“Then you’ll remember other things. The way she made you feel loved. How she accepted you as you are. The peace you found together.” Carla’s eyes held gentle certainty. “Love doesn’t disappear when the details fade. It changes into something that lets us love again.”
My chest loosened. For months, I’d carried guilt like a weight, convinced that moving forward meant leaving Wexla behind. But Carla was right. Wexla would want me to be happy. She’d told me that before she died.
“Thank you for not telling me to move on or that she’s in a better place or any of the other things people say when they don’t know what else to offer.”
“Grief isn’t something you move on from. It’s something you carry in different ways as time passes. It roars in and chokes you, but then it eases off. The easing off period grows longer, and you find you can smile about the person you lost without tears stinging your eyes.” She picked up the cards again. “Ready for another game? I promise not to beat you this time.”
The shift to lighter conversation felt good, and I joined her on the bed. We played cards as the evening passed, and I was able to laugh when she accused me of cheating after I managed to win with a particularly good hand.
“You palmed that seven of spades,” she said, her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.
“Orcs don’t cheat at cards.”
“I thought orcs don’t play cards.”
“We don’t.”
Her laugh snorted out. “What do orcs cheat at then?”
“Wrestling matches. Drinking contests. Anything involving physical prowess.” I grinned at her. “Cards require mental agility. I believe it’s a much more honorable game.”
“Mental agility, huh?” She shuffled the deck with theatrical flair. “In that case, prepare to be dominated.”
As the night grew later, we fell into the routine of preparing for bed. This time, there was less awkwardness about the shared sleeping space. When I offered to carry her to the bathroom, she tested her weight on her injured ankle.
“I think I can walk a little.” She took a careful step.
“Don’t push it.” I swept her into my arms before she could protest. “Better safe than to fall in the snow. You could be hurt all over again.” A great excuse, but inside, I knew I was lying. I enjoyed holding her in my arms.
“You like carrying me around,” she said, though her tone held no complaint.
“It’s practical,” I said, echoing her earlier words.
“Right. Practical.”
But she relaxed against my chest, and I took the longer route to the bathroom just to extend the contact.
When we returned, she settled on her side of the bed while I arranged things for the morning. The domestic routine felt natural in a way that should have alarmed me.
“Becken?”
I looked up to find her watching me, a hint of vulnerability in her expression.
“What you said earlier, about hours passing without grief? I think that means you’re ready to live again. Really live, not just survive.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re here with me, sharing stories and playing cards and making sure I don’t freeze to death. You’re taking care of someone again.” Her smile held a touch of sadness. “That’s not surviving. That’s choosing to engage with life.”
I turned off the lamp and settled under the blankets on my side of the bed, conscious of her lying a short distance away. Tonight, neither of us retreated to the far edges of the mattress. We lay facing each other in the darkness, close enough that I could hear her breathing, feel the warmth radiating from her body.
“Carla?”
“Mmm?”
“I’ve enjoyed this time with you.”
Her pause went on for a long time before her voice came out in a whisper. “Me too.”
