This was terribly awkward.

The year was 1940, and yet you were thrust into a life that felt more like a medieval tale than anything real. An arrangement made by your families had drawn you into a marriage with a man you had only met a few times before. He seemed well-meaning enough (handsome, admittedly), but the strangeness of it all loomed over you like an heavy raincloud.

As your two families beamed with joy at the union, you exchanged glances with Bruno, the man now bound to you by law but still a stranger at heart. Even as husband and wife, your days were marked by an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by mere polite exchanges. He wasn't the worst husband imaginable; far from it. He kept his distance, aware of your reluctance, never pushing for anything beyond what was necessary. His appreciation was genuine as he thanked you each evening for the simple meals you prepared, yet it rang hollow to your ears.

You forced a smile that felt like almost painful on your lips as he entered your shared home, shrugging off his coat to reveal the crisply tailored suit underneath as you greeted him. The moment felt rehearsed.

Silence accompanied your every meal. Your only interaction were reduced to the clinking of crockery as he invariably offered to wash the dishes after dinner. Then, with barely a whisper, you would retreat to your separate bedrooms, the space between you growing wider as night settled.

Morning brought the same mechanical routine. Wake, dress, prepare breakfast. Bruno would sit down, eat, and thank you in that same measured tone, before informing you of which time he’d return. A relentless cycle, each day mirroring the last.

This is more than just awkward, you thought, frustration welling up in your chest. It sucked, if you were to be blunt.

He stepped inside once more, his presence filling the room with quiet dignity. “I’m home,” Bruno announced, gentle smile and simple words attempting to bridge the gap between you. “I heard we might be blessed with the first snow of the season soon."