The Unseen Language: A Novel of Love Beyond Words

(Prologue: The Weight of Words Unspoken)

The city breathed its usual cacophony – the bass thump from a passing car vibrating through the soles of worn trainers, the staccato rhythm of high heels on pavement, the fragmented symphony of overlapping conversations drifting from cafe terraces. Elara Vance moved through it like a ghost, insulated by her headphones and the invisible, yet palpable, wall she carried within. At twenty-eight, she felt profoundly alone amidst the millions. Her world was one of meticulously curated silence, a self-imposed exile born from the shattering echoes of words once trusted, promises that turned to dust in her hands.

Her apartment, high above the thrumming streets, was a sanctuary of quiet industry. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of histories and philosophies, their spines whispering tales of empires risen and fallen, loves lost and won, all rendered safe by the distance of ink and paper. Her work – intricate botanical illustrations commissioned by scientific journals and luxury publishers – demanded a solitude she readily embraced. Plants didn’t lie. They didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep. Their language was one of patient growth, subtle shifts in hue, the unfurling of a leaf, the silent perseverance of roots seeking sustenance. Elara understood that language fluently. The language of human hearts, however, felt like a cipher she’d misplaced the key to.

Her last relationship, two years prior, had ended not with a bang, but with the corrosive drip of betrayal. Liam, with his easy charm and grandiloquent declarations, had woven a future of shared dreams Elara had clung to. Until she’d stumbled upon the evidence – text messages dripping with intimacy meant for another, plans made for a life that excluded her. His explanations had been a torrent of defensive words, excuses that dissolved like sugar in the acid rain of truth. The pain wasn’t just the loss of him; it was the demolition of her faith in words themselves. "I love you," "Forever," "Only you" – they became hollow shells, dangerous illusions. She retreated, building her walls higher, finding solace only in the silent, honest company of chlorophyll and cellulose.

(Chapter 1: The Man Who Didn't Speak)

The community garden on the edge of Ravenswood Park was Elara’s concession to necessary air. It was a patchwork quilt of raised beds, tended by an eclectic mix of retirees, young families, and solitary souls like herself. Her plot, number seventeen, was a haven of order: neat rows of heirloom tomatoes, fragrant basil, vibrant nasturtiums spilling over the cedar edges, and a small, struggling Japanese maple she was determined to nurse back to health. It was here, on a blustery April morning that smelled of damp earth and imminent rain, that she first encountered him.

He was wrestling with the heavy lid of the communal compost bin, his back to her. He wore faded jeans, sturdy boots, and a dark green hoodie pulled up against the chill. There was an economy of movement about him, a focused efficiency that contrasted sharply with the usual weekend gardeners chatting over seedlings. Elara approached cautiously, needing to deposit her own bucket of kitchen scraps.

As she drew near, he finally managed to lever the stiff lid open. He turned slightly, acknowledging her presence with a brief nod, his face shadowed by the hood. His eyes, a startlingly clear grey, met hers for a fleeting moment. There was no smile, no casual greeting, just a quiet intensity that held her gaze longer than felt comfortable. Then, he gestured towards the open bin with a tilt of his head, silently offering her access first.

"Thanks," Elara murmured, her voice sounding unused, rusty. She emptied her bucket, the vegetable peels tumbling onto the steaming heap below.

He simply nodded again, waiting patiently until she stepped back. He deposited his own compost, a larger bag filled with grass clippings and spent blooms, then secured the lid with a solid *thunk*. He turned and walked towards a plot at the far end of the garden, plot twenty-three, without a backward glance. Elara watched him go, struck by his silence. It wasn’t rude or dismissive; it felt… deliberate. Like language was a currency he chose not to spend lightly.

Over the following weeks, Elara saw him often. He was always there, early in the morning or late in the afternoon, when the garden was quieter. He worked methodically in plot twenty-three, transforming what had been a neglected tangle of weeds into something structured and promising. He built sturdy trellises for beans, meticulously weeded, amended the soil with well-rotted manure. He planted potatoes with geometric precision, rows of leafy greens, and a surprising variety of herbs. Yet, he never spoke. Not to her, not to Mrs. Henderson who chattered incessantly about her prize-winning marigolds, not to the boisterous twins from plot twelve who sometimes kicked their football perilously close to his seedlings. He communicated through gestures – a nod, a raised hand in acknowledgment, occasionally pointing at a tool someone else was using. The other gardeners seemed to accept his silence, treating him with a respectful distance. Elara learned his name only by overhearing Mrs. Henderson: Silas Thorne.

