The Pact: Even bronze softens in the sun: a story of healing after heartbreak.
From estrangement to empathy: a journey through loss and reconciliation.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
The house on Ashgrove Lane was a
quiet one. Not silent—there was the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional
creak of floorboards, the distant bark of a neighbour’s dog—but quiet in a way
that felt deliberate. As if sound itself had been asked to behave.
Inside lived two people: Eleanor
Grace and Thomas Reed. Once lovers, now strangers bound by a lease and a pact.
The house was split—not physically, but emotionally. Eleanor occupied the
upstairs bedroom and the sunlit kitchen. Thomas had claimed the study and the
basement, where he tinkered with old radios and repaired clocks that no longer
ticked. They shared the bathroom, the mailbox, and the silence.
Three years ago, they had been
inseparable. Their love had been the kind that made friends roll their eyes and
strangers smile. But something had broken—not with a bang, but with a slow,
grinding erosion. A betrayal, yes, but not the kind that made headlines. It was
quieter than that. More insidious.
They had made a pact: no
communication, no physical contact, no emotional engagement. Just coexistence
until the lease expired. Six months to go.
Eleanor woke at 6:30 every morning. She brewed her coffee in silence, always two cups—one for herself, one left untouched. She didn’t know why she still made two. Habit, maybe. Or hope.
Thomas waited until she left for
work before emerging. He’d make toast, always burnt, and eat it standing by the
window. He never looked out. Just stared at the reflection of himself in the
glass.
They passed each other like
ghosts. Notes were their only form of communication—passive-aggressive Post-its
on the fridge, reminders about bills, warnings about expired milk. Eleanor’s
handwriting was sharp and slanted. Thomas’s was blocky and cold.
Despite the silence, they were
acutely aware of each other. Eleanor knew Thomas had trouble sleeping—she heard
him pacing at night. Thomas knew Eleanor cried in the shower—he saw the tissues
in the bin.
They were not indifferent. They
were wounded.
It began with heartbreak—a miscarriage that shattered the future Eleanor and Thomas had imagined. Eleanor, overwhelmed by grief, withdrew into herself, spending hours in the nursery, clutching the tiny blanket, writing letters to the child they lost. Her sorrow was deep and isolating, and though Thomas tried to comfort her—bringing tea, sitting quietly beside her, reaching for her hand—he found himself shut out, his own pain invisible.
Thomas’s attempts to bridge the
silence often ended in frustration. He felt neglected, not just as a partner
but as someone mourning too. When he tried to share his grief, Eleanor accused
him of not caring enough, of abandoning her emotionally. Thomas, wounded,
accused her of making her grief the only grief that mattered. Their arguments
were quiet but cutting, each word a reminder of how far apart they’d drifted.
Yet, beneath the bitterness,
something remained—a stubborn thread of care. Thomas noticed Eleanor’s
sleepless nights; Eleanor saw Thomas’s hands tremble with anxiety. The silence
between them was not indifference, but the echo of two people desperate to be
understood.
Eventually, exhaustion led to the
pact: no communication, no physical contact, no emotional engagement. But even
as they agreed to coexist in silence, both longed for a way back—a moment when
vulnerability might be met with compassion, not conflict.
Unbeknownst to Eleanor, Thomas had been diagnosed with a degenerative nerve condition. It was slow-moving but irreversible. His hands trembled now. His vision blurred. He hadn’t told her. He didn’t want pity.
Unbeknownst to Thomas, Eleanor
had been seeing a therapist. She was trying to heal. She had started journaling
again, writing stories about grief and resilience. She didn’t want him to know.
She didn’t want him to think she was “moving on.”
They were both trying. Just not
together.
One stormy evening in October, the power went out.
Eleanor was in the kitchen,
halfway through a novel. Thomas was in the basement, soldering wires. The house
went dark. The silence became suffocating.
Eleanor lit a candle. Thomas
fumbled for a flashlight. But the batteries were dead.
They met in the hallway, both
startled by the other’s presence. It was the first time they had looked into
each other’s eyes in months.
“Do you have candles?” Eleanor
asked, her voice hoarse.
Thomas nodded. “Upstairs. In the
linen closet.”
They stood there, unsure of what
to do. The pact loomed between them like a third person.
Then Eleanor did something
unexpected. She laughed.
It was soft, almost bitter.
“We’re ridiculous,” she said.
Thomas didn’t respond. But he
didn’t walk away either.
They sat in the living room, surrounded by flickering candlelight. The house felt different—warmer, somehow.
“I saw your hands shaking,”
Eleanor said quietly.
Thomas looked down. “It’s
nothing.”
“It’s not.”
