where wounds speak

Chapter 5 — The Innocent and the Beast

Mathis had heard the warnings before. His mother’s sharp voice still rang in his ears whenever he thought of venturing too far along the cliffs. Stay away from that place, Mathis. Don’t go near the workshop. It’s dangerous. But the more Clara forbade it, the stronger his curiosity grew.

That afternoon, once lessons were over and the village quieted into its daily rhythm, he slipped away. His small frame made it easy to disappear between alleys and hedges. He followed the narrow path past the church, the one that led down to the stretch of coast where pine trees leaned like watchmen against the wind. His sneakers left faint prints in the damp soil, his breath quick with both excitement and a trace of fear.

The workshop came into view gradually, half-concealed by rock and shadow. Smoke curled from a chimney, gray against the pale sky. The closer he drew, the louder the sounds reached him: the metallic clang of hammer against stone, the irregular rhythm like a heartbeat gone wrong.

Mathis crouched behind a boulder, eyes wide.

Jonas was there.

The man looked nothing like the figures Mathis saw in the village square—the fishermen with their nets, the shopkeepers with their aprons. Jonas was bare-armed despite the chill, his skin streaked with dust and sweat, his hair falling into his eyes as he bent over a massive block of stone. With every strike, the muscles in his shoulders tensed, released, tensed again. Shards flew, littering the ground like splinters of bone.

To anyone else, the scene might have seemed violent, even frightening. But to Mathis, it was… fascinating. The blows were fierce, yes, but each one seemed to reveal something hidden, as though the man was not destroying the stone but releasing it.

The boy pressed his palms to the rock he was hiding behind, holding his breath. He wanted to stay invisible, to watch forever without being noticed. Yet something inside him itched to move closer, to ask the questions that had burned in him since the first night he heard Jonas’s shouts across the harbor.

But he had barely shifted when the hammer stopped. Jonas turned his head sharply.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the entire world froze.

"You again," Jonas muttered, his voice rough and gravelly, though not as sharp as Mathis expected.

The boy swallowed. He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t move.

"Why… why do your statues cry?" The words tumbled out, hesitant but clear.

Jonas blinked, as though the question had cracked something in him more effectively than any chisel. He set the hammer down with a grunt, wiping his dusty hands on his trousers.

"They don’t cry," he said finally. His tone was flat, but there was no anger in it. "They break. That’s all."

Mathis tilted his head, unconvinced. His gaze roamed over the half-finished figure before them, its hollowed chest, its face blurred into silence.

"I think they look sad," he whispered.

Jonas exhaled slowly through his nose, as though the words pressed on something he had kept buried. His eyes narrowed, not at the boy, but at the stone. For a moment, he seemed to forget Mathis was even there.

Then the child took a bold step forward, his small shoes crunching against the fragments scattered across the ground.

"Can you… show me how you do it?"

For a long moment, Jonas simply stared at him, as though weighing the request. The boy’s voice still hung in the air, trembling between daring and fear. Then, with a grunt that sounded more like surrender than agreement, Jonas bent down, picked up a smaller chisel, and held it out.

"Here. Hold it."

Mathis hesitated, then reached forward with both hands, clutching the tool as though it might slip from his grasp. The metal was colder and heavier than he expected. His fingers tightened around it nervously.

Jonas stepped behind him. His presence was overwhelming—broad shoulders looming, the smell of dust and sweat and something burnt lingering in the air. He placed one large hand over Mathis’s, adjusting the boy’s grip until it was firm but not rigid.

"Not too tight," he muttered. "If you choke the stone, it won’t listen."

He picked up the hammer again and, with surprising care, guided Mathis’s hand to the surface of the block. The boy felt his own heart race as Jonas lifted the hammer and tapped gently. A vibration ran up the chisel, into his small fingers, buzzing through his arm.

His mouth opened in wonder.

"See?" Jonas said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. "The stone listens. But it doesn’t forgive."

Mathis turned his wide eyes up toward him. "Does it hurt when it breaks?"

The question seemed to catch Jonas off guard. His jaw worked, but no answer came immediately. He looked back at the sculpture instead, his gray eyes darkening as if shadows passed through them.

"Sometimes," he said at last.

The hammer fell silent. Jonas stepped back, leaving the chisel in Mathis’s grip. The boy lingered, staring at the tool, before setting it down carefully on the block.

A moment of quiet stretched between them, filled only by the sea’s murmur and the gulls circling above.

Then, from the distance, a sharp voice cut through the air: "Mathis!"

The boy flinched. His mother’s call—stern, worried, unmistakable.

Panic lit his face. He looked back at Jonas, uncertain whether to run or to stay.

Jonas didn’t scold him. He didn’t shout. He simply stepped aside, clearing the path, his eyes unreadable.

"Go."

Mathis darted away, his small feet scattering fragments of stone as he ran back up the path. His laughter—half-nervous, half-thrilled—echoed faintly as he disappeared beyond the pines.

Jonas remained alone in the fading light. He flexed his fingers once, then let them fall against his thighs. His gaze lingered on the chisel, which still carried the faint warmth of a child’s hand.

It had been years—longer than he could remember—since anything had entered this place other than silence and stone. And though he told himself it was nothing, that it meant nothing, the echo of that innocent voice clung to him, stubborn as dust.

He lifted his hammer once more. But when it came down against the stone, the sound seemed different. Less certain. Less absolute.