CHAPTER 13 — The Scars
718 Words
The storm passed by morning, leaving the world washed clean and smelling of wet earth. Celeste woke up with a heaviness in her chest — not sadness, not fear, but something she couldn’t name. Something that lingered from the night before.
Elias had been… different.
Not softer, exactly.
But less guarded.
Less distant.
Less unreachable.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched her arm, the warmth of his hand, the way he stepped closer without realizing it. The storm had shaken something loose — in him, in her, in the space between them.
She found herself walking toward the grove again, carrying the empty food container. She told herself she was just returning it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But her heart knew better.
When she reached his house, he was outside chopping wood. His movements were precise, controlled, almost too controlled — like he was trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.
“Morning,” she called.
He paused mid‑swing, turning toward her. His eyes flicked to the container in her hand, then to her face.
“You didn’t have to bring that back.”
“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm — and that’s when she saw it.
A scar.
Long, pale, jagged.
Running from his wrist up toward his elbow.
Not a farming scar.
Not an accident scar.
Something else.
Her breath caught. “Elias… what happened to your arm?”
He froze.
Completely.
Like she had touched a nerve he’d buried deep.
“It’s nothing,” he said, turning away.
“That’s not nothing.”
“Celeste.”
She stepped closer. “You have more, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t deny it.
She reached out — slowly, gently — and touched his forearm. His muscles tensed instantly, like he wasn’t used to being touched. Like he didn’t know how to react.
Her fingers brushed another scar — smaller, but just as old.
“Elias…” she whispered. “These aren’t from work.”
He pulled his arm back sharply, stepping away as if her touch burned.
“Don’t,” he said, voice low.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not your business.”
“It is if you’re hurting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Then tell me.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll look at me differently.”
Her heart twisted. “I won’t.”
“You will.”
He turned away, gripping the axe handle so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Celeste stepped closer again, refusing to let him retreat into silence. “Elias, I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not.”
He exhaled shakily — the first crack in his voice she’d ever heard.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “These scars… they’re reminders.”
“Of what?”
He didn’t answer.
But the pain in his eyes told her enough.
She softened her voice. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… don’t shut me out.”
He looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, she saw something raw in his expression. Vulnerability. Fear. Longing.
Then he stepped back.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Let you get close.”
Her chest tightened. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you too.”
The words hit her like a punch.
Lose you too.
Too.
There was someone before her.
Someone he lost.
Someone tied to those scars.
She swallowed hard. “Elias…”
He shook his head. “Go home, Celeste.”
She didn’t move.
“Please,” he added — soft, broken, pleading.
She stepped back slowly, her heart aching.
As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her again — not cold, not distant, but full of something heavy and unspoken.
And she knew:
Those scars weren’t just on his skin.
They were inside him.
And she wanted to understand them — even if he wasn’t ready to let her.
- Writer
