where wounds speak

Chapter 6 — Family Secrets

The storm had returned—not outside, but within the house.

Clara’s voice rose first, sharp as a whip. "What were you thinking, letting him wander near that man?"

Élise stood her ground in the kitchen doorway, though her pulse raced beneath her skin. Mathis had run past them both only moments earlier, his cheeks flushed, his coat dusty with fragments of stone. Clara had grabbed his shoulder, fury flashing in her eyes, and Élise had stepped forward instinctively to shield him.

Now, the boy was gone upstairs, the sound of his footsteps fading. What remained was the tension—thick, unrelenting, charged with the weight of years unspoken.

"He was just curious," Élise said quietly. "He’s a child, Clara. Children explore."

"Not there," Clara snapped, her fists clenching at her sides. Her uniform still clung to her from her shift, her hair damp with rain, her boots leaving faint prints on the floor. "You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s capable of."

"And you do?"

The words slipped out before Élise could stop them. Clara’s head jerked back as though struck.

"I know enough," she said coldly. "And I know Mathis doesn’t need another ghost in his life."

The word ghost lingered in the air. Élise pressed her lips together, fighting the sting behind her eyes.

"Clara, he’s harmless. Mathis was safe. He was… curious about the statues, that’s all."

Clara let out a bitter laugh. "Safe? You don’t even know this man! Do you think because you’ve been here two days you can suddenly decide what’s safe for him?"

The accusation landed heavily. Élise’s chest tightened. She lowered her voice, but each word trembled.

"I just wanted to give him… a moment. Something that didn’t feel like a prison."

"A prison?" Clara’s eyes widened, her face flushed. "You left, Élise. You don’t get to call this a prison. You don’t get to criticize the life I built while you were gone."

Élise took a step closer, her voice breaking.

"I didn’t mean—"

But Clara cut her off with a wave of her hand, her body shaking with rage.

"Don’t you dare pretend you care now. Where were you when Mom was dying? Where were you when Mathis cried for you and asked me why his aunt never came?"

The questions tore through her like claws. Élise’s throat tightened, her eyes burning. She wanted to answer, to explain, but the words tangled into nothing.

Clara slammed her hand against the table, making the glasses rattle.

"Do you know what it was like? Standing at her grave alone? Knowing she was waiting for you, even at the end?"

Élise staggered back as though struck. "What?"

Her sister’s eyes glistened with fury and grief.

"She called your name," Clara said, her voice raw now, stripped of its sharpness. "The day she died, she asked for you. And you weren’t there."

The words lodged like a blade in Élise’s chest. She felt her knees weaken, her breath falter. She gripped the edge of the counter for support.

Clara stood tall, her chest heaving. For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the relentless ticking of the old clock on the wall.

Élise’s vision blurred. The words Clara had thrown at her still rang in her ears, pounding harder than her own heartbeat. She called your name… and you weren’t there.

She pressed her hand against her mouth, as if she could push the grief back inside, but it spilled anyway. Her voice broke.

"I didn’t know, Clara. I swear I didn’t know."

Clara shook her head, tears brightening her eyes though her jaw remained tight.

"Of course you didn’t. You weren’t here. You never are."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Even the clock seemed too loud, each tick like a knife cutting into the air between them.

Élise took a tentative step forward. "I was drowning… I couldn’t save her, and I couldn’t save myself. I—"

But Clara recoiled, her chair scraping sharply against the floor as she stepped back.

"Don’t you dare make this about you. Don’t you dare."

The words, cold and final, left no room for reply. Clara’s chest heaved, her fists clenched at her sides. Then, with a swift turn, she stormed out, her boots striking the floor with military precision. The front door slammed, rattling the windows.

And just like that, Élise was alone.

She stood in the kitchen, her body trembling, her breath uneven. The walls seemed to close in tighter with every second. She reached for the table but found no strength in her hand. Instead, she stumbled into the living room, collapsing onto the old sofa.

The air felt heavy, pressing against her chest. Clara’s words replayed in her head, relentless: She asked for you. She waited for you.

Her hands shook violently. She pressed them against her knees, forcing herself to breathe, to anchor herself. But the grief was too deep, the guilt too sharp. It coiled inside her like a serpent, hissing with every remembered silence, every unanswered call.

She rose suddenly, restless, as if movement might scatter the shadows clawing at her. She stepped outside into the night.

The air was cold, almost punishing. The village lay quiet, the lamps casting long pools of yellow light on the slick cobblestones. The sea’s roar was louder now, carrying the echo of waves against cliffs.

She walked without direction, her steps fast and uneven. Her breath came in short bursts, fogging in the cold air. She wanted to outrun her sister’s voice, her mother’s absence, her own failure—but they followed her like shadows she could not shed.

And then, faint but clear, another sound reached her.

A cry.

Not human, not quite. A guttural shout, torn from a throat in sleep. It drifted from the direction of the coast.

Élise stopped, her heart leaping. She listened. Again, the sound: a strangled yell, followed by silence, then the faint crash of something heavy inside a building.

It came from the workshop.

Jonas.

For a moment, she stood frozen on the dark path. The instinct she thought she had buried stirred awake—the instinct to move toward pain, not away from it. Her pulse quickened, but her steps carried her forward, toward the smoke-blackened roof, toward the man who carved silence into stone but screamed in his sleep.

Some wounds, she thought, were louder than words.