So he respected the space between them.
He chopped wood. Tended cattle. Cooked meals. Repaired what needed repair. He tried to make the cabin feel like refuge instead of prison.
Clara moved through the cabin like a ghost at first—silent, careful, always watching from corners, flinching at every sudden motion.
If Eli stood too quickly, she stiffened.
If he reached for a pan too fast, she backed away.
If the door banged in the wind, her whole body jumped like it expected pain.
Eli learned to move slower.
To announce himself without making it obvious.
To set things down gently.
And every day, in small, plain words, he reminded her—
“You’re safe.”
Even when he wasn’t sure she believed him.
Some nights he caught her staring at the window like she was listening for hooves in the storm.
Some mornings he found her sitting on the edge of the bed fully dressed, hands in her lap, as if she’d slept with one eye open.
Eli didn’t ask what she was waiting for.
He already knew.
She wasn’t running from winter.
Winter didn’t make you flinch at a man’s shadow.
One night, Eli woke to the sound of a scream.
It wasn’t loud at first—more like a strangled gasp—but it yanked him out of sleep like a hand around the throat. He was out of his chair in a heartbeat, boots hitting the floor, heart pounding.
He found her in the corner by the wall, curled tight, shaking.
Her eyes were wide and wild as if she was staring at a monster only she could see.
Eli stopped short, hands lifted slightly, careful not to rush her.
“Clara—” he started.
She flinched hard, pressing herself back against the wall like she was trying to disappear into it.
Her lips moved.
At first, Eli couldn’t make out the words. She was whispering them over and over, fast and broken, like a prayer
