Page 305 of These Tears

He carries a transparent property bag in one hand and release papers in the other, neatly tucked into a very familiar book cover. Our Mary Shelley.

He is wearing the same dark clothes I saw him in yesterday.

The sunlight tangles in his hair, making it shimmer brighter than that day in the yard when I came to see him for his birthday.

My heart reaches straight out of my ribs, beats in the rhythm of the sparrows whose gossiping seems to have risen higher into the sky, as if carrying the news somewhere beyond me that Frida’s boy is finally free.

He pauses just beyond the gate and scans the car park with the attention of someone who has never trusted what waits for him outside a locked door.

Then he notices the Ford. His gaze moves from it to me.

He stops so abruptly that the officer has to speak louder to regain his attention.

Elias nods, frowns, tries to make himself seem calm and ready for whatever is required of him.

But his shoulders square. His jaw sets. And he aims his eyes towards me again.

And he becomes something made entirely of the north – Arctic blue eyes, winter-white skin, dark hair like the roots of the mountain we could see from our cabin, and all the stubbornness of the mountain range.

The camera on the passenger seat tugs at me. But the urge to grab it evaporates when he turns fully towards me and lifts his chin.

He starts walking. His step lengthens until the distance between us is swallowed by his footfalls.

I remain against the bonnet, though every nerve in me has curled until I can feel them knotting in my toes.

What if I misunderstood his letter? What if it were just my wishful thinking again? What if the ring had been a goodbye rather than a question?

What if he is looking at me now and seeing another person he can’t get rid of?

His knuckles are turning white as his fingers dig into Mary’s covers, and every remaining metre between us appears to have become an offence he intends to correct.

He finally halts, his eyes moving over my face, searching so intently it feels almost like being touched.

‘You are supposed to be in Norway.’ His voice is rough. Tired.

And the moment it breaches the vacuum of my thoughts, my heart nearly gives out.

‘So are you,’ I counter quietly.

His gaze hooks into my left hand resting against the warm metal of the car. More precisely – it finds the absence of a silver band on it.

Mary gives a soft complaint against his grip.

‘So… you can’t forgive me.’

The words emerge too quietly to be a simple accusation.

His attention remains on my hand for another moment as though the lack of the ring means I’ve returned only to close the final door.

When my silence draws too long, his attention travels to my eyes.

‘I haven’t yet forgiven you for leaving the way you did,’ I say.

My voice comes out too soft, made hollow by the effort of keeping everything else inside.

His jaw sets, but I see the fractures beneath the ice.

One broken heartbeat passes before he speaks again. ‘Yet?’