Episode 1: The Silence We Chose
By Elena Falk
Let me introduce myself.
My name is Elena Falk, and I am not the kind of woman people write stories about.
I'm not tragic enough to be pitied, not reckless enough to be feared, not soft enough to be loved at first glance. I live quietly, breathe efficiently, and speak only when necessary. Some say that makes me cold.
They have no idea how right they are.
I wasn't always like this. Once, I had fire in me—quiet, yes, but burning. Once, I had a sister who believed I could do anything. Once, I believed that too.
But everything changed the day Clara left.
She was seventeen. I was twenty-two. Our mother had just died, and our father... well, he was already halfway gone, even before she passed. I stayed. Clara ran. We never talked about it again.
Until now.
Seven years later, she returned to Arkenfjord. And I invited her.
I don't even know why. Maybe because after Dad died, the silence became too loud. Or maybe because a part of me still wants to understand why she left—and why I didn't.
The train station was nearly empty when I saw her.
She hadn't changed much. Still carrying more emotion in her eyes than most people carry in their entire body. Her suitcase looked like it had seen too many cities and too few moments of rest. And her smile—God, her smile—was hesitant but real.
"Clara," I said, the word sharp on my tongue.
She stopped in front of me. "Elena," she breathed, as if the name had weight.
"You're late."
It came out colder than I meant. Or maybe not. I've always been better at distance than warmth.
She laughed a little. "It's nice to see you too."
I turned around and walked to the car. She followed. I didn't offer to take her suitcase. I didn't ask how the trip was. I didn't say welcome back.
Because I didn't know if she was.
The drive home was quiet. The snow outside blurred the town into soft greys and whites, and inside the car, the silence between us grew like frost on glass—slow, invisible, until it covered everything.
"I wasn't sure if you'd come," I said.
"I wasn't sure if I should," Clara replied, looking out the window.
She always did that—look away when she wanted to say more than she could handle.
We passed familiar streets. The bakery that used to sell lemon cakes. The bookstore with the cracked window. The park where we once made up after a week-long fight over a broken CD.
Clara didn't mention any of it. Neither did I.
At home, I led her to the guest room.
"It looks the same," she said, placing her suitcase down.
"It is the same."
"You kept the painting I made?"
"It's on the wall, isn't it?"
She looked at me then. Really looked. As if searching for something in my face that might tell her I missed her. I looked away.
"Elena," she said gently. "Thank you for letting me come."
I nodded once. "Dinner is at seven."
That was all.
Later that night, I sat alone in my room. The house was too quiet with only the sound of the snow tapping against the windows. I used to love the silence. Now, with her down the hall, it felt like pressure in my chest.
I remembered the last fight we had. She called me heartless. I called her a coward. We meant every word in the moment. Maybe we still do.
But I'm tired.
Tired of pretending it didn't matter. Tired of carrying a version of myself that doesn't feel human. Tired of hearing my sister's voice only in memories.
I don't know what this visit will bring. We're not children anymore. And forgiveness, I've learned, isn't a clean or easy thing.
But she's here now.
And I'm still Elena.
Still the girl who stayed.
Still the woman trying to feel something again.