Page 13 of These Tears

Climbing the fifteen concrete steps that separate the basement from the rest of my house, I make a decision: I’m going to finish the space. I’m going to stop this prison nonsense and get a little more hands-on. The arts programmes I applied to last month probably won’t send so much as an acknowledgment. And if the dedicated minions of bureaucracy do decide to grace me with their opinions, it probably won’t be this year.

I’m too much of a coward to go for Greenland, so I sent applications to photography projects across the Nordic countries instead.

But now, trailing the rugged concrete edges, I realise—

This is my house. The new life I’ve started without Ron. And it’s been waiting covered in dust for way too long for me to pick up my own pieces.

More than a year has passed since I moved in, and the basement has remained half-finished. Not so much out of laziness as a refusal to face the truth: I’d bought it to get away from Ron, from the questions of why things had ended, and how far I had allowed myself to drift.

When the chemical scent from the developer trays finally thins and the scent of Anna’s cinnamon rolls in the kitchen takes hold of me, I step out of the dark with a calm I rarely feel. There are worse things than having a pastry chef for a sister.

Anna is already rifling through the pile of today’s mail.

Not that I asked her to.

‘There’s a sale on at IKEA,’ she announces, holding up a brochure. ‘You still need frames, right?’

‘Do I?’ I mutter, stepping towards the little cubby under the stairs where the house hides a cramped toilet and a miniature sink.

Of course I need frames. I haven’t even had a chance to hang a single photo that does not contain something from the house viewing. The abstract artwork is definitely not my thing.

Peeling off my nitrile gloves, I hear her call out again: ‘Why’s there a letter from the Icelandic Arts Group? And one from… Sámi Cultural Centre?’

I suppress a groan.

Well, it appears there are bureaucrats somewhere in the world actually doing their jobs.

I hadn’t told her I’d applied for visual arts grants in those countries. It had been a spontaneous, half-hearted attempt weeks ago driven by anger – at myself – for not daring to do what I’d always wanted.

‘Just… projects I applied to,’ I offer, drying my hands.

She huffs. ‘You’re going to Iceland? Do you hate heat now?’

I chuckle and promptly drop the towel on the floor.

As I bend to retrieve it, she adds casually: ‘Who’s E. Crane?’

My head bangs hard against the underside of the stair frame as if she’d pulled a string attached to my spine. Stars burst across my vision. I welcome the pain. Because it slows me just enough to stop me from making a complete idiot of myself by rushing out and yanking the envelope from her fingers.

‘Stone…’ She squints, trying to make out the rest of the address, but I swoop in and grab the letter before she can read it in full. Collecting the rest of the post to disguise my suspiciously intense interest in it, I snatch the Norwegian administrative dread last and sandwich the Stonebrook letter between the other envelopes.

‘Just… projects,’ I murmur.

Not entirely a lie.

My feet hurry me out onto the cold back porch, its overhang shielding me from the rain that’s starting to piss sideways in thin, needling gusts. Lowering myself on the rattan chair, the cushion sighs beneath me as I damn near squeal before tearing into Crane’s envelope.

Inside is a single card that says: ‘Deal.’

I glare. My mind static-hums.

‘What deal?’ My fingers flip the card over, brows drawing tighter, but to no avail.

Blank.

I check the inside of the envelope again. Nothing.

Then it crashes into me – my letter!