He sighed. “It’s called
Charcot-Marie-Tooth. It’s genetic. I didn’t want to burden you.”
Eleanor blinked. “You think I
wouldn’t care?”
“I didn’t know how to ask for
help.”
She nodded slowly. “Neither did
I.”
They talked. Not about
everything, but enough. About Grace. About the silence. About the pact.
“I hated you,” Eleanor admitted.
“Not because of what happened. But because you disappeared.”
“I hated myself,” Thomas replied.
“Because I didn’t know how to stay.
The power returned around midnight. But they didn’t move.
They sat in silence, not the cold
kind, but the kind that comes after a storm.
Eleanor made tea. Thomas accepted
it.
They didn’t reconcile
romantically. That part of their story was over. But something else
began—something quieter, more honest.
They started speaking again. Not
often, but enough.
The Post-its disappeared. The
routines softened. The house felt less like a battlefield and more like a
shared space.
Days passed, and the awkwardness of new beginnings lingered. Eleanor found herself pausing at Thomas’s door, sometimes leaving a cup of tea, sometimes just listening to the faint sound of his radio tinkering. Thomas, in turn, began to fix things around the house—her lamp, the leaky faucet, the loose kitchen drawer. Each gesture was small, but together they formed a language of care.
One evening, Eleanor invited
Thomas to join her for dinner. She cooked his favourite—roast chicken with
rosemary and potatoes. They ate in silence at first, but gradually,
conversation trickled in. They spoke of mundane things: the weather, the
neighbour’s dog, the book Eleanor was reading. But beneath it all was a sense
of relief, as if the house itself was exhaling.
Therapy became a shared journey.
Eleanor suggested they attend a session together, and to her surprise, Thomas
agreed. The therapist guided them through their grief, their anger, their
guilt. There were tears, confessions, and moments of uncomfortable honesty. But
there was also laughter—tentative, then genuine.
They began to remember Grace
together. They visited the nursery, now a storage room, and sorted through the
baby things. Eleanor read aloud the letters she had written. Thomas showed her
the crib he had built, his hands trembling but proud. They mourned, but they
mourned together.
Spring arrived, and with it, a sense of renewal. Eleanor planted flowers in the garden; Thomas helped, kneeling in the dirt, his hands steadying as he worked. They spent evenings on the porch, watching the sun set, sharing stories from their childhoods.
Their relationship was not what
it had been. The passion of their early years had faded, replaced by something
quieter—respect, understanding, companionship. They were not lovers, but they
were partners. They had weathered a storm and found shelter in each other.
Thomas’s illness progressed, but
he faced it with dignity. Eleanor supported him, driving him to appointments,
learning about his condition, adapting the house to his needs. Thomas, in turn,
encouraged Eleanor’s writing, reading her stories, offering gentle feedback.
They celebrated small victories:
a good day, a finished story, a repaired radio. They learned to forgive—not
just each other, but themselves.
One morning, Eleanor found a letter on the kitchen table.
It was from Thomas. He had
decided to move out early. He had found a care facility that specialized in his
condition.
“I don’t want you to watch me
fade,” he wrote. “But I want you to know—I never stopped loving you. I just
didn’t know how to show it.”
Eleanor cried. Not in the shower.
Just there, in the kitchen, with the sun streaming in.
She kept the letter. She framed
it.
Years later, Eleanor visited a sculpture exhibit by the sea. She stood before Begrudgement—two bronze figures in rigid, resolute poses, unwilling to acknowledge their dependence on the other.
She smiled.
She understood them.
But she also knew: silence is not
strength. Vulnerability is not weakness. And love, even when broken, leaves
echoes that never quite fade.
Eleanor wrote a blogpost that evening. She titled it The Pact. It wasn’t about revenge or bitterness. It was about grief, pride, and the quiet courage of letting go.
She ended with a line:
“We were two statues, frozen in
pain. But even bronze softens in the sun.”
Acknowledgment
I wish to express my deepest
gratitude to Ruth Abernethy, the artist behind “Begrudgement.” Standing before
your sculpture by the sea in Sydney, I was struck by the profound honesty and
vulnerability captured in those two bronze figures—rigid, resolute, yet quietly
yearning for connection. Your work gave shape to emotions I could not name, and
offered a mirror to the silent struggles so many of us endure. Thank you for
creating a piece that speaks so powerfully to the complexities of love, pride,
and reconciliation. Your art has not only inspired this story, but has also
helped me—and, I hope, others—find meaning and hope in the spaces between us.
S A Spencer- I will bring more stories for your entertainment. Please follow me on Facebook and Twitter so that you know when a new story comes.
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