7. Hands
Hands
Silas
The kitchen hums with a steady undercurrent of routine.
Most of the hands are still out moving the herd.
A hush hangs over those who are left behind, broken only by the clinking of forks and the rare murmured word.
Eli leans forward, talking about some new store in town, his tone too bright, too eager.
Kiran listens beside him, his small legs swinging beneath the bench.
I grab a plate, moving with purpose, keeping my focus on the food. Helena stands at the sink, washing dishes, her back straight.
“How did he do this morning?” I ask without looking up.
Helena pauses, her hands resting in the soapy water. “Good,” she says after a moment. “Eager to learn, like you said.”
Drying her hands, she walks to the stove to stir the pot.
The clatter of the serving spoon against metal as I dish out my food is the only response I give.
I take my usual seat at the head of the table, separate from the rest. I like the noise at a distance.
It reminds me I’m still here without demanding anything of me.
Kiran glances my way. “Pa, can we go into town soon? Eli says they got toys at the new store.”
I set my fork down. “We’ll see.” I have no use for town. People there talk too much, watch too closely. Here, I’m just a shadow that keeps the land in order. I prefer it that way .
The room settles again until a sudden crash from the kitchen breaks it apart. A pan clattering loudly on the floor fills the room.
“Ouch!” Helena’s voice is sharp.
Without a second thought, I’m up and heading for the kitchen, my boots pounding against the wooden floor. The pot lies on the floor, contents splattered, and Helena’s holding her hand close to her chest. Her face pales as her eyes meet mine, wide and glassy.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll clean it up.”
Ignoring her words, I step close, taking her hand. The burn is already rising, red and angry. I guide her to the sink, turning on the lukewarm water, and press her hand beneath it. Her hand feels small and fragile under mine.
“You burned yourself.”
She doesn’t reply, her eyes fixed on me as the water runs over her hand. The kitchen feels wrong; too still. The sounds of the men at the table fade to nothing, silence taking its place.
Then, quiet as death, I hear it.
Silas.
It’s a voice I barely recognize. Just a whisper, soft and summoning, licking at my ears, echoing loudly in the back of my mind.
A searing chill electrifies my spine, forcing me to let go of her hand as if it burns me.
I step back, my chest tightening as the sound of the rushing water grows deafening.
“Did you say my name?” My words are rough and uneven, as if torn from my throat.
Helena shakes her head slowly, her dark hair swaying with the motion. Her lips part, forming a silent “no,” but her expression is calm, almost unnervingly so.
I study her face, every line, every flicker of movement, searching for something, anything, to tell me she’s lying. But there’s nothing there, just the steady rise and fall of her breath and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.
That voice was real. It had to be real. And she’s the only woman here.
Helena reaches for the kitchen towel. Slowly patting her hand dry, she never takes her eyes off me.
The space between us feels oppressive now, like the air is too thick to breathe. The kitchen itself seems smaller, darker, as though the shadows have grown longer and the corners deeper.
“Do you have burn cream?” she asks timidly, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife.
“First aid kit’s in the pantry,” I manage, my voice strained.
She nods and steps away, the distance between us pulling like a thread stretched too tight. As she moves toward the pantry, the low murmuring of the men’s voices returns, muffled at first, then louder, as though the room is slowly waking up.
But the discomfort doesn’t lift.
Something lingers, heavy and unseen, brushing the edges of my awareness. It’s not gone, whatever it was. Instead, it’s just out of reach, like a shadow slipping back into the dark.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breath. The room feels colder, despite the lingering heat of the stove.
Helena reappears, the first aid kit in her hands. She sets it on the counter, her eyes briefly meeting mine, before flicking away.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice tight.
I don’t respond. My eyes are drawn to her hand, to the angry red burn still glowing against her skin. I can’t look away from it. For a moment, I consider reaching for it again, but something stops me. It’s a flicker of unease, like the remnants of that voice still whispering in the back of my mind.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asks cautiously.
I force a nod. “I’m fine.”
Her brows knit together, revealing a flash of something in her eyes. It’s a look of concern, or maybe suspicion. But she doesn’t speak on it .
“I’ll take care of this,” she says, gesturing to her burn. “You should get back to your food before it gets cold.”
Her words are dismissive, polite, but there’s a finality to them that makes my jaw tighten.
“Right,” I mutter, walking back to the table.
Returning to my seat, I look at my plate, but my appetite’s long gone. I can feel Eli’s eyes on me from across the table. The conversation picks up again, but I’m still listening for that whisper, waiting for it to come back.
That evening, as I push open the back door, the kitchen greets me with shadows, the only light spilling from the bulb above the sink.
Something foreign fractures the familiar silence of the house—laughter, tender and unrestrained, floating in from the living room.
I stop mid-step, my hand still on the doorknob, the sound catching me off guard.
It’s not just Kiran’s light giggle or Eli’s low chuckle. There’s Marcel’s booming laugh, joined by a softer, melodic one that can only be Helena’s. Together, they create a strange symphony, one that doesn’t belong in these walls. It twists something inside me.
I move slowly, hanging my hat and coat on the peg by the door.
Crossing to the sink, my boots make soft thuds against the floorboards.
The warm water rushes over my hands, but I barely feel it, captivated by the faint voices.
They swell and dip, overlapping in easy rhythm, filling the space like it’s theirs.
It feels intrusive, an unknown presence inhabiting the bones of my home.
Drying my hands, I turn and step into the doorway of the living room.
The sight before me is one I don’t recognize.
The four of them are huddled around the coffee table, the soft glow of the lamp throwing gentle light across their faces.
Between them lies a deck of cards, their laughter breaking with every playful jab and exchanged glance.
Kiran, grinning and with excited eyes, is the first to see me. “Hi, Pa!” he calls out. “Ms. Helena was telling us stories. ”
Helena’s head turns at the sound of his voice, her laughter fading as her gaze meets mine. Her cheeks are pink, her shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t say anything.
“It’s time to get ready for bed, Kiran,” I say, my tone even.
His smile falters just a little, but he doesn’t argue. “Yes, sir,” he says, sliding off the couch and gathering the cards.
As he heads toward the stairs, the warmth in the room seems to dim, the air shifting back to something more familiar. Helena watches me for a moment longer, her hands resting still on the edge of the table. Then she looks away, her laughter now just an echo in the heavy quiet.