His silence intrigued her. It felt different from her own guarded withdrawal. His wasn’t a wall; it felt more like a deep, still pool. Observant. Contained. She found herself watching him work. The careful way he handled seedlings, the absolute focus in his eyes when he was pruning, the quiet satisfaction she sometimes glimpsed on his face when he surveyed his thriving plot. He had strong, capable hands, often smudged with soil. He moved with a natural grace, unhurried but purposeful. There was a solidity to him, an unspoken reliability that resonated in the quiet rhythm of his tasks. Unlike Liam’s flamboyant charm, Silas’s presence was a low hum, a grounding force.

(Chapter 2: The Vocabulary of Soil and Seedlings)

One rain-slicked Saturday, Elara was battling a particularly stubborn bindweed root that threatened to strangle her beloved maple. She tugged, cursed under her breath, tugged harder. The root snapped, sending her sprawling backwards into the muddy path, landing squarely on her backside with an undignified squelch. Her trowel skittered away. Mud seeped coldly through her jeans. Humiliation washed over her, hot and prickly.

Before she could even process the fall, a shadow fell over her. Silas stood there, holding out a large, clean handkerchief. His expression was unreadable, but his grey eyes held a flicker of concern. No words, just the offered cloth.

Flushing crimson, Elara took it, muttering, "Thanks. Clumsy." She dabbed futilely at the mud on her hands.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he walked over to where her trowel lay, picked it up, then crouched beside the offending maple. He examined the broken root end she’d left, then pointed to a spot a few inches away, where a thicker, pale tendril snaked deeper. He mimed digging carefully around it.

"You mean… it’s connected further down?" Elara asked, scrambling to her knees, ignoring the mud.

He nodded, then pointed to her garden fork leaning against her toolbox. Understanding dawned. She fetched the fork. Silas took it without a word, his movements deliberate. He loosened the soil around the deeper root section, working patiently and with surprising gentleness, avoiding damaging the maple's finer roots. He didn’t take over; he simply showed her where and how to dig. Together, in silence punctuated only by the rasp of the fork in soil and the patter of rain on nearby broad beans, they excavated the stubborn bindweed runner. Silas finally unearthed the thick, anchoring root and held it up, a muddy trophy. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he met her eyes. It was gone in an instant, but Elara felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest, unrelated to the exertion.

He dropped the root onto her compost pile, rinsed his hands under the rainwater barrel tap, and handed her fork back. Then, with another brief nod, he returned to his own plot.

Elara stared after him, then down at the vanquished bindweed, then at the clean handkerchief now smudged with mud. It was the first real interaction. No grand declarations, no witty banter. Just shared purpose in the rain, communicated through actions and understanding. It felt… profound. Honest. She carefully folded the muddy handkerchief, resolving to wash it.

(Chapter 3: Bridges Built in Green)

The shared battle against the bindweed became a turning point. A silent camaraderie developed. Elara found herself learning from Silas’s quiet competence. She noticed how he companion-planted marigolds among his tomatoes to deter pests, how he used chopped comfrey leaves as a nutrient-rich mulch. She started incorporating his methods. Sometimes, she’d glance up and find him watching her work on her illustrations at her small foldable table near her plot, his expression thoughtful. Once, when she was struggling to capture the exact veining of a particularly wilting snapdragon bloom, he appeared beside her table. He didn’t speak, but he gently turned the wilting flower towards the diffuse afternoon light, highlighting the intricate patterns she’d missed. She looked up, startled, and he met her gaze, nodded once, and walked away. The gesture was so simple, yet so deeply *seen*.

She learned to interpret his subtle language. The slight incline of his head meant "Good morning." A raised eyebrow near a drooping plant was a silent question: "Need help?" The way he carefully placed a perfectly ripe zucchini from his plot onto the edge of her toolbox was a gift, offered without expectation. She reciprocated, leaving a jar of her homemade basil pesto beside his watering can, or a small sketch she’d done of the burgeoning bean tendrils curling up his trellis.

