The Mysterious Visitor in the Garden
Emily woke to the shrill crow of the neighbour’s rooster. “Not again,” she groaned to herself. The bird fell silent, but sleep had already slipped away, leaving behind a vague unease. She tossed on the creaky old bed, feeling the dampness of the sheets and a slight gnaw of hunger. Morning light seeped through the faded curtains, sharp and intrusive, only adding to her irritation.
Reluctantly, she rose, shivering in the chill. Washing her face with ice-cold water from the well had become routine, but scrubbing dishes in it still felt like torture. Aunt Margaret’s cottage, where she was staying, had no hot water. The house, worn by time but full of memories, had been built by her grandfather. Every creaking floorboard whispered stories of the past.
After her grandparents passed, Margaret had stayed behind alone. Her daughter had moved abroad, her son was at university in London. Emily, wanting both to keep her aunt company and revisit childhood nostalgia, had come to the village for the second week of her holiday. “Good for me, good for her, and at least I’m some help,” she’d thought while packing.
The cottage wasn’t hard to manage. Five years ago, her father, James, had replaced the old stove with a gas boiler, making life easier. Still, Emily missed the days when the house was warmed by a crackling fire, the air thick with the scent of burning wood. The garden chores—watering, weeding—she tackled with unexpected enthusiasm, as if slipping back into an old rhythm.
The day before, Aunt Margaret had left for a nearby village—some funeral or festival, Emily didn’t ask. “Keep an eye on the place,” her aunt had said, though what that meant, Emily wasn’t sure. There were no animals left to tend, just milk and cream bought from neighbours. The garden? Already part of her routine. So, the day was hers—walks, reading, quiet.
Emily stepped into the garden, plucked a ripe apple, and breathed in the crisp morning air. A village holiday was unusual for her. Last year, she’d lounged by the seaside; the year before, she’d travelled abroad. But this old cottage in a tiny hamlet near York felt special, familiar. A light breeze carried a strange sound—like rustling, or a moan, threading through birdsong.
Emily hesitated, then followed the noise. Behind the greenhouse—nothing. Around the vegetable patch—silence. Only the neighbour’s ginger cat leaped off the fence and vanished into the grass. The sound grew louder by the gate. Emily wavered—go out in her nightclothes? Shrugging, she slipped through the back door, pushing through stinging nettles. The garden was a tangle of apple and pear trees, cherry bushes and blackcurrant thickets lining the cottage.
Amid a patch of honeysuckle and lilies, Emily froze. A young man lay sprawled in the long grass. Her heart lurched.
“Hey…” She knelt, brushing his shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?”
She rolled him onto his back. His breathing was laboured, his face pale. Emily dashed back 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 gave him a drink.
“You need a doctor,” she said firmly. “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. “Alright, strange things happen.”
She started lunch, stealing glances at her unexpected guest. When he woke, his white shirt was drying on the kitchen line, replaced by a garish yellow T-shirt—clearly meant for him. He pulled it on and rubbed his temples.
“Cheers,” he mumbled.
“No bother,” Emily replied, shifting to a more casual tone. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” He exhaled, slowly rising to sit at the table.
“What’s your name?” she asked, setting a plate before him.
“Oliver,” he said, eyeing the food.
“Emily.” She slid a fork his way.
“Emily,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
After tea, colour returned to his cheeks, and he devoured the pancakes she’d made. She watched, pleased to see him improving.
“Hungry?” She took his plate to the sink, dreading the cold wash-up. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“Why?” Oliver frowned.
Emily raised an eyebrow.
“Because I’d like to know who and why someone’s sprawled in my lilies,” she said lightly, then sobered. “Tell me.”
“Nothing much. Had a fight with a friend, that’s all.”
Emily arched a brow.
“Got drunk, argued,” he added, glancing at her. “Old grudges, envy, rubbish like that.”
“Over what?” she pressed.
“Everything and nothing,” he evaded. “Envy, like I said.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
“Very enlightening, thanks. Fine, keep your secrets. But you should see a doctor. I’ll go with you.”
She studied him with motherly concern. Oliver seemed five years younger—maybe a student. Though not a schoolboy, the situation was odd…
With that, Emily took him under her wing. He refused the hospital, wanted to leave, but she persuaded him to stay till evening. “Aunt Margaret’s back Monday—he can stay till then,” she decided. Not that she was hiding anything, but she’d avoid unnecessary questions.
The next hours passed with Oliver resting as Emily read from her aunt’s old books. They talked, surprising her with how easily conversation flowed. Later, she coaxed him into the garden for air.
Oliver walked steadier now, marvelling at the apple trees as if he’d never seen the countryside. They sat in the grass, crunching apples and chatting about everything. By evening, Emily could follow his thoughts but still knew little about him. It nagged at her, but she didn’t push. If he wanted to share, he would.
After dinner—which Oliver “helped” make, flour dusting the kitchen as Emily laughed—they wandered into the fields to watch the sunset.
“Sunsets here are magic,” Emily said. “When you’re better, we’ll climb onto the roof to see. Tomorrow, maybe. Or Monday.”
“You want me to stay?” Oliver looked surprised.
“Where else would you go like this?” She waved a hand. “Unless it’s the hospital. Stay put.” She paused. “Does anyone worry about you? Call your parents—have you even spoken to them?”
“Parents?” He blinked.
“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. So, her age. She was used to men in suits, with wives and money. But this… Maybe in the village, looking like this at nearly thirty was normal. Well, whatever.
They spent Sunday together—talking, gardening, cooking, cleaning. Oliver was unexpectedly kind and easygoing. That evening, he announced he had things to sort and left in a taxi from the nearby town. Alone, Emily pondered him. A good bloke, open and genuine. A shame their paths might not cross again. She wasn’t moving here, and visiting every few months wasn’t the same.
That night, loneliness tightened her chest. How lovely those two days had been! She tossed, restless. On Monday, Margaret returned, and garden work distracted Emily briefly from thoughts of Oliver.
Tuesday, he reappeared. She barely recognised him—white shirt, smart trousers—now every inch his age, serious and confident. Yet her first impression lingered.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi. Fancy a walk?”
“Yeah, just let me change.”
She slipped into a sundress and joined him. They ambled awkwardly down the lane, dogs barking as they passed. The rest of the week, Oliver visited for hours—walks, garden sits, even a river swim, splashing like children.
Emily tiptoed into this new feeling. Romance wasn’t the word, but each visit quickened her pulse. The ache came from knowing she’d return to the city tomorrow, with no summer plans to come back. Unless for Oliver… But long-distance?
“You know, I really like you,” Oliver said, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
They sat on a blanket in a strawberry-strewn meadow—her last day, though she couldn’t say it.
“Really,” he repeated, and she smiled. “I’ve been thinking… I could move here to see you more. Handle business remotely.”
“Business?” She stretched lazily. “What’s that?”
“My business,” he said simply.
Emily laughed.
“Sounds vague. But… I like you too. I’d want to see you every day. But—”
“But I live”But I live in the city too,” he finished with a slow grin, and Emily’s laughter dissolved into the golden afternoon.
