where wounds speak

Chapter 8 — Fragile Bridges

The following morning, Élise woke with a weight still lodged deep in her chest. She had barely slept, her mind replaying the images from the workshop: Jonas’s cries in the dark, the haunted look in his eyes, the way his defenses had cracked just long enough to reveal the wound beneath.

She rose from the sofa, her body aching from the poor night’s rest, and moved toward the kitchen. Light spilled weakly through the shutters, painting thin stripes across the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of salt and damp wood, as though the sea had invaded the house in the night.

As she set water to boil, she caught sight of movement outside. A small figure on the path, cap tilted askew, bounding with the restless energy of youth. Mathis.

Her lips curved into a faint smile before guilt pulled them taut again. She still wasn’t sure how to speak to him, how to claim a place in his life after years of absence. But he was here now, on her doorstep, his eyes too wide for his small face, searching for her as though she belonged.

She opened the door before he could knock.

"You’re up early," she said gently.

Mathis grinned, though his cheeks were flushed from the morning chill. "I wanted to show you something."

Before she could respond, he grabbed her hand—small, warm, insistent—and tugged her down the steps. Surprised, Élise let him lead her, her coat flapping as the wind picked up.

They crossed the village, its streets still half-asleep. Fishermen hauled nets near the docks, their calls rough but not unfriendly. The baker’s chimney smoked, carrying with it the sweet, yeasty promise of bread. Mathis greeted each sight as though it were part of a story he was telling just for her.

"That’s old Mr. Morel’s shop. He sells candy, but only if you say ‘please’ twice."

"Over there—that’s where I found a cat once. It followed me home, but Mom wouldn’t let me keep it."

Each detail was a thread, weaving a bridge between his world and hers. Élise felt her chest loosen with every step, even as a quiet ache pulsed beneath. These were memories he should have been sharing with her all along.

They reached the edge of the village, where the cliffs rose high above the sea. Mathis pointed excitedly toward a narrow path winding through the pines.

"Come on. It’s not far."

Élise followed, careful on the uneven ground. The air here was sharper, filled with the mingled scents of resin and brine. When the path opened, she recognized it: the same place Mathis had brought her days earlier, the cliff with the flat rock overlooking the endless horizon.

But today, it was different.

At the far end of the clearing, smoke rose once more from the workshop chimney. A faint hammering echoed, steady and insistent. Mathis’s gaze darted toward it, his eyes shining with something between fear and fascination.

"He’s awake," the boy whispered.

Élise studied his face. There was no malice in his tone, only curiosity—perhaps even admiration. Her pulse quickened. After the night before, she couldn’t shake the image of Jonas collapsing in anguish, his silence crumbling into cries.

"Mathis," she said carefully, crouching slightly so her eyes met his, "did you go there again? Alone?"

He hesitated, then nodded, biting his lip. "He didn’t chase me. He… showed me how to hold the chisel."

The admission landed heavy in her chest. Jonas, the man who wanted no one near, had allowed this boy close enough to touch his tools.

Élise reached for Mathis’s hands, holding them gently. "You must be careful. He’s not… he’s not like other people."

Mathis tilted his head, unbothered. "Neither are you."

The words pierced her. She let out a soft laugh, though her throat tightened.

"That might be true," she admitted.

They stood together in the clearing, the sea roaring beneath the cliffs, the hammer echoing faintly across the rocks. A fragile bridge was forming—between her and Mathis, between Mathis and Jonas, and perhaps, tentatively, between herself and the man whose silence spoke louder than words.

But fragile bridges could break.

The hammering grew louder as they walked along the cliff path, each strike ringing through the pines like the heartbeat of the coast itself. Mathis quickened his pace, almost dragging Élise forward. His small fingers clung to hers with the urgency of a child leading someone toward a secret.

When they emerged from the trees, the workshop came fully into view. It was rougher up close than Élise had imagined—a mismatched structure of stone and timber, patched with rusted sheets of metal, its walls streaked with smoke. The door hung slightly ajar, and through the gap she caught glimpses of shadows moving within.

Jonas’s figure bent and rose in rhythm, each swing of his hammer precise, merciless.

Mathis tugged on her sleeve. "See? I told you. He doesn’t scare me."

Élise tightened her grip on his hand. "He should."

Her words came harsher than she intended, born of fear more than conviction. Mathis frowned, then slipped free of her grasp, stepping closer.

"Wait—Mathis!"

Her voice carried, and Jonas froze mid-swing. The hammer hung in the air, then fell heavily to the ground. He turned toward them.

The sight of him struck her again: bare arms covered in dust, chest rising and falling with exertion, eyes gray and sharp as wet stone. But there was something else in his expression now—not fury, not yet. Surprise.

"You," he said flatly, his gaze fixing on Élise. Then his eyes shifted to the boy beside her. "And the child."

Mathis straightened under the weight of that stare. "I wanted to show her," he said simply.

Jonas’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked back to Élise.

"You shouldn’t be here."

The words echoed like the slam of a door. Yet his voice was quieter than before, rougher, as though the night’s cry still lingered in his throat.

Élise held his gaze, refusing to retreat. "We didn’t come to harm you."

Jonas let out a short, humorless laugh. "Harm me? You think anyone can do worse than I already do to myself?"

The bitterness in his tone cut sharper than the cold wind. Mathis, unshaken, stepped forward again.

"You showed me last time. With the chisel. Remember?"

Jonas’s body stiffened. For an instant, something flickered across his face: recognition, maybe even regret. His hand twitched, as though he wanted to push the boy away but couldn’t quite summon the will.

Élise’s breath caught. This was the fragile thread—the bridge built from a child’s innocence, from a trust unspoiled by fear.

"He means no harm," she said softly. "Neither do I."

Jonas looked at her, his expression hard, but his eyes betrayed a fracture. For a long moment, no one moved. Then he stooped, picked up the hammer, and turned back to the stone.

"Watch if you want. But don’t speak."

The words were gruff, but not a dismissal. It was the smallest concession, yet in this silence it felt monumental.

Mathis’s face lit up. He glanced at Élise, then quickly settled beside him, sitting cross-legged in the dust as though attending a lesson. Élise stayed back, near the doorway, her heart beating fast.

The hammer rose and fell. Each strike rang out into the air, carving away fragments of stone. And for the first time, Élise did not see violence in the motion, but rhythm. Purpose. A language of its own.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching the boy watch the man, and felt it stir within her—a fragile bridge taking shape, tenuous but real.

For now, that was enough.