One warm June evening, as the setting sun painted the garden in molten gold, Elara was sketching the intricate structure of a newly opened artichoke flower in Silas’s plot (with his silent permission, granted by a simple wave of his hand). He was nearby, harvesting fragrant sprigs of rosemary. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth, lavender, and the distant promise of grilling from nearby houses.

Mrs. Henderson bustled over, brandishing her phone. "Elara, dear! Look! My grandson sent pictures of his graduation! Such a handsome boy, isn’t he?" She thrust the phone towards Elara, who politely admired the photos.

Mrs. Henderson then turned her attention to Silas, who had straightened up, rosemary in hand. "And Silas! Look at this fine young man! Makes you think, doesn’t it? About family? Do you have family nearby, Silas?"

Silas froze. The easy stillness that usually surrounded him vanished, replaced by a palpable tension. His knuckles whitened around the rosemary stems. His gaze flickered, not towards Mrs. Henderson’s phone, but somewhere distant, over the garden wall. A shadow crossed his face, deep and complex – pain, isolation, something profoundly guarded. He didn’t shake his head or nod. He simply stood there, locked in a sudden, silent anguish.

Mrs. Henderson, oblivious, chattered on. "Oh, family is everything, isn't it? The cornerstone..."

Elara saw it. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight hunch of his shoulders, the retreat in his eyes. It was a vulnerability she hadn’t witnessed before, stark and raw beneath his usual quietude. An instinct rose in her, fierce and protective.

"Mrs. Henderson," Elara interjected, her voice firmer than usual, drawing the older woman’s attention. "That artichoke Silas grew is incredible. Have you ever seen one so perfectly formed? It’s practically a sculpture." She subtly stepped closer to Silas, not touching him, but creating a small buffer zone with her presence.

Mrs. Henderson, diverted, peered at the artichoke. "Oh! Yes, very impressive, Silas! Quite the green thumb you have." She beamed, her familial interrogation momentarily forgotten.

Silas didn’t look at Elara. He gave Mrs. Henderson a curt nod, then turned abruptly and walked towards the tool shed, his movements stiff. Elara watched him go, her heart aching with a newfound understanding. His silence wasn't just preference; it was a shield, guarding depths of pain she couldn't fathom. She felt a surge of connection, not just to the quiet gardener, but to the wounded soul beneath. She had known isolation; she recognized its contours on him.

(Chapter 4: Whispers in the Rustling Leaves)

The incident with Mrs. Henderson changed things. Elara felt an unspoken permission to be closer, a shared recognition of hidden scars. She started bringing two thermoses of tea – strong English Breakfast for herself, a fragrant Earl Grey she’d noticed him buying once. She’d place one silently on the bench Where Silence Blooms Louder Than Promises his plot. He’d acknowledge it with a nod, and sometimes, he’d sit on the opposite end of the bench while she sketched or weeded, drinking his tea in companionable silence. The space between them hummed with unspoken understanding.

She learned more about him in fragments, gleaned not from his lips but from his actions and rare, trusted sources. Old Mr. Davies, who’d known the garden for decades, mentioned over shared seed packets that Silas had been a carpenter. "Fine craftsman," he’d rasped. "Quiet, but his hands knew the truth of wood." He’d gestured vaguely. "Something happened… years back. Don’t know what. Stopped talking much after that. Keeps to himself, but he’s sound. Reliable."

Elara pictured Silas’s hands – the callouses, the careful strength, the way he handled tools and plants with the same reverence. A carpenter. It made sense. His plot was a testament to craftsmanship.

One July afternoon, the garden was drowsy under a heavy sun. Elara was battling aphids on her roses with a spray bottle of soapy water, frustration mounting. Silas appeared beside her. He didn’t offer advice. Instead, he held out his hand, palm up. Resting on it was a ladybird beetle, its vibrant red shell dotted with perfect black spots.

Elara looked from the beetle to his face. He raised his eyebrows slightly, then gently placed the ladybird onto an infested rose stem. The tiny predator immediately began exploring, a miniature knight in shining armor. Silas met her gaze, a silent message clear: Nature provides its own solutions. Patience.

