Sham Marriage
The silence in the village house was a special kind—thick and ringing, like ice on a winter well. It clung to the walls, settled into the corners, and pressed against the windows like frost. Outside, the wind stirred the birch trees, their branches tapping the glass with a rhythm too gentle to be called knocking. Inside, Lena sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for the kettle to boil.
She had lived in this house for twenty-seven years. It had been her grandmother’s once, then her mother’s, and now hers—though she often felt more like a tenant than an heir. The wallpaper had faded to the color of old bones, and the floorboards creaked in protest with every step. The house remembered things Lena wished it would forget.
Her husband, Viktor, was upstairs. He had been upstairs for three days. Not sick, not angry—just absent. He had taken to silence the way some men take to drink. It was his refuge, his weapon, his answer to everything. Lena had stopped asking questions years ago.
Their marriage had been arranged. Not in the old-fashioned sense, with matchmakers and dowries, but in the quiet, modern way that still carried the weight of obligation. Viktor had needed a wife to keep his mother from worrying. Lena had needed a husband to silence the gossip. They had met twice before the wedding, exchanged pleasantries like business cards, and stood side by side in the village chapel with expressions that could have belonged to strangers at a funeral.
In the beginning, Lena had tried. She cooked meals, asked about his work, left notes on the bathroom mirror. Viktor responded with nods, half-smiles, and the occasional “thank you.” He never raised his voice, never touched her in anger or affection. He was polite, distant, and utterly unreachable.
The kettle whistled. Lena rose, poured the water into her cup, and watched the steam curl upward like a ghost. She drank slowly, letting the heat fill the hollow spaces inside her. The silence was a companion now, more familiar than Viktor’s voice.
She thought of the village women who had warned her. “He’s a good man,” they had said, “but cold. Like the river in spring—beautiful, but dangerous if you fall in.” Lena hadn’t understood then. She had seen his quiet as strength, his reserve as mystery. She had mistaken absence for depth.
There had been no children. Viktor had never spoken of it, and Lena had never asked. She had imagined a daughter once, with dark hair and curious eyes, but the thought had faded like a dream upon waking. The house remained unchanged—no toys, no laughter, no evidence of life beyond the two of them.
One winter, five years into the marriage, Lena had left. She packed a small bag, took the train to the city, and stayed with a cousin who lived above a bakery. For three weeks, she breathed air that didn’t smell of resignation. She walked streets filled with strangers, listened to music in cafés, and remembered what it felt like to be seen.
Viktor never called. When she returned, he was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. He looked up, nodded, and said, “Welcome back.” That was all.
Lena had cried that night—not from sadness, but from clarity. She understood then that she had married a man who would never chase her, never fight for her, never even notice her absence as anything more than a change in routine. It was not cruelty. It was vacancy.
Now, years later, she sat in the same kitchen, the same silence, the same marriage. The village had changed—new families, new gossip—but the house remained untouched. Viktor’s hair had gone gray at the temples. Lena’s hands had grown thin and veined. Time had passed, but nothing had moved.
She stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the birch trees. The wind had picked up, and the branches danced like marionettes. She thought of her grandmother, who had once said, “A house is only as alive as the people in it.” Lena wondered if the house was dying.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Viktor was awake. She listened for footsteps, for the sound of the door opening, but there was nothing. Just the creak, then silence again.
She returned to the table, picked up a pen, and began to write. Not a letter—there was no one to write to—but a confession. She wrote about the silence, the absence, the years spent waiting for something that never came. She wrote about the sham of it all—the marriage, the smiles, the shared meals that tasted of dust. She wrote until the page was full, then folded it neatly and placed it under Viktor’s coffee cup.
She didn’t expect him to read it. She didn’t expect anything. But the act of writing felt like a crack in the ice, a small fracture in the silence.
That evening, she packed a bag again. Not large—just enough for a few days. She didn’t leave a note. The letter was enough. She walked to the train station, bought a ticket to the city, and boarded without looking back.
The village house remained, quiet and still. Viktor found the letter the next morning. He read it once, then again. He didn’t cry. He didn’t call. He sat at the table, the silence pressing in, and for the first time, he noticed how loud it was.
