The City Beneath the Snow
Clara sat motionless for several seconds after Elias left.
The front door closed behind him with a soft thud, and immediately the sound of the storm filled the silence again. Wind rattled the windows while snow drifted heavily across the glass.
His final words stayed with her.
“Don’t let one person leaving convince you you’re difficult to love.”
Nobody had ever said something like that to her before.
Not Daniel.
Not even herself.
Clara looked down at her untouched wine glass and exhaled slowly. For months, she had quietly blamed herself for everything falling apart. She replayed every argument, every distant conversation, every cold silence between her and Daniel as if searching for the exact moment she became someone he no longer wanted.
But maybe Elias was right.
Maybe losing someone didn’t automatically mean you were broken.
Margaret returned from the kitchen carrying a plate of biscuits.
“He left, didn’t he?” she asked.
Clara nodded.
“He does that sometimes,” Margaret said while sitting down across from her again. “Talks too much accidentally and then disappears into bad weather like a Victorian ghost.”
Clara smiled softly.
“He told me about Sophie.”
Margaret’s expression changed immediately. Not surprised exactly. More thoughtful.
“That’s rare.”
“He doesn’t talk about her often?”
“Almost never.”
Margaret looked toward the snow-covered windows.
“He loved her very much.”
The sadness in her voice made Clara’s chest tighten again.
“What was she like?” she asked quietly.
Margaret smiled faintly at the question.
“Loud,” she answered first. “Which annoyed Elias endlessly.”
That made Clara laugh softly.
“She had this habit of rearranging everything in the guesthouse whenever she stayed here. Flowers, books, furniture. Drove him insane.”
“But he loved it anyway.”
“Oh, completely.”
Margaret folded her hands together.
“She made him lighter. Before Sophie, Elias was already quiet. After her… he became almost impossible to reach.”
Clara stared down at the candlelight flickering across the table.
Grief was strange.
Some people cried loudly.
Others carried it silently until it became part of who they were.
Elias seemed like the second kind.
Margaret stood after a moment.
“Well,” she announced, “sitting around being emotionally devastated all day is unhealthy.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“Your medical expertise is inspiring.”
“I watched three documentaries last month.”
“That’s terrifying.”
Margaret ignored the comment.
“Put your boots on,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“To buy groceries before the entire city loses its mind.”
Clara looked toward the windows.
“There’s still a blizzard outside.”
“And?”
“You people are insane.”
“Correct. Coat.”
Twenty minutes later, Clara found herself walking through snow-covered Edinburgh beside a seventy-year-old woman who moved through winter storms with terrifying confidence.
The city looked almost magical beneath the snow.
Old buildings rose through white fog while church bells echoed faintly somewhere in the distance. Snow covered staircases, rooftops, statues, and narrow alleyways between ancient stone walls.
“It’s beautiful,” Clara admitted quietly.
Margaret glanced sideways at her.
“First time in Scotland?”
“Yeah.”
“And your first experience is emotional trauma and hypothermia.”
“Strong introduction.”
Margaret laughed.
People passed them carrying grocery bags and umbrellas destroyed by the wind. A man struggled to push his bicycle through thick snow while nearby children threw snowballs outside a closed bookstore.
Despite the storm, the city somehow still felt alive.
That surprised Clara.
Back home, cities always felt rushed. Loud. Impatient.
Edinburgh felt slower somehow.
Like people here understood how to pause.
“You’re thinking too much,” Margaret said suddenly.
Clara blinked.
“What?”
“You’ve got the face again.”
“The heartbreak face?”
“The dramatic one.”
Clara sighed.
“Is it really that obvious?”
Margaret gave her a knowing look.
“Love always is.”
They reached a small grocery store hidden along a narrow street near Victoria Street. Inside, the building buzzed with warmth and crowded conversations.
Apparently Margaret had been right.
People were panic-buying bread.
Clara followed her through the aisles while she aggressively criticized nearly every product they passed.
“Terrible soup.”
“Overpriced cheese.”
“Absolutely criminal tomatoes.”
“You really do this professionally,” Clara observed.
“I’ve survived long enough to become judgmental about vegetables.”
Clara laughed again.
It surprised her how often she laughed here.
Back in Boston, she couldn’t remember the last time anything genuinely felt funny.
Margaret suddenly stopped walking.
“Oh no.”
Clara looked up.
“What?”
Margaret pointed toward the opposite end of the aisle.
Elias stood near the shelves holding a basket in one hand.
Snow still dusted his dark coat, and his camera hung from his shoulder again. He looked up at the exact same moment.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Margaret smiled slowly.
“Interesting.”
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m seventy, Clara. Starting things is all I have left.”
Elias approached them calmly.
“You two survived the weather,” he said.
“Barely,” Clara replied.
Margaret pointed at him accusingly.
“You abandoned us.”
“I went to work.”
“In a blizzard.”
“It stopped snowing an hour ago.”
Margaret scoffed dramatically.
“Emotionally, it’s still snowing.”
Elias looked exhausted already.
Clara tried not to smile.
“What exactly do you photograph during storms?” she asked him.
“Buildings mostly.”
“That sounds suspiciously boring.”
“It pays rent.”
“I write travel articles for magazines,” Clara said. “Which means I technically get paid to complain professionally.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Rude.”
Again—that tiny almost-smile appeared briefly on his face.
Clara noticed it more clearly now.
Elias didn’t smile often.
But when he did, it changed his entire expression.
Made him look younger somehow.
Less haunted.
Margaret glanced between them like someone watching her favorite television drama unfold.
“Right,” she announced suddenly. “I’m going to pretend I forgot something on the other side of the store.”
“You absolutely didn’t,” Elias said immediately.
“Nope.”
And with that, she disappeared.
Clara stared after her in disbelief.
“She’s subtle.”
“She thinks she is.”
For a moment, awkward silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable exactly.
Just uncertain.
Elias adjusted the strap of his camera bag slightly.
“Did you read the message?” he asked.
Clara knew immediately which message he meant.
“No.”
He nodded once.
“Fair.”
“You ever avoid things long enough hoping they’ll magically stop existing?”
“All the time.”
That honesty made her smile faintly.
They slowly continued walking through the store together.
Outside, snow still drifted softly past the windows.
“So,” Clara said carefully, “how long were you and Sophie together?”
Elias remained quiet for several seconds.
“Eight years.”
Her chest tightened.
“That’s a lifetime.”
“It felt shorter.”
Something about the sadness in his voice made Clara regret asking immediately.
But Elias didn’t seem angry.
Just distant again.
“She was sick for almost two years,” he continued quietly while studying a shelf of coffee tins. “By the end, everything in our lives revolved around hospitals.”
Clara listened carefully.
“I kept thinking if I stayed positive enough, somehow she’d survive.” He gave a small bitter laugh. “Turns out life doesn’t negotiate.”
She didn’t know what to say.
Nothing ever sounded sufficient beside grief like that.
Elias finally looked toward her.
“She would’ve liked you.”
The comment caught Clara completely off guard.
“What?”
“She liked people who talked too much.”
Clara laughed softly.
“I’m honored.”
“I’m serious.”
For the first time since meeting him, Elias looked directly into her eyes for more than a few seconds.
And suddenly Clara understood something dangerous.
Lonely people recognize each other quickly.