He then pointed towards the shady corner near his plot where mint grew rampant. He mimed crushing leaves, then spraying. Understanding, Elara followed him. He picked a large bunch of mint, crushed the leaves powerfully in his hands, releasing a sharp, clean scent, and dropped them into her empty spray bottle. He filled it with water from the rain barrel and handed it back. A natural pest repellent. A silent gift of knowledge.

Later, as they worked companionably, Elara finally broke the comfortable quiet, her voice soft, tentative. "Thank you. For the ladybird. And the mint." She didn’t look at him, focusing on spraying the minty water.

Silas paused in his task of tying up tomato vines. He didn’t speak, but after a moment, she felt his gaze on her. When she finally dared to glance up, he offered a small, genuine smile. It transformed his face, softening the lines, reaching his eyes. It wasn’t Liam’s dazzling grin; it was quieter, warmer, like sunlight filtering through leaves. It spoke volumes. You’re welcome. We’re in this together. Elara’s breath caught. The simple beauty of that unguarded moment, the shared language of mint and ladybirds and quiet smiles, resonated deeper than any eloquent declaration ever could. Her carefully guarded heart gave a tentative, hopeful flutter.

(Chapter 5: The Storm Before the Calm)

Their silent connection deepened throughout the lush abundance of August. Elara found herself sketching him more and more – not his face directly (that felt intrusive), but his hands cradling a ripe tomato, the curve of his back as he worked, the focused line of his profile against the green backdrop. Her illustrations took on a new vitality, infused with the quiet energy she absorbed in the garden. She started leaving small sketches tucked into the handle of his watering can – a detailed study of a dew-covered spiderweb, the silhouette of a blackbird singing on the garden fence. He never commented, but the sketches always disappeared, and once, she found a perfectly carved wooden hummingbird, wings delicately spread, resting on her sketchpad. It was exquisite, a testament to the carpenter’s hands Mr. Davies had mentioned. She held it, tracing the smooth wood, feeling the care in every cut. A silent conversation in art and craft.

One Friday, the sky bruised purple with an approaching storm. The air crackled with tension, thick and humid. Elara was rushing to secure her taller plants against the forecasted winds. Silas was doing the same, his movements swift and efficient. They worked side-by-side, tying stakes, anchoring netting, a well-coordinated dance without words. As Elara struggled with a flapping row cover, a gust of wind ripped it from her grasp. Silas lunged, catching the corner before it sailed away. Their hands brushed as they wrestled the fabric back into place. The contact was brief, electric. Elara froze, looking up into his eyes, mere inches away. The world narrowed to the grey storm in his irises, the warmth of his hand still tingling against hers, the scent of ozone and damp earth. Time suspended. In that charged silence, a thousand unspoken things hung between them – recognition, desire, a shared breath held.

Then, thunder cracked overhead, a violent punctuation mark. They both jumped, the spell broken. Silas secured the row cover with a final, firm knot, gave her a quick, inscrutable look, and turned back to his own plot. Elara stood there for a moment, heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird, the ghost of his touch burning on her skin. The storm within her felt far more potent than the one brewing in the sky.

The storm raged that night, lashing rain against Elara’s windows, howling wind shaking the old building. She lay awake, not from fear of the weather, but from the tempest Silas had unwittingly unleashed within her. The brush of his hand replayed on a loop, the intensity in his eyes haunting her. It terrified her. The walls she’d built felt suddenly fragile, threatened not by words this time, but by silence and a single, devastating touch. What if she was misreading it? What if his quietude masked indifference, or worse? The vulnerability felt excruciating. The fear of being shattered again, by something she couldn’t even name, was paralyzing.

(Chapter 6: The Withering)

Elara didn’t go to the garden the next day. Or the day after. The storm had passed, leaving the city washed clean, but she felt stained by her own fear. She buried herself in work, tackling complex commissions with fierce concentration, trying to drown out the memory of Silas’s hand and the terrifying hope it ignited. She avoided her windows overlooking the park.

