What We Carry

by Sonja Faul

The robins wait patiently outside the kitchen door, their rust-red chests puffed out, resembling blood spatter against the endless white. They are hungry, but not yet starving. On days like these, when the earth is blanketed in snow and food is hard to come by, they know they can rely on me.

Soft flakes crunch beneath my Docs as I open the door and step outside. The air gnaws at my exposed skin, grating against my nose and cheeks. My upper thigh stings beneath the thin layer of my trousers, where the skin is healing. I toss a handful of seeds without thinking, an automatic motion that disperses the kernels across the snow. The robins flit closer, their gleeful chirps hushed by the snow.

I watch them bob and dart, waiting for something–anything–to stir inside me. Nothing does. Just like yesterday, and the day before, I remain unmoved. The hollow rhythm of my breath is all that proves I’m alive. For a fleeting moment, I consider lunging forward, scattering the robins into the sky and shattering the fragile trust we’ve built. But my feet remain rooted to the spot, heavy and frozen.

My gaze drifts from the robins to the monotonous landscape, the jagged silhouettes of cypress trees slicing through the snow. Our land stretches as far as my eyes can see. And in the distant corner, the well. Barely visible beneath the snow, it still holds my attention with an unrelenting pull. The well begins to unspool my memories of that night—the thud, the ache in my limbs, Mum’s soothing voice. I catch them before they unravel completely, reeling them back in with practised hands.

I refuse to come undone. Not while Piper is here.

I head back to the house, shaking the snow off my boots before stepping inside. The warm air wraps around me like an embrace, instantly fogging my glasses. Blinking through the haze, my eyes land on the mounted red fox in the corner of the kitchen, one of my earlier works and, according to Mum, my best. Dynamically posed, frozen mid-step, its fur catches the light just enough to hint at life. Most people would see it as lifeless, but not me. At least, not until recently. Now, I see it for what it is: hollow and stiff, more reflection than creation.

I sit at the kitchen table, slipping my hands around the cup of tea I made earlier. The temperature is just right, warm and drinkable. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and swipe open the screen, squinting at the email notification. As expected, it’s a message confirming the museum’s closure for the day.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my lips pressing into a thin, hard line. The arm lifting the tea to my lips feels detached from my body, strangely weightless. No museum today means no escape. No reprieve from Piper. When I glance down, the cup is empty. I don’t even remember drinking it. Sighing, I get up to make myself another.

Above my head, the floorboards creak. Piper’s awake. Minutes later, she shuffles into the kitchen, one of Mum’s jumpers draped over her tiny frame, a bag of coffee in one hand and a Bialitti in the other. My shoulders tense, and my molars grind together before I can stop them.

“Morning,” she says, holding up the bag of coffee like it’s a peace offering. “I brought my own.”

“Wise woman,” I say, keeping my voice light.

She busies herself at the counter, her movements are measured and deliberate. The metallic scrape of the spoon against the Bialetti grates on me, piercing and intrusive.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says as she sets it on the stove.

I say nothing, letting the silence stretch until it feels taut enough to snap. This version of Piper—careful and considerate—feels entirely unfamiliar. I don’t know how to respond to her when she isn’t barreling through conversations or pushing everyone’s buttons.

The coffee bubbles, its fragrant hiss filling the room. The bitter, nutty aroma is surprisingly pleasant, though I’d never admit it. Piper pours herself a mug and sits across from me, cradling it between her hands.

“Do you still feed the robins every morning?” she asks.

I stiffen. “Sometimes,” I lie, my voice weak. She has always been able to see right through me.

Her question hits too close to home, reminding me how predictable I am to her and how much she still knows despite the years and distance.

She says, “I thought I heard them this morning.”

“They’re always around,” I grumble, hoping to discourage further conversation.

But Piper doesn’t give up easily, never has. She tries again, nodding toward the snow-covered window.

“Doesn’t look like I’ll be getting back to the city today.”

The house feels like a snow globe, except the snow is on the outside and we’re trapped together inside.

I shake my head. “No.”

I’ve reached my limit of small talk for now. When I stand abruptly, the chair scrapes loudly across the floor. Piper flinches at the sound, and the flash of apology in her expression makes my stomach twist.

“Sorry,” I say stiffly. “Would you like some breakfast?” Without waiting for her answer, I turn on the oven.

“Your famous omelette?” she asks, her tone hopeful.

I nod, barely meeting her gaze.

“Yes, please!” she exclaims.

