The Things We Don’t Say
For several seconds, the guesthouse remained completely dark.
Outside, the storm continued growling through the streets of Edinburgh while snow brushed heavily against the windows. Somewhere upstairs, a door creaked open, followed by confused footsteps moving through the hallway.
Then Margaret’s voice echoed from the kitchen again.
“Nobody panic,” she called out calmly. “This building survived two wars and three terrible governments. It’ll survive a snowstorm.”
A moment later, a warm orange glow appeared near the counter.
Margaret lit a candle and placed it carefully beside the register. Slowly, more candles flickered alive throughout the dining room, filling the guesthouse with soft golden light.
The sudden warmth of it changed everything.
The room no longer felt like a hotel dining area.
It felt personal.
Intimate.
Almost unreal.
Clara wrapped both hands around her coffee mug and looked toward the snow-covered windows. Without electricity, the world outside seemed darker somehow. Quieter too.
Elias leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Power outages happen often here?” Clara asked.
“During storms,” he answered. “The city’s old.”
“So is this building apparently.”
“That’s Margaret’s favorite thing about it.”
As if summoned by her name, Margaret returned carrying another candle.
“She’s right here, you know,” she muttered while setting it down near them.
Elias didn’t even look guilty.
“You hear everything.”
“I’m Scottish. It’s cultural.”
Clara smiled softly.
Margaret folded her arms and looked between them carefully.
“Well,” she announced, “since none of us have internet or electricity, you two are now legally required to entertain me.”
Elias sighed tiredly.
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“It should be.”
Margaret disappeared briefly before returning with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
Clara blinked.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“In winter,” Margaret corrected. “Time barely matters.”
She poured wine into all three glasses before sitting down across from them like she had no intention of leaving.
Clara found herself laughing again.
It felt strange how easily laughter came here.
Back home, everything had started feeling heavy months ago. Conversations with Daniel became shorter. Dinners became quieter. Even their apartment had slowly stopped feeling warm.
But here, trapped inside an old guesthouse during a snowstorm with two near-strangers, Clara felt lighter than she had in a very long time.
The realization made her uncomfortable.
Margaret lifted her glass.
“To terrible weather and emotional instability.”
Clara raised hers immediately.
“That’s the most comforting toast I’ve ever heard.”
Elias reluctantly lifted his glass too.
“You two are exhausting.”
“And yet,” Margaret replied, “you keep coming back.”
Something passed quietly between them after that sentence.
History.
Clara noticed it instantly.
She looked toward Elias.
“You stay here often?”
“Sometimes.”
“Meaning whenever life gets difficult,” Margaret added casually.
Elias gave her a look.
“What? She has eyes, Elias. She can tell you’re tragic.”
Clara laughed into her wine while Elias rubbed a tired hand across his face.
“This is exactly why I avoid people.”
“That’s unhealthy,” Margaret informed him.
“So is drinking wine before noon.”
Margaret pointed at the storm outside.
“Exceptional circumstances.”
The three of them sat together while snow continued falling beyond the windows. Candlelight danced softly across the wooden walls of the guesthouse, making the entire room feel suspended outside normal time.
For the first time in weeks, Clara stopped thinking about Daniel.
Not completely.
But enough to breathe normally again.
Margaret eventually stood and disappeared into the kitchen after announcing she was “saving the building from starvation.”
That left Clara and Elias alone again.
The silence between them settled naturally.
Clara studied him carefully over the rim of her glass.
There was something unusual about Elias. He wasn’t cold exactly. Quiet, yes. Reserved definitely. But not unkind.
He carried sadness the way some people carried scars.
Visible if you looked closely enough.
“You really don’t talk much, do you?” she asked eventually.
Elias glanced toward her.
“I do when necessary.”
“And what qualifies as necessary?”
“Usually fires.”
“That’s concerningly specific.”
A faint smile appeared again.
Small.
Quick.
Gone almost immediately.
Clara noticed he did that often. Like happiness surprised him whenever it slipped through by accident.
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you always talk this much?”
“Usually more when nervous.”
“You’re nervous now?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
The honesty of the question caught her off guard.
Clara looked down at the candle flickering between them.
“Because my entire life collapsed yesterday,” she admitted quietly. “And somehow that still doesn’t feel real yet.”
Elias didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t offer empty comfort either.
He simply listened.
That alone made her continue.
“I think the worst part is that nothing dramatic even happened,” she said softly. “Nobody cheated. Nobody screamed. We just slowly became strangers living in the same apartment.”
The words hurt more spoken aloud.
Clara stared into her wine glass.
“I kept thinking things would improve once life became less busy,” she continued. “But eventually you realize some people are already halfway gone while they’re still standing beside you.”
Silence followed.
Then Elias spoke quietly.
“Yes.”
Just one word.
But the way he said it made Clara look up immediately.
His eyes remained fixed on the candlelight between them.
For a moment, he looked far away.
Lost somewhere else entirely.
“You loved someone like that?” Clara asked carefully.
Elias stayed silent long enough that she thought he might ignore the question completely.
Then finally:
“Her name was Sophie.”
Something in his voice changed when he said it.
Not softer.
More fragile.
Clara waited quietly.
“She died three years ago,” he said.
The words landed heavily between them.
Clara’s chest tightened instantly.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Elias…”
He shook his head slightly like he already regretted saying it aloud.
“It’s alright.”
But it clearly wasn’t.
Clara could see it in his face.
In the way his shoulders tightened slightly.
In the careful calmness of his voice.
People only sounded that controlled when they were trying very hard not to fall apart.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
For several seconds, Elias said nothing.
Outside, wind rattled violently against the windows again.
Finally he answered.
“Cancer.”
Simple word.
Quietly spoken.
But the grief behind it filled the entire room.
Clara suddenly understood everything about him.
The exhaustion in his eyes.
The silence.
The sadness that never fully left his face.
This wasn’t a man afraid of love.
This was a man who had already survived losing it.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Elias nodded once without looking at her.
“She used to stay here sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Margaret loved her.”
That explained the history between them.
The sadness Margaret carried around him.
The protectiveness too.
Clara didn’t know what to say after that.
No sentence ever sounded large enough beside grief.
So instead, she stayed quiet.
And strangely, Elias seemed grateful for it.
The candles flickered softly between them while snow buried the city outside.
Eventually, Elias stood from his chair and picked up his camera.
“I should go check the roads,” he said.
Clara looked up at him.
“In this weather?”
“I’ve photographed worse.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
Another tiny smile touched his face.
“You worry too much.”
“You literally look like a man written by sad poets.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Clara smiled faintly.
For a second, neither moved.
Then Elias reached for his coat.
“Try reading Daniel’s message today,” he said quietly.
Her stomach tightened instantly.
“How did you know I didn’t?”
“You keep looking at your phone like it contains explosives.”
Clara laughed softly despite herself.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow becomes dangerous after a while.”
The sentence lingered heavily between them.
Then Elias pulled on his gloves and headed toward the door.
Before leaving, he paused briefly.
“Don’t let one person leaving convince you you’re difficult to love,” he said without turning around.
And then he stepped outside into the storm.
Leaving Clara sitting alone beside candlelight and snow, staring at the closed door long after he disappeared.