On the third morning, guilt and a gnawing, insistent curiosity drove her back. The garden was recovering, vibrant green after the rain. Her own plot looked fine, well-staked. But as she approached, her heart sank. Plot twenty-three was a disaster. The wind had torn through Silas’s carefully constructed defenses. Tomato plants were snapped, heavy with unripe fruit now crushed against the soil. Bean trellises lay flattened. The beautiful artichoke flower she’d sketched was broken, its purple glory bent and muddy. It looked like a battlefield.

Silas was there, standing amidst the wreckage. He wasn’t moving. He just stood, shoulders slumped, head bowed, staring at the ruined fruits of his months of silent labor. The quiet intensity she was used to was gone, replaced by a profound, radiating despair. He looked utterly defeated, the solidity she associated with him replaced by a heartbreaking fragility.

Elara’s own fears evaporated, replaced by a fierce surge of empathy. Without a second thought, she walked over. She didn’t speak. She simply picked up a fallen stake, then another. She righted a tomato cage that was only bent, not broken. She began gathering the unbroken green tomatoes scattered on the ground, placing them gently in a basket he’d left nearby.

Silas didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he raised his head. He watched her, his grey eyes clouded with a pain that went far deeper than the ruined plants. She saw the struggle in him, the effort it took to move, to engage. Finally, he took a shuddering breath and bent down. He picked up a snapped bean vine, his large hands trembling slightly. He looked at it, then at her, his eyes filled with a silent plea, a raw vulnerability that stripped away all his defenses. It wasn’t just about the garden. This destruction echoed something older, deeper – the pain Mr. Davies had hinted at, the shadow that crossed his face when Mrs. Henderson mentioned family.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. But the devastation in his silence was louder than any sob. Elara felt it resonate in her own bones, a shared understanding of loss. She held his gaze, her own eyes conveying everything words couldn’t: I see you. I’m here. You’re not alone. She picked up another stake, handed it to him.

He took it. His fingers brushed hers again, but this time, it wasn’t electric; it was grounding. A connection forged in shared wreckage. Slowly, silently, they began the task of salvage. They worked side-by-side for hours, clearing debris, propping up what could be saved, mourning what couldn’t. No words passed between them. None were needed. The language of shared labor, of gentle hands on broken stems, of silent companionship in the face of loss, spoke more eloquently than any conversation ever could. In the ruins of his garden, amidst the smell of crushed tomato leaves and damp earth, something new and incredibly tender began to take root between them. It was a love born not in grand declarations, but in the quiet, resilient act of rebuilding together.

(Chapter 7: The Unfurling)

The days following the storm were a time of quiet healing, both for plot twenty-three and for the fragile thing growing between Elara and Silas. They worked together every morning, their silent collaboration deepening into an intuitive partnership. Elara brought spare seedlings from her own plot – sturdy kale, fast-growing radishes – to fill the gaps in Silas’s. He showed her how to splice broken tomato stems, a meticulous process requiring patience and a steady hand. His touch on the plants was infinitely gentle, a surgeon’s precision mixed with a deep reverence. Watching him, Elara understood his silence wasn’t an absence, but a different kind of presence – a profound attentiveness to the world that didn’t require vocalization.

One warm afternoon, as they took a break on the bench, sharing the last of Elara’s lemonade, Silas did something unexpected. He pulled a small, worn notebook and a pencil stub from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the recovering artichoke plant, then began to sketch. Elara watched, fascinated, as rough, confident lines took shape on the paper. He wasn’t drawing the plant literally; he was capturing its essence – the defiant angle of the broken stalk, the new, smaller bud pushing up beside it, the resilience in its form. It was raw, powerful, speaking of damage and hope in stark, beautiful strokes. He tore the page out and handed it to her.

Elara stared at it, then at him. "It’s… it’s the artichoke. After the storm," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "It’s beautiful, Silas."

He met her eyes, a flicker of something vulnerable in his own. He tapped the sketch, then pointed to the plant, and finally, slowly, deliberately, touched his chest over his heart. The gesture was simple, yet devastatingly eloquent. This is how I feel. Broken, but still growing. Hopeful.

Tears welled in Elara’s eyes. He was speaking to her, truly speaking, in the only language that felt authentic to him. She reached out, not to take the sketch, but to cover his hand where it rested on the bench with hers. His skin was warm, calloused. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand palm up, lacing his fingers through hers. The contact was solid, real, a silent vow written in the joining of their hands. No grand promises, just the shared warmth, the shared understanding of survival and the tentative, terrifying hope for new growth. They sat like that for a long time, watching bees buzz around the lavender, the unspoken words between them flowing as clear and vital as sap in spring.

