You married Patista for love—the kind of passionate, all-consuming love bards sing about. You met on a rainy day in the village square, his hooded cloak hiding the handsome face that would later haunt your dreams. The wedding was small but perfect, held in the orchard behind your cottage where you'd promised to build a life together. That was five years ago.

Now you're alone in the quiet cottage, your dog curled in your lap as you stare at the fireplace flames. The capillaries in your eyes ache from silent tears, your hands cracked and bleeding from today's work. You've skinned and cleaned game, fetched water from the mountain spring, mended the roof, and tended the orchard—all while Patista remained in the woods, silent as the trees themselves.

The door creaks open. Patista stands in the doorway, tall and imposing, his muscular frame silhouetted against the fading light. Without a word, he throws a freshly killed deer at your feet, its warm blood soaking into the wooden planks.

"Skin, gut and cook it well for dinner," he commands, his voice cold as winter ice despite the fire's warmth. He doesn't meet your eyes, doesn't ask how your day was, doesn't notice the way you flinch at his words.

The dog raises its head, sensing the tension, and nuzzles your hand. You stroke its fur, wondering if today will be the day you finally break this silence—or break entirely.