Sofia's POV
I sat down on the floor, the sketchbook cradled in my lap, and began to draw. The graphite flowed from the pencil, a messy, imperfect expression of my emotions. I didn't try to draw anything specific. Instead, I let my hand move, creating a chaotic jumble of lines and shadows that mirrored the frustration and fear swirling inside me. It was a release, a way to channel the suffocating quiet into something tangible.
As I reached into the art box for a new pencil, my fingers brushed against a thin, folded piece of paper tucked at the very bottom, beneath a pile of dried-out markers. It felt different from the other paper, older. I pulled it out, unfolded it carefully, and my breath caught in my throat.
It wasn't a child's scribble or a landscape study. It was a delicate, unfinished charcoal portrait of a woman. She had kind eyes, a gentle expression, and a faint, sad smile. Her hair was pulled back, but a few loose strands framed her face. She looked like a memory made real.
Below the sketch, in small, neat handwriting that was not Eric's, was a tiny inscription: "My heart's art. E + L."
A profound sorrow washed over me, a feeling much deeper than the guilt I'd felt with the journal. This wasn't something I had snooped for; it was something that had been left behind. This was the woman Eric had loved, the one his family had forced him to abandon. The initials "E + L" were a testament to a love that had been stolen. I looked from the gentle face in the sketch to the sleeping Refugia, and then to the empty doorway where Eric had disappeared.
He wasn't just a gruff man with a hard past. He was a man with a broken heart. And he was trying to build a new life with us, even as the old one still haunted him. The silence he was so comfortable with wasn't just a personality trait; it was a sanctuary he built to protect the fragile pieces of himself.
I carefully folded the sketch and slipped it back into the box. I felt a quiet resolve harden inside me. My job wasn't just to be a silent protector of Refugia, but a silent guardian of Eric's secrets. For the first time, I understood the depth of the sacrifice he'd made, the kind of loneliness he lived with. And I knew, with a certainty that settled all my fears, that the "family" I had so clumsily hoped for was already here, even if it was broken and held together by the quiet purpose of two people trying to survive.
The cold, unsettling quiet remained, but something within me had changed. The guilt was still there, a heavy stone in my gut, but it was now tempered by a profound sense of empathy. I carefully refolded the sketch and placed it back into the art box, tucking it beneath the markers as if it were a fragile secret. I then packed the rest of the supplies away, returning the box to its dusty corner. The chaotic drawing I had made lay forgotten.
When Eric finally returned, he was a silent silhouette against the dim light, carrying a small sack of scavenged goods. The air crackled with a tension that I knew I had created. He dropped the sack on the floor with a dull thud, and his eyes immediately sought mine, bracing for the confrontation he expected. He was ready for my tears, my apologies, my questions.
Instead, he found silence.
I didn't speak. I simply met his gaze, holding it without flinching, my expression calm. I moved to the fire, stoking the embers until they glowed a brighter orange. I felt his surprise, his confusion, as he watched me. This wasn't the clumsy, talkative girl he had left behind. This was the silent guardian I had just resolved to become.
He placed the sack of food down and sat in his usual spot, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. The silence was different now. It wasn't the suffocating, angry silence from before. It was a new, shared quiet—a tense truce. He opened the sack and began to sort the contents, pulling out a couple of rusted cans and a box of slightly damp crackers.
I went to Refugia, who was still sleeping soundly, and gently adjusted her blanket. As I did, I felt Eric's eyes on me, his stare a physical presence in the room. He was trying to figure me out, trying to understand why I wasn't fighting back, why I wasn't demanding answers.
When I finished, I sat by the fire, a new space between us. I didn't glance his way. My focus was on the small, hissing sounds of the wood and the rise and fall of Refugia's chest. The silence was a wall, but for the first time, I felt like I was on the same side of it as him. I wasn't built for noise, I realized, not anymore. I was built for this. For the quiet, relentless purpose of survival. For protecting the fragile hearts around me, including the one I now knew was so deeply broken.
I knew the conversation had to happen eventually, but not now. Not when his guard was up. Not when he was still healing from a past that I now held a small, stolen piece of. For now, the silent truce was enough.
The air in the cave was thick with the weight of unspoken words. The fire crackled and spat, the only sound apart from the soft, steady breathing of the baby. I kept my gaze fixed on the flames, but I was acutely aware of Eric's presence, the quiet intensity of his stare. I could feel him trying to figure me out, his mind likely wrestling with the fact that I wasn't putting up a fight.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the silence broke.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice low and gruff.
I looked up, my eyes meeting his. I saw a mixture of frustration and something else—a hint of confusion, maybe even a touch of vulnerability. He had been expecting a fight, and my silence had disarmed him completely.
"Nothing," I said, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering. "You said I wasn't built for silence. I'm just trying to learn."
He shook his head, a small, dismissive gesture. "This isn't learning. This is… different." He gestured between us with a subtle flick of his hand. "You're supposed to be talking."
"You made it clear you didn't want me to," I replied, my tone not accusatory, but simply stating a fact. I didn't mention the journal or the sketch. I was holding onto my secrets, just as he held onto his. "You said my past was my own, and yours was yours. So I'm respecting that."
His expression hardened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "I told you, Sofia," he said, his voice flat. "My past is my own." He paused, looking at me with an unreadable expression. "And yours is yours."
A wave of understanding washed over me. He wasn't just angry; he was trying to protect himself, to keep the walls up.
"I know," I said softly, my tone carrying a new depth of empathy. "But you're right. We can't let our past get in the way of what's happening now."
The silence returned, but this time it was different. It wasn't angry or tense; it was thoughtful, a quiet space where we could both exist. I reached for the can of crackers he had brought, and wordlessly, I opened it and offered him the first one. He took it, his fingers brushing against mine for a fleeting moment. It was a simple gesture, but in our chaotic world, it felt monumental. It was a quiet acknowledgment that, despite everything, we were still a team. We were still trying to be a family.