(Chapter 8: The Ripe Fruit)

Summer ripened into early autumn. Plot twenty-three, though scarred, flourished anew. The salvaged tomatoes, smaller but intensely flavored, blushed red. New greens filled the beds. The Japanese maple in Elara’s plot, nurtured back from its bindweed ordeal, began its fiery transformation into autumn crimson. Their silent language evolved. Elara started learning basic sign language, practicing in secret. The first time she signed "Good morning" to Silas, his eyes widened, then softened with a warmth that flooded her entire being. He didn’t sign back fluently, but he began to use simple gestures more often, meeting her halfway in this new, shared lexicon. They developed their own signs: a tap on the wrist for "Time to go?", a gentle brush of fingertips against a leaf for "Beautiful," a shared glance towards the setting sun meaning "Peace."

Elara discovered the joy of simply

with him. Sitting on the bench, sketching while he whittled a piece of wood (revealing the carpenter’s skill Mr. Davies had spoken of – he was crafting a small bird feeder), the silence between them was rich and comfortable, filled with the rustling leaves, distant bird calls, and the profound understanding that flowed between them. She learned the rhythm of his breath, the way he squinted slightly when concentrating, the rare, precious sound of his low hum when he was particularly content.

One crisp September evening, the air tinged with woodsmoke and the scent of ripe apples, Elara was putting away her tools. Silas approached her plot. He held something hidden in his hands, cupped gently. He stopped before her, his grey eyes unusually bright, holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. Slowly, he opened his hands.

Resting on his calloused palms were three perfect figs. They were deep purple, almost black, dusted with a faint bloom, plump and heavy with sweetness. He’d grown them in a sheltered corner of his plot, a secret treasure. He held them out to her, an offering.

Elara looked from the figs to his face. This wasn't just fruit; it was a culmination. It was the patient tending, the shared recovery from the storm, the silent understanding, the growing warmth, all distilled into this simple, profound gift. It was vulnerability, trust, and a depth of feeling that needed no translation.

She didn't take the figs immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, closing the small distance between them. She reached up, her hand trembling only slightly, and gently touched his cheek. His skin was warm, slightly rough with stubble. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment, a sigh escaping his lips – the softest sound, laden with emotion.

When he opened his eyes, the look he gave her was unmistakable. It held all the words he couldn't say, all the promises he wouldn't voice lightly. It held respect, tenderness, a fierce protectiveness, and a love that was deep, patient, and utterly real. It was a love that had grown silently, like the roots of the ancient oak in the park, strong and enduring.

Elara held his gaze, her own eyes reflecting everything she felt – the dissolved fear, the profound gratitude, the burgeoning joy, the absolute trust. She saw her own love mirrored back in his silent depths, clearer and more certain than any declaration could ever be.

She took one fig from his hand. It felt warm, alive. She brought it to her lips, her eyes never leaving his, and took a small bite. The flavor exploded – honeyed, complex, deeply sweet with a hint of earth, the very essence of the sun and soil and care he had poured into it. It was the taste of patience, of silent devotion, of love nurtured in the quiet spaces between words.

A slow, radiant smile spread across her face, the most genuine, unguarded expression she’d worn in years. Silas watched her, his own lips curving in response, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn't need to ask. Her smile, the joy in her eyes as she savored the fig, the way her hand still rested lightly on his arm – it was all the answer, all the confirmation he needed.

They stood there in the gathering twilight of the garden, surrounded by the fruits of their shared labor and silent understanding. The city’s noise was a distant murmur. Here, in their green sanctuary, the only language that mattered was the one they had forged together – a language of shared glances, gentle touches, patient actions, and the profound, resonant silence that bloomed louder and truer than any spoken promise ever could. It was the unseen language, the one spoken by the heart directly to the heart, and it was more than enough. It was everything. The fig’s sweetness lingered on her tongue, a promise not of forever spoken, but of a love deeply rooted, patiently grown, and finally, gloriously ripe.