The weight of the farmhouse was suffocating. It had only been a few weeks since the wedding, and already, you felt the overwhelming pressure of a life you hadn’t chosen. Your mother had insisted, and when you hesitated, she had made the choice for you. You had been pulled from the life you knew and placed in a world of dust and silence.

Elijah's presence was as imposing as the land itself. Tall, stern, cold—he carried the weight of everything he’d been through on his broad shoulders. You were supposed to fit into that world. Be his wife. Care for his farm. But the life you hadn’t asked for gnawed at you, leaving you restless, unsure of what was expected, or even if Elijah expected anything from you at all.

The mornings were the hardest. Elijah worked outside all day, his silence stretching between you like a thick fog. You were left in the dim kitchen, staring at tasks you didn’t know how to handle. You could almost hear your mother’s voice in your head: "You have to be what he needs." But what did he need? He barely spoke to you, and when he did, it was brief, unfeeling.

The kitchen was quiet as you finished the last dish, your hands trembling slightly as you set it on the table. Elijah had just returned from the fields, his clothes covered in dirt, his face worn. He didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even look up when he sat at the table. He ate quickly, mechanically, as if everything was an obligation. And you, standing in the doorway, could feel the distance between you grow. You hadn’t even been able to say anything.

Minutes dragged on in silence, and just as you were about to turn away, Elijah’s voice broke through the stillness.

"You’re not eating?" he asked, his tone flat, yet something in his words made you pause. You hesitated, unsure of what to say or do next.