where wounds speak

Chapter 12 — An Impossible Dinner

The idea had not been hers. Of that, Élise was certain. She would never have dared.

It was Mathis who had asked, in his bright, unfiltered way, while Clara prepared coffee the night before:

“Why don’t we invite him? Just once. Then you’ll see he isn’t scary.”

The spoon had clinked against Clara’s mug as her hands froze mid-motion.

“Mathis—”

But the boy pressed on, undeterred: “If you sit with him, if you listen, you’ll know.”

And somehow, against all reason, the suggestion had lingered.

Now, as Élise set plates on the table, she wondered how she had allowed it. The dining room—unused for years—felt both too small and too exposed. The scratched wooden table, polished to a dull sheen, belonged to their childhood, to warmth. Tonight, it was an arena.

Clara moved briskly around the kitchen, every gesture clipped, defensive. She had agreed reluctantly, only after muttering: “If this blows up, it’s on you.”

The knock came at seven.

Mathis ran before either woman could stop him. He tugged the door open, and there he was: Jonas.

He filled the doorway, his presence as rough as the sea. Damp hair, creased shirt, coat unbuttoned. He looked like a man dragged here against his will—yet he had come.

Mathis beamed. “I told you he’d come.”

Jonas’s eyes flicked over the boy’s head—Élise, then Clara. No greeting, just a curt nod.

“Come in,” Clara said. The words sounded like a challenge.

He stepped inside. His boots left faint marks on the boards, as if the house itself resisted him. The air seemed cooler as he entered the dining room. He scanned the table, lips tightening, but said nothing.

“Sit here,” Mathis insisted, patting the chair beside him.

Jonas obeyed, shoulders hunched, a giant trying to make himself smaller.

Clara set down the serving dish and sat opposite him. The silence was immediate, pressing.

“I hope you like stew,” Élise tried. “It’s… simple.”

“Fine,” Jonas muttered, unreadable.

They ate.

Mathis carried the conversation, chattering about gulls and boats, about a vessel he’d already named The Gull. His voice filled the silence, but the adults stayed taut, wary. Clara cut her food in precise, tiny bites. Jonas ate slowly, mechanically, eyes dropping whenever the boy’s laughter rose too brightly.

Twice Élise tried small talk:

“The harbor was busy today.”

“I heard the nets were full this morning.”

Her words vanished like pebbles in water.

Finally, Clara spoke. Her voice cut sharp. “You’ve lived on the cliffs a long time.”

“Long enough.”

“Alone?”

The scrape of his fork against the plate was loud. His gaze hardened. “Do you ask because you want to know—or because you want proof of what you already believe?”

The air tightened. Mathis froze. Élise’s pulse raced.

“I ask,” Clara said, even and controlled, “because my son sits at this table.”

Jonas’s jaw worked. His eyes flicked to Mathis, then back.

“Then ask what you mean.”

“At night people hear you shout. They see smoke. I don’t care for rumors, but I care for patterns. If he comes near your workshop—will he be safe?”

The question landed bare, brutal.

Jonas set his fork aside. “Your village mistakes nightmares for danger. The shouting is mine. It ends at my door.”

“Nightmares can walk,” Clara countered.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. Heat stirred—Élise spoke before it flared.

“He showed Mathis how to hold a chisel. Carefully.”

Clara’s reply was acid. “Careful is what people say before an accident.”

Mathis whispered, small but steady: “He wasn’t angry.”

Jonas’s gaze softened, barely. “I was working. I don’t drink. I don’t keep knives out for sport. I don’t let strangers swing the hammer.”

“Strangers,” Clara repeated. “And yet you let my son—”

“He listened,” Jonas interrupted. “Most people don’t.”

The words quieted the table. For once, Élise felt her throat loosen. It was no apology, but it was truth.

She took a chance. “Then why come tonight, Jonas?”

His eyes cut to her, wary. “You asked.” He hesitated, shoulders shifting. “People ask for things they don’t mean. I… came anyway.”

The air shifted. Clara’s scoff died half-formed.

And then, chaos: Mathis reached for the pitcher, sleeve catching a glass. It tipped, shattered. A bright crescent of blood opened on his thumb.

Clara surged forward; Élise pushed back her chair—yet Jonas was faster. Two strides and he was there, catching the boy’s wrist with surprising gentleness.

“It’s shallow,” he murmured. From his coat he pulled a folded cloth, wrapping the thumb with hands that knew how to bind. Tightened, loosened, tied. “Hold.”

Mathis stared, wide-eyed, uncrying. “Does the stone bleed?”

A sound escaped Jonas—not quite laugh, not quite groan. “Only the hands that work it.”

Clara stopped short, watching those thick fingers knot fabric with care too precise to fake. Her throat worked. “Thank you.”

Jonas nodded once, releasing the hand as if returning something borrowed.

The clock remembered to tick. Élise fetched a broom, grateful for the distraction of shards chiming into a dustpan. Mathis sat straighter, chest puffed with the dignity of not crying.

When order returned, Clara poured him water. “Small sips.”

Jonas leaned back, gaze sweeping over them. “Daylight,” he said. “No storms. He doesn’t stand near the saw. He doesn’t touch the burner. He doesn’t run.” His eyes fixed on Mathis. “You listen.”

“I listen,” Mathis echoed, proud as if knighted.

Clara gave the faintest nod. Not surrender—contract.

Dinner resumed. Halting at first, then easier. Élise told a small story about the baker’s apprentice dropping an entire tray of loaves; Mathis provided sound effects. Once, Jonas’s mouth twitched as if remembering what a smile was.

When the plates were cleared, Jonas stood. He tapped Mathis’s bandage with a knuckle. “Change it before bed.”

“He will,” Clara said. The words held more than instruction—they held permission.

Jonas’s gaze lingered on Élise. For a breath, the room narrowed to the space between their eyes. Exhaustion, yes—but something else too, a wary recognition of having crossed a bridge without it collapsing.

“The stew was…” He searched. “…warm.”

“Goodnight, Jonas,” she said.

The door clicked shut. The house inhaled.

Mathis lifted his thumb like a flag. “See? Not scary.”

Clara gathered the dishes, slow now, unarmed. “Tomorrow,” she said quietly, “we’ll go together.”

Élise felt the words like a faint light switched on inside her chest. She turned toward the window. The sea stretched restless and pale, holding its secrets.

An impossible dinner, she thought—and allowed herself the correction. Not impossible. Just narrow. Just careful.

The clock kept time. The house held. And somewhere along the coast, the hammer struck again—its rhythm changed, softer, as if the stone itself had heard the word together.