I reach for leftover potato wedges in the fridge, chopping them into uneven pieces. Onions and peppers follow, their sharp scents filling the air. My hands move automatically as I prepare the ingredients. The routine is familiar and soothing—the crack of the eggshells against the counter, the hiss of butter as it coats the pan, the rhythmic scrape of the whisk against the bowl. The sounds push back the silence, ground me, and give me something to hold onto.

##

We push our plates to the centre of the table, full and satisfied. The quiet hum of the fridge settles into the space between us.

“So, sis,” Piper quips, leaning back in her chair. “What’s the deal with all the dead animals?”

I smile despite myself, the corners of my lips twitching upward. Finally, a jab at my profession–the Piper I know. We’ve landed on familiar territory, and for a moment, the tension eases.

My shoulders sag, weighed down by gravity. “If you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Her grin widens, pleased she’s found an opening. “Oh, do I? Alright, then. What’s the best insult you’ve ever gotten?”

The answer comes effortlessly, rising to the tip of my tongue. “A disgruntled hunter once called me a cotton cunt because I refused to stuff his trophy kill.”

A snort escapes her nose, sharp and unrestrained. It quickly gives way to laughter, bubbling up from her belly and spilling freely into the room. Her laugh is infectious, causing me to smile.

“What species?” she asks, her voice still shaky with amusement as she catches her breath.

“African Elephant,” I reply. I don’t touch endangered species unless it’s for a museum or university, and only with proper documentation.

Her laughter evaporates instantly, her face snapping into a look of shock. “What the fuck, sis?”

“I know, right?” I say, shrugging. “I made a few calls, but it looks like he acquired a permit—probably greased a few palms to get it through. But it was all very legal.”

She shakes her head in disbelief, her nose scrunching up in disgust.

I tilt my head. “Your turn. Best insult?”

Piper leans forward, her expression brightening. “Not sure about the best, but the most recent one was hound pounder.”

I laugh, the sound is raw and unfamiliar.

“The best ones always involve bestiality,” she continues with a wry smile. “This one came from some spray-tanned bitch after her pug died under anaesthesia. I warned her about the risks, but she ignored me.”

I laugh again, this time softer, and we settle into a comfortable silence. The echoes of laughter linger between us. I don’t mind sitting across from her for the first time in years.

Eventually, I rise to clear away the dishes. I open the oven to retrieve a dirty pan, my back turned to my sister.

Piper shatters our camaraderie with a single statement.

“I know about the well,” she blurts out.

Her words reverberate in my ears, each syllable striking like a hammer against glass. My memories unspool completely, tumbling out of the locked spaces where I’ve kept them: the sickening thud, my raw throat, Mum’s tears.

I feel weightless like skin stretched over foam. If not for my boots anchoring me, I’m certain I’d float away.

My fingers tighten around the handle of the hot pan, gripping it without thought or consent. The searing pain registers a moment later, and my reflexes take over, forcing me to release it instantly. But one moment is all it takes for the metal to sear my skin.

The pan falls with a heavy clunk, skidding across the floor. I watch it spin to a halt. My hand throbs in rhythm with my racing pulse, but the pain feels distant as though it belongs to someone else.

In an instant, Piper is on her feet. “Harper, are you okay?” Her voice sounds far away.

I don’t answer. I can’t; my mouth refuses to form words. My hand trembles as I lift it, an angry red mark blooming across my palm.

“Let me see,” Piper says, her voice urgent, pulling me from the haze. She reaches for my hand, but I take a step back, cradling it to my chest.

“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice raw.

Her eyes narrow, worry mingling with frustration. “You’re hurt, Harper. Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, turning toward the sink to shove my hand under the cold tap. Piper doesn’t back off, she wedges herself in beside me. Reluctantly, I let her take my arm, and hold it steady under the stream. The icy water bites my skin, but I welcome the sensation. Slowly, the sting begins to fade.

“It could have been worse,” she mutters. Her fingers skim lightly over my forearm, and I stiffen.

“What are you—” I start, but her grip shifts, and she pulls back my sleeve. In an instant, the air seems to leave the room.

“What the hell, Harper?” Piper’s voice is tight.

I don’t have to glance down to know what she’s looking at—a thin, jagged line tracing the length of my right arm like a crooked road etched on a map. The silence stretches as her eyes flick between mine and the scar.

I don’t know how to explain it or where to begin, and I cannot lie to Piper. Therefore, I keep quiet.

Before I can stop her, she pulls up my other sleeve, revealing two more scars. Her gaze hardens, but she doesn’t stop. As if driven by an unseen force, she kneels and tugs at the waist of my trousers.

“Piper, stop!” I yelp, but she’s already pulled them down to my knees.

Her breath catches. The scars on my legs are worse, deeper. Some are faded, others are pink around the edges, still healing. There are nine cuts spread over my body. I know because I count them every morning.

