A large house. Barns, fences stretching wide. Strong, but empty in a way she couldn't explain. Like something had been taken from it. The wagon stopped.
A man stepped out from the barn. Older. Quiet. He looked at her once. took in her size, then tipped his hat. "Ma'am. " No laugh, no smirk, just respect.
It hit her harder than the insults. "Evening. " She replied. Another man followed. Younger, eyes sharp, too sharp. They moved over her slowly.
Not curious. Hungry. "Well, now. " He said, grinning, "That's something. " Ingrid's shoulders tightened. Calder stepped forward. Just slightly, enough to block the line between them. ""Watch your mouth. "" The younger man laughed, but stepped back, for now.
Inside the house, the air was still. Cold, empty. Her boots sounded too loud on the floor. Each step echoing, like the place wasn't used to people anymore. Then, she saw it.
The painting. A woman, small, soft, a child in her arms. Everything Ingrid was not. Calder stopped beside her. "That was my wife. " He said, flat, "and my son. " Ingrid didn't move, didn't breathe. ""They died. "" The words dropped, heavy, no explanation, no comfort, just fact.
She nodded slowly. ""I am sorry. "" He turned away, already done with it. ""Your room is upstairs. "" No more, no less. He walked off, leaving her alone with the ghost of a woman who had fit perfectly into a world she never would. Ingrid stood there, tall, out of place. And for the first time since arriving, she understood something clearly. This wasn't just a new life.
This was a space left behind by someone else. And she wasn't being welcomed into it. She was being placed into it. To fill it. To replace what had been lost.
Her fingers tightened at her sides. And upstairs, the wind began to rise again. The night did not settle. It pressed. It crept through the cracks of the house and sat in the corners like something waiting.
Ingrid lay awake on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling she could almost touch if she raised her hand. The wind outside had teeth. It dragged along the walls, rattling the window as if testing how much it could take. She turned onto her side. The mattress held.
At least that. A small thing. But something. Her fingers brushed the ring on her hand. Cold, heavy, real.
Wife, the word didn't sit right yet. It felt like something she had borrowed. Something that didn't belong to her. Down the hall she could hear movement. Slow steps.
Measured, Calder not asleep either. She closed her eyes, tried to force rest. But the voices came instead. Old ones, sharp, mocking. Too big.