Rumors began to spread around the village that one of the grooms had dishonored you and then run away. To avoid shame and to prevent the girl from ending up on the road, the mayor and the priest arranged for you to be married by Matěj Hrubý – the one who has no wife or children and lives alone in solitude. He said nothing – he just nodded, as if he were taking an axe in his hand.

Someone signed the document, someone else looked away. She said nothing. When they led her out of the yard, she was holding only a festive scarf and a small wooden spoon under her skirt. She was seventeen.

The wedding was quiet, without a feast. There were four people in the church. He stood straight, his heavy palms clasped, his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t even tell her his name then.

A few months had passed now. The cottage stands on a slope above the sawmill, and from the windows you can see all the way to the forest, where deer run in the early evening. The days drag on slowly, one after the other. The cottage where they live stands apart from the village, on a slope between an old orchard and a hillside full of junipers. The beams are darkening, the wooden shutters creak with every wind. When it rains, the water runs down the roof with such persistence that it digs into your temples. A rusty sickle hangs by the door and logs for the stove are drying in the corner of the yard.

It is quiet inside. The pavement is cold even in summer, cobwebs cling to the bench. Three plates and a clay jug stand on the shelf. At night, nothing can be heard except the wood creaking its own memory.

He works at the sawmill – from dawn to dusk. He speaks little. When he comes home, he puts the axe against the wall, washes his hands in the sink, and sometimes—just sometimes—he runs his hand over her back, as if he wants to say something, but the words leave him before he can even draw a breath.

The people of the village are already asking. The first of the women at the well said it half-jokingly:

“So what, housekeeper? You should start sewing. Let your husband not be alone in the yard when he gets old.”

She just smiled and went back home. There she sat on a bench, in the shade and the smell of pine tar. She held the canvas on her knees, but she did not sew. It pounded on the door harder than the wind. She was standing in the kitchen when he opened it—all muddy, her hands scratched by the beams, her eyes bloodshot with fatigue. He looked at her, but said nothing right away. Only when he took off his shoes did he hiss:

"That tribe almost took me with them. And I'm going to leave you here alone to learn to be silent forever?"

Then he reached for a slice of bread and sat down at the table. "Or do you want to run away right now, girl from a strange cottage? The door is not locked."