**The Mysterious Visitor in the Garden**
Emily woke to the sharp crow of a neighbour’s rooster. *Not again,* she thought with irritation. The bird fell silent, but the dream had already slipped away, leaving only a vague unease. She tossed on the old, creaky bed, feeling the damp sheets and a faint gnaw of hunger. Morning light seeped through faded curtains, stinging her eyes and deepening her annoyance.
Reluctantly, she rose, shivering. Washing with ice-cold water from the well was nothing new, but scrubbing dishes in the chill still felt like torture. Aunt Margaret’s house, where she was staying, had no hot water. A battered, time-worn place, it held memories of her father’s childhood. Built by her grandfather, every groaning floorboard told a story.
After her grandparents’ passing, Aunt Margaret stayed alone—her daughter abroad, her son at university in London. Emily, craving nostalgia and wanting to keep her company, had come for a week of her holiday. *She’ll appreciate the company, and it’s nice for me too,* she’d thought while packing.
The household chores were light. Five years ago, her father, Paul, had replaced the old stove with a gas boiler, easing their burdens. Yet Emily missed the days when the hearth warmed the house, the air thick with the scent of burning wood. Gardening was effortless—watering, weeding—done with unexpected enthusiasm, as if falling back into an old rhythm.
The day before, Aunt Margaret had left for a nearby village, vague about whether it was a funeral or a celebration. She’d asked Emily to *’keep an eye on the house,’* though what that entailed, Emily wasn’t sure. No livestock remained; milk and cream came from neighbours. The garden? Already tended. So the day was hers—walks, reading, quiet.
Emily stepped into the garden, plucking a ripe apple and inhaling the crisp morning air. This holiday was different. Last year, she’d lounged by the seaside; the year before, she’d travelled abroad. But this crumbling cottage in a tiny Devon village felt special, familiar. A breeze carried a strange sound—a rustle, or a groan—cutting through birdsong.
Alert, she followed the noise. Peered behind the greenhouse—nothing. Circled the vegetable patch—silence. Only the ginger tom from next door leapt off the fence and vanished into the grass. Near the gate, the sound grew louder. She hesitated—should she go out in her nightclothes? Shrugging, she slipped through the back door, weaving through nettles. The garden bloomed with apple and pear trees, cherry bushes and blackcurrants tangled along the house.
In the honeysuckle, entwined with lilies, she froze. A young man lay in the tall grass. Her heart lurched.
*’Hey…’* She knelt, touching his shoulder. *’Are you alive?’*
She rolled him onto his back. His breathing was laboured, his face pale. She dashed inside, filled a bucket with icy water, and returned. Splashing his face, she dampened a towel and pressed it to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open.
*’Water…’* he croaked.
She helped him sit against the fence and let him drink.
*’You need a doctor,’* she insisted. *’What happened?’*
*’Just a row with a mate,’* he winced. *’No doctor. Just help me up.’*
Supporting him, she led him inside, where he collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep instantly.
*’Well, then,’* Emily muttered. *’Fair enough.’*
She cooked lunch, stealing glances at her unexpected guest. When he woke, his white shirt hung drying on the kitchen line, replaced by a ridiculous yellow tee left out for him. He pulled it on, rubbing his temples.
*’Thanks,’* he mumbled.
*’No bother,’* she replied, sliding into familiarity. *’Hungry?’*
*’Yeah,’* he sighed, stumbling to the table.
*’Name?’* she asked, setting a plate before him.
*’James,’* he replied, staring at the food.
*’Emily,’* she said, nudging a fork his way.
*’Emily,’* he repeated absently. *’Thank you.’*
After tea, colour returned to his cheeks, and he devoured the pancakes she’d made. She watched, pleased he was recovering.
*’More?’* She cleared the plate, dreading another boil of water for washing. *’Now, explain what happened.’*
*’Why?’* James frowned.
Emily stared down at him.
*’Because I’d like to know who and why was sprawled in my lilies,’* she said with a grin, then sobered. *’Tell me.’*
*’Nothing much. Fell out with a friend, that’s all.’*
She raised an eyebrow.
*’Had a drink, had a fight,’* he added, glancing at her. *’Old grudges, envy, you know.’*
*’Over what?’* she pressed gently.
*’Everything and nothing,’* he deflected. *’Just envy.’*
Emily rolled her eyes. *’Very enlightening. Fine, don’t tell me. But you should see a doctor. I’ll go with you.’*
She studied him with concern. James seemed five years younger—maybe a student? Yet something was off…
Deciding to take charge, she kept him until evening. He refused the hospital, wanted to leave, but she persuaded him to stay. *’Aunt Margaret’s back Monday—he can stay till then,’* she reasoned. Not that she was hiding anything, but questions were best avoided.
For hours, James dozed while Emily read aloud from her mother’s old books. Later, they talked easily, the conversation flowing. She coaxed him into the garden for air, where he marvelled at the apple trees like a city boy. They sat in the grass, crunching apples, chatting about nothing and everything. By dusk, she could predict his thoughts but still knew little about him. It unnerved her, but she didn’t push. He’d share if he wanted.
After dinner—which James helped cook, flour strewn everywhere as Emily laughed—they walked into the fields to watch the sunset.
*’Sunsets here are magical,’* she said. *’When you’re stronger, we’ll climb the roof for a better view. Tomorrow, maybe, or Monday.’*
*’You want me to stay?’* he asked, surprised.
*’Where would you go like this?’* She waved it off. *’Hospital’s the only option. Rest up… Does anyone worry about you? Called your parents?’*
*’Parents?’* He looked baffled.
*’Or whoever you live with.’*
*’You think I live with my parents?’* He smirked. *’How old d’you think I am?’*
*’Twenty,’* she blurted.
*’Close,’* he chuckled. *’Twenty-seven.’*
Emily hid her surprise. A peer, then. She was used to men in suits, married, wealthy. This? Maybe normal for village life. Whatever.
Sunday passed in chatter, gardening, cooking, cleaning. James was unexpectedly kind, light-hearted. That evening, he left in a taxi to *’sort things out.’* Alone, Emily mused about him. A good man, open, genuine. Pity their paths wouldn’t cross again. She wasn’t moving here, and visiting every few months wasn’t enough.
That night, longing twisted her heart. Those two days had been lovely. She tossed restlessly. Monday brought Aunt Margaret back, and garden work distracted her briefly.
Tuesday, James returned. She barely recognised him: crisp white shirt, expensive trousers—now he looked his age, assured and serious. Yet her first impression lingered.
*’Hi,’* she breathed.
*’Hi. Fancy a walk?’*
*’Give me a sec to change.’*
She slipped into a sundress and joined him. They ambled awkwardly down the lane, dogs barking from yards. For the rest of the week, James visited daily—walks, garden lounging, once even a river swim, splashing like children.
Emily let herself sink into this new feeling. Not quite romance, but his visits set her heart racing. Only one thought ached: tomorrow, she’d return to the city, with no summer plans to come back. Unless for James… But long distance?
*’You know, I really like you,’* James said, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
They sat on a picnic blanket in a strawberry-strewn meadow. Her last day, though she hadn’t said it.
*’Really,’* he repeated. Emily smiled. *’I’ve thought about it—I could move here, see you more. Handle business remotely.’*
*’Business?’* she yawned, stretching. *’What business?’*
*’My business,’* he said simply.
Emily laughed. *’Sounds dodgy. But… I like you too. I’d want to see you every day. But—’*
*’I live in the city,’* he finished glumly. *’*”But so do I,”* Emily whispered, and their laughter tangled with the wind as the sun dipped below the hills.
