Chapter 37 37. Weaver of Moments!
Tina's POV
I stood in the generous heat of the mid-morning sun, next to the heavy wooden basin filled with clothes that Saintilia had already scrubbed clean, now waiting for me to hang them on the line. The fibers were still thick with retained water. With meticulous attention, I began to twist each garment, wringing out the excess with practiced strength. One by one, I clipped the clothes onto the line, letting my rhythm surrender to the wind’s gentle, swaying pull.
As I hung each piece, my touch held a sense of quiet ritual, as if I were consciously granting them a moment of renewal under the warm sky. The clothes, now exposed to the fierce heat of the sun, began their quick drying.
Lately, I found myself consumed by the bitter thought of how intensely and profoundly envious I was of Saintilia. I admired the unwavering firmness she held with me, a quiet challenging strength, that often made her seem like she was more adult than me. This simple act of standing here, hanging laundry, became a testament to her unyielding dedication and love for the simplest tasks. She had restored something essential within me, something that carried the very essence of stability and home life. In this shared ritual of washing and hanging, she had become a true weaver of moments, a resilient guardian of the mundane miracle that connected us across our trauma.
Life here with Saintilia, despite everything, was surprisingly manageable. She was an extraordinary person who never offered a single complaint. She was obedient, kind, tireless in her work, and an excellent cook. Ten years her senior and yet I couldn’t measure up to her. Though our relationship was based on lies, a fact that no one was aware of specially her. Saintilia was the absolute polar opposite of me. Everything she pursued, she approached with a terrifying optimism, no matter the difficulty or the obstacle.
Even after a considerable passage of time, the memory of her ordeal remained a searing brand on my conscience. Jonas, in his wisdom, could never have foreseen that his own daughter would be subjected to such a cruel, shattering experience. Had he been alive, he would have undoubtedly taken immediate, desperate action to ensure her safety. His last wish still played in my mind, if only he had arranged her relocation to the protective care of his younger brother, Francois, in the distant city in the mainland. But, I had no way of connecting with him.
Jonas knew he was dying. He knew Saintilia wouldn't have left him so he made me promise to be there for her, so she wouldn’t be alone after his passing. The village was not an easy place to live. I learned to adapt because of Saintilia. I came here because I had no choice. I was running away because I owed money to someone who threatened to kill me. So Jonas's death couldn't come at a better time. My own flaws became glaringly and painfully clear with the simple fact that I was struggling to handle my own life responsibly, leaving me totally unprepared to take on the role of caring for another.
While time can be a powerful, slow ally in the mending process, not all emotional wounds heal at the same pace or in the same way. The true nature of Saintilia's deepest injuries had yet to manifest fully. My heart ached for her silent suffering, but she exhibited no obvious sign of emotional stress. We had never once broached the conversation about the incident. I reasoned that if she ever wanted to talk, I prayed she would trust me enough to initiate the conversation herself.
From the periphery of my vision, I noticed a man standing in quiet contemplation under the generous shade of the mango tree. His face, sculpted with lines of gravitas, reflected a lifetime of unspoken mystery. His eyes, deep and piercing, glued to Saintilia’s movements as she gently fanned away the smoke swirling around her nascent fire. What quality did she possess that was so alluring to this man. I haven’t seen him before. Perhaps he knew her but enough already.
As he continued his scrutiny, clearly unaware that I was also observing him. His facial expression revealed a mixture of cold admiration and sharp curiosity. He seemed genuinely marveled at her innate ability to coax life and warmth from the simplest of elements. It was not an uncommon sight, However Saintilia's graceful movements would capture anyone's attention. And I looked over again to confirm my initial observation. Who was that? I was curiosity.
"Can we help you?"
My tone was deliberately flat, a subtle indication that I had witnessed him lusting over Saintilia. I didn't know his purpose, but to me, it was immediately evident that his presence had everything to do with her. His eyes remained fixated on her, even as he attempted to leave the shelter of the tree. The man stepped forward, asking if I could spare him a minute. With each deliberate stride, the anticipation of their inevitable encounter mingled with the flickering, unsteady glow of the fire that was slowly coming to life. Then I noticed Saintilia turned, and saw him, but offered no acknowledgment.
He didn't introduce himself and I didn't ask. In fact, he didn’t have to. I asked him what brought him to our humble house; He said, he was a friend of Jonas. Clearly communicating that he was not a stranger and I should, therefore, invite him in and hear his what he had to say.
"Surely you know Jonas hasn't been with us for a long time. Did he owe you money?"
A silent thought formed in my mind: So this is what he looks like. His appearance was a stark contrast to the image I had constructed for myself based on Jonas’s description.
He hesitated briefly, his eyes adjusting to the bright sun as he stepped away from the shelter of the tree. His attire was simple and more elaborate, setting him apart from the other villagers whose clothes were often torn and dirty. He clutched a small, worn satchel at his side, holding it not as a mere accessory, but as if it were a shield. I must admit I was taken aback by his directness; I had not expected that his purpose for visiting was to formally propose a union with Saintilia. Composing myself, I instructed him by gesturing for him to follow me.
He followed me to the small table in the corner of the porch and took a seat. My gaze swept across the courtyard, taking in the quiet details of the distance between Saintilia and us. No doubt she would hear our conversation. She was diligently tending to the hearth. moving methodically, almost mesmerizing, as she carefully stoked the glowing embers to ensure the fire burned with a steady flame. In the quiet space, the man murmured something under his breath, his words lost to me. However, enough to stir my unease, making me wonder what calculations were forming behind his composed exterior.
To break the awkwardness, I turned to Saintilia and asked for coffee.