BirdHouse

The fork scraped porcelain.

Sabine let the sound ring out, a thin, brittle chime, before lifting another mouthful of stew. The potatoes were overcooked, the meat dry. She hadn’t salted it well. But it was food, warm and heavy in her stomach, and that was enough.

Across the table, her husband was reading. The Book, of course. Elbows planted on the worn wood, spine curled in a slope, eyes dragging across a page he knew by memory. His lips moved faintly, though no words left them. He hadn’t looked at her since he sat down.

Steam curled up from her bowl in wisps. The oil floated in pale golden circles on the surface. She watched one drift toward the edge, slow and aimless. The spoon in her hand was too heavy for what it did. She used it anyway.

“You’ve let it sit too long again,” he said, not looking up.

Sabine blinked. “I only served it ten minutes ago.”

He turned a page. “Tastes like old water.”

She set the fork down gently. “There’s meat in it.”

“Dry meat’s worse than none,” he muttered. Another page turned. The curl of his mouth barely shifted. “Should’ve made broth, if you had nothing fresh.”

Sabine didn’t answer. Her hands folded on her lap, fingers knotting loosely. She’d spent the better part of the day carving that little slab of spruce for a new birdhouse — the stew had been more of an afterthought.

He flicked his finger to turn another page. His fingernails were always clean and smooth. A contrast to her dirt-ringed crescents, with a stubborn chip in the thumb nail from slipping with the chisel.

“You could have fetched some root from the neighbour,” he added, without malice, without interest.

“It’s twelve miles.”

He shrugged. “You have legs.”

She didn’t answer. The stew cooled further.

Outside, a bird cried sharply — a crow, or something meaner. The sound sliced through the silence, then vanished again into the wind.

“You’re still bleeding under your nail,” he said absently.

Sabine looked down. A crusted fleck of red had dried beneath her middle fingernail. She hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll wash,” she said.

He didn’t answer. Just turned another page. Always a page.

The fire in the stove coughed softly. One log cracked in its middle, spitting a spark. Shadows danced across the floorboards, flickering in and out of shape.

Sabine reached again for her fork. She took one more bite, even though she wasn’t hungry.

The fork scraped porcelain again.

She hated these bleak days. Not that any of them were better. He’s off to the factory before sunrise, and if she’s lucky, back after sunset. His clothes stink of metal and oil and cheap tobacco. He never speaks much when he gets home. A grunt, a nod, the sound of boots falling by the door. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he doesn’t. When he does, he chews like it’s just a task, one more obligation before bed.

There’s no conversation. No touch. No warmth except the heat of the stove and the fading firelight that pools over the table in long, mean shadows.

Their marriage was a thing arranged between fathers, signed with stiff hands over coffee and sermons. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t even cold. Just… elsewhere. His devotion was always directed outward — to his factory duties, to the crucifix above the bedroom door, to the stiff-backed prayers recited in the evenings whether or not she joined him.

He’d sometimes read aloud from brittle little tracts left by traveling preachers, printed in black ink that smeared when his fingers got greasy. “Modesty, woman, is a virtue,” he’d mutter, as if quoting holy scripture. “Desire is a temptation. Flesh must be subdued.”

Sabine never replied. She knew better.

There were no children. The neighbours sometimes asked. But no, no child. No bloom in her belly. No softness. No laughter. Nothing but silence and the thin smoke of ritual.

Sabine washed the dried blood from under her nail and didn’t bother drying her hands. The water dripped from her fingers onto the floor.

Her husband turned another page.

And said nothing.