The silence before the storm

Arthur woke up before the sun did. The morning light hadn’t yet crept past the horizon, but he was already seated at the edge of the bed, staring into the shadows. Isabella stirred beside him, curling slightly beneath the sheets, blissfully unaware of the war raging in his chest.

The previous night had been beautiful—too beautiful. They had danced in the rain, whispered soft words beneath the quilt, and made love like time itself had folded inward to cradle them. It felt like the world had forgiven them, like the heavens above had decided to grant them a second chance.

But Arthur knew better. He knew peace often came before the storm.

He exhaled slowly and glanced at Isabella. His heart twisted with love and regret. She deserved to know the whole truth. Not the half-truths he had offered before. He had told her about Catherine—yes—but not the part that haunted him in his sleep.

He rose, stepped into his jeans, and left the room quietly, the wooden floor creaking beneath his steps.

---

Later that morning, Arthur made breakfast. Isabella joined him at the table, wearing one of his shirts, her hair tousled and her eyes bright.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

Arthur gave a half-smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Nightmares again?”

He nodded.

“Arthur, I want to help you carry whatever’s hurting you,” she said, reaching across the table to touch his hand.

He closed his eyes briefly, swallowed the knot in his throat, and nodded. “Then you need to know everything. I wasn’t completely honest about Catherine.”

Isabella’s hand froze on his.

“I told you she was a part of my past. I told you we were involved. But what I didn’t say is that she had my child.”

Her lips parted slightly.

“A boy,” Arthur whispered, the word breaking something inside him. “His name was supposed to be Emmanuel.”

Isabella held his gaze, but her eyes glistened. “What happened to him?”

“I didn’t know about him until it was too late,” Arthur said. “Catherine never told me she was pregnant. I was sent away to seminary. She left the country. When I returned, she reached out to me—said the boy was sick and died immediately after birth. I didn’t believe her at first. Thought she was playing some twisted game to get back into my life.”

He stood up, restless, pacing the room.

Isabella covered her mouth with her hand.

Arthur’s face contorted with bitterness and grief. “And the worst part—what eats me alive—is that he could have been saved.”

“What?”

“There was a surgical procedure that might have given him a chance to live. Catherine knew. The doctors told her. But she claimed she didn’t have the money for the operation. Said no one could help her.”

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh my God…”

Arthur’s fists clenched. “But later, I found out that she had access to the funds. Her father had left her something. She lied, Isabella. She chose not to fight for him.”

He turned away, his shoulders trembling.

“She let him die, and she never even gave me the chance to be there. To try. I might’ve found a way—I would’ve found a way"

Isabella wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her head on his back.

“You didn’t kill him, Arthur.”

“I didn’t save him either.”

They stood in silence, wrapped in the kind of stillness only grief could bring.

---

The rest of the day passed in quiet reflection. Arthur didn’t say much. Neither did Isabella. But the atmosphere between them didn’t feel broken—only heavier, as though his pain had finally been laid to rest in her presence.

That evening, they sat under the tree in the back of the small house. Isabella played with the hem of his shirt, her head resting against his shoulder.

“I love you more now,” she whispered.

Arthur turned to look at her.

“Because now I know what you’ve carried all this time. You loved that boy even though you didn’t know him. You blame yourself because you care deeply. That’s who you are.”

Arthur touched her cheek. “You make it sound noble. But I feel like I failed him.”

“We all have pasts,” she said. “This is ours now. And we’ll face it together.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

For the first time, Arthur felt like he could breathe.

---

The days that followed were healing in their own quiet way. Arthur began to write again—sermons, thoughts, even a children’s story that Isabella found tucked under his sketchpad. It was a tale of a young lion who had lost his roar but found it again in the laughter of a little girl.

“You wrote this for him, didn’t you?” Isabella asked one morning.

Arthur nodded.

She kissed his temple and held him tight.

At night, they would lie beneath the stars, sharing their dreams. Isabella talked about opening a small gallery someday, filled with paintings of angels and broken halos. Arthur imagined starting a retreat center—one for the bruised and weary, those like him who had been crushed by the weight of their own regrets.

One night, as the wind rustled the trees, Arthur rolled to face her. “Would you ever want children?”

Isabella blinked. “With you?”

He nodded.

Her answer was a smile that felt like sunlight. “Yes. I want your children, Arthur. I want to raise them with love and laughter and truth. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” he echoed.

---

But even as their love deepened, there were shadows beginning to stir. Catherine hadn’t disappeared. In fact, she was watching.

From afar, her lips curled with venom when her investigator brought back photographs of Arthur and Isabella walking through the town square, holding hands, smiling.

“She replaced me,” she murmured. “He replaced Emmanuel. Just like that.”

Her fingers closed around the photograph, crumpling it.

“No, darling,” she whispered to herself, “you don’t get to walk away from the ruin you caused. You don’t get peace while I’m still bleeding.”

---

Unaware of the brewing storm, Arthur and Isabella started to make plans. She was painting again. He started offering free counseling sessions at the town’s edge. They began to be known—not as lovers escaping scandal—but as a pair mending souls, including their own.

On a Sunday morning, Arthur stood beneath the big oak tree behind the house, holding Isabella’s hand. The townspeople had gathered, some sitting on logs, others on foldable chairs. He preached with no pulpit, no robes, no titles. Just a Bible, a smile, and a heart finally open.

And she sat in the front row, beaming at him.

“I once was lost,” he said, his voice steady, “not because I didn’t know God—but because I didn’t know how to forgive myself. I carried shame like it was my shadow. But someone reminded me that grace doesn’t run out when you fall. Grace waits.”

A woman in the back wiped a tear.

“That’s all God ever wanted—from any of us. To stop hiding. To come back home.”

---

After the service, Isabella ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck.

“You were brilliant,” she said.

He laughed, lifting her off the ground. “That was terrifying.”

“You didn’t show it. They loved you.”

“I only care that you do.”

“You already know the answer to that.”

She kissed him.

And for one more day, the world gave them peace