The house felt colder as the days passed, despite the warmth of the hearth. Thorin sat by the fire, his eyes unfocused as the flames flickered and crackled before him. The once lively and comfortable home, where laughter and soft conversations had filled the air, now seemed hollow. Silence hung thick around them, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the soft shuffle of Elysia moving about the house.

She tried to fill the quiet with small efforts, but each time she spoke to him, it felt as though the words vanished into the air between them, never reaching him. She would bring him a meal, her hands shaking as she placed it before him, but he would hardly acknowledge it. She would ask him to rest, but he refused to lie down, instead staring into the fire as if waiting for something to happen. As if waiting for them to return.

“Thorin,” Elysia’s voice was soft as she stood in the doorway of the small room they shared. Her hands were clasped nervously in front of her, the fabric of her faded dress barely clinging to her frame. She had grown thinner in the past weeks, though she hadn’t spoken of it. “It’s been days since you’ve eaten a full meal. You need to take care of yourself.”

Thorin didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the flames, his jaw clenched tightly as if bracing for something. She waited, hoping he would look at her, but there was no acknowledgment.

“I made stew. You like it when I add the thyme.” She tried again, her voice edged with the frustration that she had worked so hard to suppress. “It will help you sleep.”

Still, no response.

Her fingers tightened around the doorframe, her knuckles white. She hated the silence between them. It was suffocating, a constant weight pressing down on her chest. But worse than the silence was the distance between them—the emotional gulf that seemed to grow wider every day.

Elysia’s heart ached, and she turned away, retreating to the kitchen. She placed the bowl of stew on the table, and the scent of it lingered in the room, but there was no one there to appreciate it. She had tried so many times to break through to him, to help him carry the weight of his grief. But each time, he withdrew further, leaving her to shoulder the burden alone.

The soft clink of her spoon against the bowl was the only sound now.

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The next morning, Thorin woke before the sun. His dreams had been filled with fragments—scattered images of flames, of orcs, of the faces of his family, twisted in terror. He awoke with his heart racing, his chest tight, and the cold sting of sweat on his brow. He could still hear his father’s voice, the commands he’d shouted in those final moments before the orc’s blade silenced him forever.

“Fight, Thorin! Live for them! Live for Elysia!”

The words echoed in his mind as if his father was standing beside him, shouting, urging him on. Thorin gritted his teeth, shaking off the remnants of the nightmare. He was alone now, alone with his grief and his memories, alone with the silence that stretched between him and everything he once loved.

As he stood and dressed in the dim light of the room, he could hear Elysia moving in the kitchen. She was awake, though he hadn’t heard her leave their bed. Thorin had grown used to the sound of her footsteps in the early mornings, always busying herself with something—preparing a meal, tending to the few plants that still grew in their garden. She was always working, always trying to make things feel normal again. But nothing felt normal. Nothing ever would again.

When he walked into the kitchen, Elysia was sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Her face was pale, her expression tired, but there was a faint smile as she looked up at him. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made any accusations, but he saw the fatigue in her eyes. The hollow look that had begun to settle in them. She wasn’t sleeping well anymore, either.

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“I’ll make breakfast,” Thorin muttered, his voice distant. He moved to the hearth and began preparing a small fire to cook. His hands were rough with calluses, his motions automatic, like a man who had forgotten the joy of a simple task. He didn’t look at her, didn’t ask how she was feeling.

Elysia watched him for a moment, her heart heavy with a sorrow she could no longer hide. She had been patient with him, waiting for him to come back, to reach out to her. But the days had turned into weeks, and with each passing day, the gulf between them widened. She wanted to comfort him, to remind him of the man he once was, the man who had held her close in the darkest of nights. But all she saw now was a shadow—a man trapped in the past, drowning in memories he couldn’t let go of.

"Thorin," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Please, talk to me."

He didn’t respond. He busied himself with the fire, his face set in a mask of determination as if focusing on the mundane task could somehow keep the world at bay.

Her eyes burned with the effort not to cry. "What we are going through … I can't do this alone."

She had said it before, many times, but each time, the words felt more desperate, more hollow. She wasn’t just speaking of the chores or the work that had to be done in the house. She was speaking of them. Their marriage. Their love. The life they had shared before everything had fallen apart. The life they were planning on sharing. She was speaking of him. Of the man he used to be.

“Thorin,” her voice cracked this time, a fragile thread in the silence. “I need you. I can’t …” She stopped, her breath hitching in her throat. “I can’t keep carrying everything.”

Finally, he turned to her, his eyes tired, haunted. The pain in his gaze made her heart ache, but there was nothing in it—no warmth, no recognition. Just emptiness.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Elysia,” he said, his voice flat, as if it had lost all meaning. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. They’re gone. They're all gone.” His voice broke on the last words, but he quickly masked it with anger, with frustration. “I can’t bring them back. I can’t fix what’s broken. I can’t be there for anyone if I don’t even know where I am.”

Elysia swallowed hard, her throat tight with the pain of his words. She had heard this from him before, but this time, it felt final. As though his grief had locked him in a place where no love, no kindness, could reach him.

“I’m not asking you to bring them back,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not asking you to fix anything. But you’re still here, Thorin. You’re still alive. And I need you to live. For me. For our future.”

His jaw tightened, and he turned back toward the hearth, staring into the flames. "I can't," he muttered, almost too low for her to hear. "I can’t ... forget them."

Elysia’s chest tightened with frustration, the words stuck in her throat. How could she make him see? How could she make him understand that he wasn’t dishonoring their memory by living? By being there for her? For them?

“You don’t need to forget them. I’m asking you to remember. To carry them with you, but not to let them consume you. We can’t go on like this, Thorin. We’re … we’re falling apart.”

She could see it now—how much the grief had changed him. How much it had hollowed him out. He wasn’t the man she had married anymore. The man who had laughed with her, who had held her when the storms came, the man who had promised to protect her. He had vanished into the past, leaving behind a shell of the person she loved.

Thorin didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

Elysia stood up slowly, her legs weak, her heart heavy. She had tried. She had given him all the space, all the patience in the world, but she couldn’t lose herself, too.

“I’ll be outside,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “There are still some herbs I can gather.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She simply left, stepping out into the early morning light. The cold air hit her like a slap, and she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she walked toward the garden. The small patch of land they had once tended together now felt like a graveyard, each plant she nurtured a reminder of what had once been.

The quiet between them grew more suffocating with each passing day.

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That evening, as she returned from the garden, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the house. Inside, Thorin was still at the hearth, the same distant expression on his face. He didn’t greet her. Didn’t even look at her.

Elysia set the basket of herbs down, then leaned against the doorframe. She had no strength left to fight him, no words left to bridge the gap.

She had never felt so alone in her life.