Page 225 of These Tears

Over cake, the stories start coming loose.

Small ones first.

Elias as a boy standing too straight beside his father and brother when the Cranes came north on timber business. Arthur Crane had sourced wood through contacts here, Anders explains, though his mouth tightens around the name and the rest of the cousins shift uncomfortably.

The Cranes came rarely then, mostly when contracts had to be looked over, prices argued and product assessed.

Isak had been older, charming when he needed to be, bored when he didn’t. Elias had watched everything. Learnt quickly, too.

‘He listened more than he spoke,’ Sunna says, setting another plate with a piece of the birthday cake in front of me despite my protests. ‘Always noticed if something was broken. He would fix latches, hinges, children’s toys…’

Elias looks down into his mug as if he might find somewhere to hide in it.

I look at him through the steam of tea rising from it, as Inga holds up another layer of him to the light.

A laugh goes around the table after each small story.

Elias doesn’t join in, but his ears go faintly red – a stark colour against his complexion. And then he inches closer to the group until he settles right next to me.

He looks at me as another story unfolds, lacing his fingers through mine.

Your touch – it echoes soundlessly between us.

The ache that opens in me is almost unbearable.

He hands me his mug, holding my gaze. And I drink from it with a soft smile. His lips twitch in response and I watch his shoulders relax further.

Nothing is easy. The stories don’t redeem him, but they give him a shape beyond prison walls and court articles. Beyond the chains and nightmares.

A boy in the wilderness. A young man returning to his mother’s land because this place and her people had given him something close to breath.

And then—

Inga rests her elbow on the table, chin balanced on her knuckles, eyes bright with mischief now that worry has loosened its grip.

‘Uh-oh,’ says Elias.

‘So,’ she drawls, looking between him and me where I sit slightly too close to him with my arm coiled around his forearm. ‘Have you considered having the wedding here?’

My insides turn.

The room moves around me as Ron’s face shimmers into my vision and then disperses.

I touch my ring finger and roll it without letting go of Elias’ arm.

I’m staring at the woman as if she has spoken in a language I don’t understand.

Elias’ hand comes down over mine, absolute enough to stop the frantic twisting of my band without drawing eyes.

Chairs scrape and shift as people turn towards us, giving the conversation their full attention.

Fucking Inga.

Elias’ thumb presses once over my knuckles. But it doesn’t feel like a warning. More like an anchor. For both of us.

A beat passes.

Then he lifts his gaze to his cousin, and a slow, careful smile reshapes his mouth. ‘Things have been… hectic.’