Page 127 of These Tears

I step over the threshold and freeze just as Elias sets the hatchet beside the hearth. My jaw clamps shut, teeth grinding before I even realise it.

The kitchen floor is soaked. The wood is dark with moisture, water already sinking into the grain. The spreading stain licks across the floorboards all the way to the dining table, where it curls in a dismal crescent around one leg.

The pipe beneath the sink looks bent at the wrong angle. Tools lie scattered across the counter.

And there is another matter: chickens.

Everywhere.

A whole, clucking flock of them has invaded the sitting room. Some perch on the arms of the couch, others scratch at the soaked floor, their wings flapping wildly at our entrance as if they’ve taken offence at the poor lodging.

‘What—?’ I start, mouth dry.

‘You used the tap before the line had thawed properly,’ Elias cuts in sharply. ‘The pipe burst.’ He doesn’t look at me as he begins peeling his gloves, jaw ticking. ‘It’s sheer fucking luck Anders does plumbing and keeps tools in his sledge bags.’

My chin drops. I stare at the spreading stain as though I can make it shrink if I look hard enough.

He’d left the notes. I’ve read them. I was also too busy planning never to see this place again.

‘The animal shed?’ he continues, stepping deeper into the chaos with the slow, exhausted gait of someone trying not to explode. ‘You left the heater running flat out. The battery drained before we even made it back. Now it’s cold as arse in there until I get the backup generator running. So—’

He gestures broadly towards the clucking mass of menace. ‘We have housemates.’

The damn thermostat. I forgot to check it when I turned on the heater.

One of the chickens chooses that moment to hop up onto a chair and drop a fresh insult onto the seat cushion.

‘Fuck off!’ He waves it away, grabs the mop that leans tiredly against the fridge and tosses it to me.

Then he stops at the table, both hands braced against the back of a chair. His head dips. One long breath leaves him. Then another.

Long, then slow. Out again, just as slow. But the strain in his shoulders never leaves.

I say nothing. Because I didn’t think twice about what I was leaving behind.

His hand leaves the chair for the briefest second and presses into his side, just below his ribs.

The next angry thought never quite forms.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I ask instead.

His hand falls away, spine straightens.

He turns away from me before I can see his face properly, settling the chair back into its position.

‘I’m going out to help Anders turn the shed into a henhouse,’ he mutters at last, completely ignoring my question. ‘Stoke the fire. Feed the birds. Give them some water. It’ll be an hour until the generator heats the shed enough so their feathers don’t fall off their arses.’

He pushes off the chair and walks to the door with his jaw locked so tight his cheeks ripple. ‘You’re on chicken shit duty until further notice.’

He slams the door behind him with a force that makes the walls shudder and sends the chickens flying all over the place.

The quiet that settles clots with things unsaid and things done. My limbs are still numb, but the cold has nothing to do with it. My mouth still remembers his.

The one glove still on my hand goes first, then the rest of the outer layers.

I slide my phone back into its hiding place inside the picture frame, then swap into a purple fleece-lined tracksuit that still smells of my laundry detergent from back home. It calms me a little. A pair of white-and-brown fluffy socks follows. They make my feet look like cartoon paws. Marina and I always bought each other the most ridiculous ones we could find for Christmas.

I wiggle my toes inside them and can almost see her laughing at these. The memories thaw me at least a little.