From Winter's Chill

Elias stood by the cliff's edge where the sea lapped far below, a jagged memory echoing in every wave. He wasn’t sure why he had come—was it to honour Clare, to remember her, or to ask her permission? The question haunted him, twisting in his gut. Each time he visited, he hoped for clarity, some sign that it was okay to let the ache soften, to let another woman’s laughter fill the silence Clare had left behind. But the answer never came easily. He stared out to sea and asked the question again, not expecting a reply, but needing to speak it all the same.

The wind swept across his face, carrying the scent of salt and eucalyptus. It was Clare’s favourite place, this overlook. She’d come here to think, to breathe, to retreat when the world pressed in too tightly. And now it was where he found himself, a year after her death, unable to let her go and unsure how to face what remained.

Sarah arrived quietly, her footsteps soft on the rocky trail. She didn’t call out; she just stood behind him long enough for him to feel her presence before he heard her voice.

"You still come here," she said.

He nodded, not turning. "She’s more here than anywhere else."

Sarah stepped beside him, her eyes tracing the line where sea met sky. "She would’ve liked that. Being remembered this way."

They stood in silence for a while, the wind filling the gaps between words they couldn’t yet say. Finally, Elias turned to her. "I didn’t expect you to come!," Sarah shrugged. Neither did I. But this date... it has gravity."

He studied her face. The wind had tangled her hair, but her eyes were sharp and steady. A year hadn’t dulled the ache between them, but it had reshaped it into silence, avoidance, something brittle and unnamed.

"Is it Clare that’s stopping you from loving me?" Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elias was quiet for a long moment. The sea below seemed to echo the tension in the air. "Yes," he said finally. "And no. It’s not Clare. It’s what she meant to me. What we were. We built a life, grew roots that dug deep. I loved her for forty years. That kind of love doesn’t just vanish, even when the person does." Sarah looked away, blinking rapidly.

"But then you came," Elias continued. "And it wasn’t sudden. It crept up. Your presence, your laughter, the way you see through the noise. And I started to feel... something that didn’t feel like grief. That terrified me. Because if I can feel joy again, what does that make of the love I had for Clare?"

"Human," Sarah said softly. "It makes you human."

"I come up here hoping for permission from someone who can’t give it," Elias admitted. "But maybe the only permission I need is to forgive myself for moving forward."

Sarah turned back to him. Her voice was steadier now. "I don’t want to erase her. I just want to matter in a way that’s real. Not a shadow. Not a substitute."

Elias stepped closer. "You already do. I just need to learn how to hold both truths at once." "Nothing about Clare was uncomplicated," Sarah said, a smile tugging despite herself.

They both laughed briefly, and at that moment, their shared pain softened into something almost tender.

#

They walked back toward the car slowly. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the trees. Somewhere in the canopy, a bird began its evening call. The air, once sharp with wind, had warmed, softening around them like a promise.

"Do you remember the night we first met?" Sarah asked suddenly.

"At Clare’s dinner party?"

"You wore a tie that didn’t match your jacket." "I did not," Elias protested. "You absolutely did. And Clare gave me this look like, 'Isn’t he hopeless?'"

Elias smiled. "She always wanted us to get along." Sarah nodded, then stopped walking. "That’s the part I can’t shake. She wanted... this. You and me. Together."

He met her eyes. "And you?"

She hesitated. "I’ve loved you a long time, Elias. Even when I shouldn’t have. But now—now I wonder if I’m just a shadow of her. A second act."

"You’re not," he said gently. "Clare was... Clare. She was the best part of me for forty years. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for something new. Something real."

Sarah exhaled. "It’s hard not to feel like a replacement." "And it’s hard for me not to feel like I’m betraying her by loving again." Elias countered.

They stood in that honesty, raw and unsheltered, as golden light spilled over the path and warmed the silence.

#

Later, over coffee in her kitchen, their conversation deepened. The windows were open, letting in the sweet breath of jasmine from the garden. A warm breeze stirred the curtains.

I spent so long convincing myself you were just grief," Sarah said, her hands wrapped tightly around her mug. "That I was a placeholder for the absence you couldn’t bear." Elias looked at her. "And now?"

"Now I think I was hiding. From what I felt. From the guilt of feeling it too soon."

"You loved her." Elias stated. "I did. But not like you did.” Sarah said, and paused. “And maybe that’s what scared me. That I could love you and still mourn her." She said

Elias reached across the table, covering her hand with his. "You don’t have to be Clare. I don’t want you to be. I want you. The way you make me laugh even when I shouldn’t. The way you saw me even when I was lost."

Sarah’s voice was quiet. "I want to believe that." "Then let’s believe it together. One morning at a time." Elias said as he looked directly into her eyes.

She looked down at their joined hands. "Spring always felt like a lie after she passed. Too much light when the world was broken."

He smiled softly. "Maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s the world trying to coax us back."

She squeezed his hand. "Okay. Let’s try."

#

The next morning, they visited Clare’s bench, the one by the old fig tree near the school where she used to teach. The first wattle blooms brushed the path, bright yellow against the greening world. Elias placed a white rose on the seat, and Sarah a sprig of rosemary.

"For remembrance," Sarah said.

A breeze stirred, warm and fragrant, rustling the fig leaves. Sunlight dappled the bench, painting it gold.

They sat for a long while, not speaking, just letting the moment root itself in them.

Eventually, Sarah whispered, "I think she’d be okay with this. With us."

Elias nodded, blinking back the mist in his eyes. "She’d want us to be okay. To not waste what’s left of our seasons."

Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder. The air smelled of earth and flowers. Somewhere, a kookaburra laughed.

And for the first time since winter took everything, they felt the beginning of spring.

Together.

With Clare’s memory not as a wall, but as a garden they could finally walk through, hand in hand.

THE END