Elias nodded, his resolve hardening. Devil's Teeth. It was a long shot, but it was the first solid lead he'd had in days. He owed it to Clara to follow every thread, no matter how thin.He found himself in her study, a room overflowing with books, notes, and half-finished projects. Clara had always claimed it was her sanctuary, a place where her chaotic thoughts could somehow coalesce into something beautiful and meaningful. Now, though, it felt abandoned. He ran a hand over the spine of a worn copy of "Wuthering Heights," a favorite of hers they had often discussed late into the night.
Pulling out her desk chair, he sat down, the leather conforming to his shape like a familiar embrace. The computer screen was dark, reflecting his own haggard face back at him. He hesitated, then reached out, his fingers brushing the power button. He knew he shouldn't. He knew Clara valued her privacy, and he had always respected that. But the desperation clawing at him overwhelmed his usual restraint. He needed to know, even if it hurt.
The screen flickered to life, displaying her desktop. A myriad of icons cluttered the space – folders labeled "Research," "Drafts," "Commissions," and, in a corner, a folder simply titled "Elias." His heart clenched. He clicked on it, his breath catching in his throat.
Inside were folders containing photographs, letters, and even audio recordings. Some were old, dating back to their first awkward dates, filled with tentative smiles and nervous laughter. Others were more recent, documenting their life together in snapshots – a picnic in the park, a cozy night in front of the fireplace, a silly selfie taken during a road trip.
He clicked on one of the audio files, the title simply reading, "EliasReadingPoetry." He hit play.
His own voice filled the room, reciting a sonnet by Shakespeare, his tone earnest and slightly self-conscious. He remembered that night. He'd been nervous, wanting to impress Clara with his (somewhat rusty) knowledge of classical literature. He'd stumbled over a few lines, mortified, but Clara had just laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement and affection.The desert wind howled a mournful song, a fitting soundtrack to Elias's despair. He sat perched on a crumbling sandstone ridge, the setting sun painting the endless dunes in hues of fiery orange and melancholic purple. Three days. Three days since Elara had vanished. Gone. Swallowed by the shifting sands, the ruthless smugglers, or something far more sinister he couldn't even bring himself to contemplate.
He'd retraced their steps, interrogated every desert nomad he could find, even offering a significant portion of his dwindling coin. All to no avail. Each whispered rumour led to another dead end, each hopeful glint in a merchant's eye quickly fading into disappointment as they realized he wasn't searching for goods, but for a ghost.
Elara. Her name echoed in his mind, a persistent whisper that both tormented and sustained him. He saw her face everywhere – in the swirling patterns of the sand, in the distant, shimmering mirages, in the very stars that blinked down upon him with indifferent beauty.
Before Elara, Elias had been a solitary figure, a shadow flitting through the bustling marketplaces and dusty caravanserais, a seller of information and finder of lost things. He found objects, trinkets, people… but he never truly connected. He kept himself at a distance, a shield forged from years of betrayal and loss keeping the world at bay.
Then Elara, with her bright eyes, her boundless curiosity, and her stubborn refusal to accept his cynicism, had chipped away at that shield. She'd seen past the hardened exterior, recognizing the lonely, vulnerable man beneath. She'd laughed at his gruff pronouncements, challenged his assumptions, and, most importantly, she'd listened. Truly listened.
Now, the silence was deafening. He missed her questions, her quick wit, her unwavering belief in him. He missed the way she'd hum softly under her breath as she sketched in her notebook, capturing the fleeting beauty of the desert landscapes. He missed the simple act of sharing a meager meal under the vast, star-strewn sky.