Bela's POV
The rain had been falling all day, a steady rhythm against the windows that matched the hollow ache inside me. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that weighed heavily on your chest and made it hard to breathe. Before, when my mother was alive, this place had been full of laughter, conversations, and even the occasional argument. Now, there was nothing. Just the sound of the rain and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards.
I sat curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled faintly of my mother’s perfume. It was the only thing that felt remotely comforting. Across the room, the fireplace crackled weakly, the flames casting long shadows against the walls. Clara had lit it earlier, like she always did when the weather turned cold.
“Bela,” her voice came softly from the kitchen doorway, careful and cautious, as if she was afraid of startling me. “I made some tea. Would you like a cup?”
I shook my head without looking at her. “No, thanks.”
She hesitated, and I could feel her standing there, watching me. It wasn’t the first time she had hovered like that, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. Finally, I heard her footsteps retreating, and I exhaled, letting my shoulders slump.
Clara wasn’t a bad person. In fact, she had been nothing but kind since my mother’s death. But her kindness was calculated, deliberate, like she was afraid to cross some invisible line. It made me resent her in a way I couldn’t fully explain. She had stepped into this role—my guardian, my caretaker—but she wasn’t my mother. She never could be.
The truth was, I barely knew Clara before all this. My mother had married her two years ago, and I hadn’t spent much time around them. I was in college, living my own life, and my visits home were infrequent and short. Clara was always polite, always composed, but there was a distance to her, an invisible wall that made it hard to get close.
Now, we were stuck in this house together, two strangers trying to navigate a life we never expected to share.
By late afternoon, hunger finally forced me out of my cocoon on the couch. I shuffled into the kitchen, where Clara was leaning against the counter, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. She looked up when she saw me, her expression softening.
“Hi,” she said, her voice warm but tentative.
“Hi,” I replied, opening the fridge and pretending to search for something to eat.
She set her cup down on the counter and crossed her arms. “I was going to start dinner soon. Any requests?”
I shrugged, closing the fridge and turning to face her. “Anything’s fine.”
Clara nodded, studying me for a moment. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and she wore a soft gray sweater that hung loosely over her slender frame. She always looked so put-together, so calm, even when I could tell she wasn’t.
“Bela,” she started, her tone careful. “I just... I want to make sure you’re okay. I know things have been hard, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to go through this alone.”
Her words caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. “I’m fine,” I said finally, though the words felt hollow.
Clara tilted her head, her brown eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name—sympathy, maybe, or concern. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she said simply.
I nodded, though I doubted I’d ever take her up on that offer. Talking didn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring my mother back, and it wouldn’t make the emptiness go away.
That night, I sat at the dinner table across from Clara, the sound of rain still drumming against the windows. She had made pasta, the smell of garlic and herbs filling the kitchen. It was good, but I barely tasted it. My thoughts were elsewhere, swirling in a storm of memories and unanswered questions.
Clara tried to make small talk, asking about my classes, my plans for the future. I answered in monosyllables, avoiding her gaze. The tension between us was thick, and I could tell she was struggling to find the right thing to say.
After dinner, I retreated to my room, closing the door behind me and sinking onto the bed. The house was quiet again, except for the rain and the faint sound of Clara moving around downstairs. I wondered if she felt as lonely as I did, if the silence weighed on her too.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. I tossed and turned, my mind replaying moments from the past few days—Clara’s hesitant smiles, the way her eyes lingered on me a little too long during dinner, the careful distance she kept between us. It was like she was afraid of getting too close, of crossing some invisible boundary.
But there was something else, something I couldn’t quite put into words. An undercurrent of tension, a feeling that there was more between us than either of us was willing to acknowledge.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee. I made my way downstairs, still groggy, and found Clara in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, her hair loose and her face free of makeup. It was the most casual I’d ever seen her, and for a moment, I hesitated in the doorway.
“Morning,” she said, glancing up at me with a small smile.
“Morning,” I replied, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee.
We sat in silence for a while, the tension between us less oppressive but still present. Clara sipped her coffee, her gaze distant, and I found myself wondering what was going through her mind.
“Do you have any plans for today?” she asked eventually, breaking the quiet.
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Well, if you’d like, I could use some help in the garden. The rain made a bit of a mess out there,” she said, her tone casual.
“Sure,” I said, surprising myself.
Clara looked at me, her expression softening. “Okay,” she said, her smile growing a little.
It was a small moment, but it felt like the first step toward something—what, I wasn’t sure.
That afternoon, we worked in the garden together, pulling weeds and clearing debris. The sun had come out, and the fresh air was a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the house. Clara rolled up her sleeves, her movements graceful and efficient, and I found myself watching her more than I should have.
She caught me staring once, her eyes meeting mine across the garden. For a moment, neither of us looked away, and something unspoken passed between us.
“Thanks for helping,” she said eventually, breaking the spell.
“Of course,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
As we finished up and headed back inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between us. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of something other than grief—something I wasn’t ready to name.