“Harper,” she whispers as her hands hover over my skin as though she’s afraid to touch it. She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Why?”

I feel the words pushing against my teeth, but my lips refuse to part and let them out.

Finally, I manage, “I don’t know.”

Her brows knit together, unsatisfied. “Bullshit!” she yells.

When I flinch, she adjusts her tone. “Try.”

I nod and swallow, but my throat feels dry and constricted. The words pool behind my teeth, pressing like water against a dam. Then, the wall cracks.

Jumbled words dribble out in an uneven stream. “It’s the only way to tell… if they’re still intact.”

Piper frowns, confused. “I don’t understand.”

I cover myself, tugging down my sleeves and pulling up my trousers with trembling fingers. My chest feels tight as I clutch it, the burn on my palm all but forgotten.

The words force their way out, breaking through the barrier.

“It feels like parts of me are being replaced,” I say, my voice cracking. “With stuffing. Like the animals I work on.”

Piper freezes, her eyes locking onto mine.

I continue, my breath unsteady. “After Mum passed, everything changed. I couldn’t feel anything, grief, joy, nothing. I was just… hollow. I needed to prove to myself that I was still intact.”

Her face pales as my words settle in. Her expression softens, shifting from confusion to heartbreak.

“But you are alive, Harper,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” I murmur, avoiding her eyes.

She hesitates, stepping toward me, her hand reaching out, only to falter and drop when I instinctively pull back.

“You are alive,” she repeats, her voice thick with emotion. “You are my sister.” She lifts her hands, wiping away the tears with trembling palms.

The silence that follows feels heavy, pressing down on both of us. I can hear her breathing, uneven and strained, but I can’t bring myself to say anything else.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “We should take care of that burn.” She nods toward my right palm, still cradled against my chest.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say quickly, the words sharp and defensive. The last thing I want is for her to touch me right now.

She tightens her jaw and steps closer. “Let me help you.”

I wave her away. “I’ll manage.”

She stands there for a moment, her shoulders stiffening and her jaw tightening. Then, she nods violently, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” she yells, her voice cutting through the kitchen like a whip.

Before I can respond, she storms out, her footsteps echoing down the hall and then up the stairs.

I sink into the nearest chair, clutching my hand, the burn throbbing now. Her words loop through my mind.

She’s right. I don’t. Or maybe I do, but I’m too scared to let her in.

##

The house is quiet when I wake up from my restless nap.

“Piper?” I call, my voice rough.

Nothing.

I search the house but she is nowhere to be found. Her coat and boots are missing. My stomach twists.

I grab my coat and step outside. The cold slaps me awake. Snow stretches in every direction, undisturbed except for a single trail of footprints leading to the far corner of the farm–the well.

My breath comes in shaky puffs as the sight of the well, distant but unmistakable, sends chills down my spine. I start walking, following her tracks. The light is fading fast, shadows lengthening across the fields. My legs grow heavier the closer I get.

Piper is leaning against the well with her back to me, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The wind tugs at her hair.

“Piper,” I call.

She doesn’t turn around. Instead, her voice drifts on the wind. “Mum told me.”

My stomach drops. I circle the well until I’m standing in front of her. Piper’s face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed. “Not everything,” she says. “Just enough.” Her voice is soft, but her gaze is unyielding. “She told me about the well. About that night.”

The air feels too thin, my chest tightening as though the snow is pressing down on me.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper.

“She was worried about you,” Piper says, stepping closer. “She said you’d never tell me, that you’d carry it all alone. She was right.”

My gaze falls to the ground, and the words spill out, raw and splintered. “He was going to hurt you, Piper, like he did me. I saw him outside your door, and I… I didn’t think.”

My voice cracks and tears spill down my cheeks as I finally say, “I pushed him, and he fell.”

Piper is crying too, but she doesn’t look away.

“Do you realise what you did?” she says, her voice shaking. “You saved me, Harper.”

She repeats the words, louder this time, as though willing them to sink in. “You saved me.”

She steps closer, and before I can react, her arms wrap around me. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

I don’t resist. My arms fling around her, pulling her tightly against my chest.

She leans in, her voice soft but steady as she whispers into my ear, “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Her words crack something open inside me. The weight I’ve carried alone for so long begins to shift, loosening. It becomes bearable. Lighter. I am not alone. She is here for me. My heart swells with emotion.

“I love you,” I whisper, the words foreign on my tongue but undeniably true.

“I love you too,” she replies.

We stand there as the last light fades, the snow swirling softly around us. For the first time in two years, I feel it—unyielding love. And I let it in. I let her in.