr. Hayes.” I try to sound cheerful, but the words come out thin, brittle. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him in days.
“Helena.” Hisvoice is so low it’s almost a growl. Pulling off his hat and coat, he hangs them on the peg, then moves toward the sink without sparing me another glance. As he passes, the sharp, coppery scent of blood follows him, clinging to the air. My stomach tightens. I glance down, and sure enough, his boots and the cuffs of his jeans are splattered in dark red.
“You have blood there,” I say quietly, unable to tear my eyes away.
He doesn’t react right away, shutting off the water with a calm precision before grabbing a towel. Each motion is almost mechanical, like washing his hands is just another routine to get through. “Had to deal with a wolf out on the north side,” he says at last, his tone flat, stripped of any hint of emotion.
The smell clings to him, thick and suffocating. Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “You smell like death.”
Silas turns, stepping closer, closing the space between us. Being near him is overpowering, his closeness as oppressive as the stench. “Death happens, Helena,” he says, his voice a quiet, dangerous thing. “Out there, it’s a part of life. If you’re here long enough, you’ll need to grow a thicker skin.”
I can’t move…can’t breathe. His words settle over me like a cloak, the unspoken warning clear. He tosses the towel onto the counter, his eyes flicking to my Bible on the island. His lips curl into something that might’ve been a smirk, but it’s too bitter, too tired. “There’s plenty of death in your precious book there, Ms. Toth.”
I swallow hard, the strength of his gaze pressing against my chest. “But in there, life is given through death, Mr. Hayes,” I tell him, my voice trembling.
He shakes his head. “I don’t put faith in stories or old words. I trust what I can see, what I can hold in my hands.”
The admission cut deeper than I expected. “You don’t believe in God?” I ask, my heart aching at the thought.
“I did once,” he says. “But then He took my wife.”
The room grows cold. His exhaustion is written in every line of his face, his shoulders sagging under the invisible weight. Igather my courage, yet my voice is barely audible. “You don’t think you’ll see her again? In heaven?”
Silas lifts his eyes to mine, and the look he gives me sends an icy shiver through my core. “Even if heaven’s real, Helena,” he says, his voice flat, resigned, “I won’t be welcome there.”
Without another word, he turns and heads for the stairs. I stand frozen, listening to each heavy step, each creak, until I hear his door shut. Only then do I release the breath I’ve been holding, my chest aching with the effort.
The silence returns, but it feels different this time. Staring at the Bible on the island, its pages promising hope and redemption, I feel an ache settle deep in my chest. Silas has exiled himself to a godless existence, and the thought of him wandering this world alone, carrying his grief and his burdens without a shred of hope, twists like a knife in my heart.
Sunlight streamsthrough the windshield as I drive slowly down Main Street. The town is waking up; the streets dotted with early risers drawn out by the promise of warmer weather. Shopkeepers prop open their doors, and clusters of people linger on the sidewalks, their chatter blending with the sounds of cars and the occasional bark of a dog.
I spot an empty parking space and guide my truck in. With the engine off, I gather my purse and stash my Bible under the seat—my usual routine before exiting the truck. The creak of the door accompanies me as I lock up; the keys cool in my hand.
The air smells fresh, a mix of warming earth and blooming flowers carried on a light breeze. I pause for a moment, scanning the row of storefronts around me. Painted signs and wooden trim give each shop its own personality, an eclectic mix of new and old, practical and whimsical. My list is short but purposeful: needles and thread, glue, felt. Yet, I know something unexpected will catch my eye before I’m done.
The distant sound of music playing outside a coffee shopdrifts through the air as I look both ways before crossing over to the craft store. I take in the simple charm of its window display. Carefully arranged fabric swatches, jars of buttons, and a hand-painted sign that reads “Stitch & Stick.” A bell above the door jingles sharply as I push it open, startling me.
The shop is small, cozy in a way that feels intimate rather than cramped. Shelves lined with bolts of fabric and baskets of yarn create narrow aisles. I weave through the space, my boots making soft sounds against the wooden floor as I search for what I need.
In the corner, I find bright squares of felt stacked neatly in a rainbow of colors. I crouch down, running my fingers over the soft texture as I pick out the shades I’ll need: blue, Kiran’s favorite color, then red and yellow for accents. My thoughts wander to the promise I made him about the puppets we’ll make, and a small smile pulls at my lips. The boy doesn’t go easy on his clothes, especially his pants, and the patched knees are a testament to his boundless energy. Once I have the felt selected, I move to find the thread and needles so I can reinforce some of the many patches.
“Helena, it’s good to see you out and about.”
