The Mysterious Guest in the Garden
Emily woke up to the piercing crow of the neighbor’s rooster. “Oh, not again,” she thought with annoyance. The bird fell silent, but sleep had already slipped away, leaving only a vague sense of unease. She tossed on the old, creaky bed, feeling the dampness of the sheets and a slight hunger gnawing at her. Morning light seeped through the faded curtains, hitting her eyes and making her irritation grow.
She reluctantly got up, shivering in the chill. Washing her face with icy water from the well had become habit, but doing the dishes in cold water was still torture. Aunt Margaret’s house, where she was staying, had no hot water. Old and weathered by time, yet familiar, this house held memories of her father and aunt’s childhood. Her grandfather had built it, and every creaky floorboard seemed to breathe history.
After her grandparents passed, Margaret stayed there alone. Her daughter had moved abroad, and her son was studying at university in London. Emily, wanting both to keep her aunt company and relive some nostalgia, had come to the village in the second week of her holiday. “It’s nice for me, good for Aunt Margaret, and at least a bit of help,” she’d thought while packing her bags.
The house didn’t demand much work. Five years ago, her dad, Paul, had replaced the old fireplace with a gas boiler, making life easier. But Emily still missed the days when the house was warmed by a crackling fire, the scent of woodsmoke lingering in the air. Tending the garden wasn’t hard—just some watering and weeding—but she threw herself into it with unexpected enthusiasm, as if rediscovering a forgotten rhythm of life.
The day before, Aunt Margaret had left for a nearby village for three days—whether for a funeral or a celebration, Emily hadn’t asked. Margaret told her to “look after the place,” but what that meant, Emily wasn’t quite sure. They didn’t keep any animals; milk and cream were bought from neighbors. The garden? Already tended. So today was hers—for walks, reading, quiet.
Emily stepped into the garden, plucked a ripe apple, and inhaled the crisp morning air with a smile. A countryside holiday was unusual for her. Last year, she’d lounged by the sea; two years ago, she’d traveled abroad. But this old house in a tiny village near York was something special—something familiar. A light breeze carried a strange sound, like a rustle or a groan, cutting through the birdsong.
She frowned and followed the noise. Peeked behind the greenhouse—nothing. Circled the garden—silence. Only the neighbor’s ginger cat jumped off the fence and vanished into the grass. By the gate, the sound grew louder. Emily hesitated—go out in her pajamas? With a shrug, she slipped through the back door, pushing through nettles. The garden bloomed with apple and pear trees, cherry bushes, and gooseberries, while raspberry and blackcurrant bushes lined the house.
In the tangle of honeysuckle and lilies, Emily froze. A young man lay in the tall grass. Her heart lurched.
“Hey…” She knelt, gently touching his shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?”
She rolled him onto his back. His breathing was ragged, his face pale. Emily dashed back inside, filled a bucket with icy water, and returned. Splashing his face, she wet a towel and pressed it to his forehead. The stranger’s eyes fluttered open weakly.
“Water…” he rasped.
She helped him sit against the fence and handed him a cup.
“You need a doctor,” she said firmly. “What happened?”
“Just a row with a mate,” he winced. “No doctor, just… help me up.”
Emily guided him inside, where he collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep instantly.
“Well, then,” she muttered. “Alright, strange things happen.”
She started lunch, glancing at her sleeping guest. When he woke, his white shirt was drying on the kitchen clothesline, replaced by a ridiculous yellow T-shirt—clearly for him. He pulled it on and sat up, rubbing his temples.
“Cheers,” he mumbled.
“Don mention it,” Emily replied, slipping into a casual tone. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, slowly rising to the table.
“What’s your name?” she asked, setting a plate in front of him.
“Oliver,” he said, eyeing the food.
“Emily.” She slid a fork toward him.
“Emily,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
After tea, color returned to his cheeks, and he dug into the pancakes she’d made. She watched with warmth, glad he was feeling better.
“More?” She took his plate, mentally sighing at the thought of heating water to wash it. “Now then, spill—what happened?”
“Why?” Oliver frowned.
Emily gave him a look.
“Because I’d like to know who you are and why you were sprawled in my lilies,” she said with a faint smirk, then turned serious. “Go on, then.”
“Nothing much,” he waved it off. “Just a row with a mate, that’s all.”
Emily raised an eyebrow.
“We had a few drinks, things got heated,” he added, glancing at her. “Old grudges, envy, you know how it is.”
“About what?” she pressed, gently.
“Everything and nothing,” he dodged. “Just envy.”
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 definitely not a schoolboy, the whole thing was odd…
Despite his protests about hospital, she convinced him to stay till evening. “Aunt Margaret’s back Monday—he can stay till then,” she decided. Not that she wanted to hide anything, but unnecessary questions were best avoided.
For hours, Oliver rested while Emily read to him from an old book of Margaret’s. Then they talked, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Later, she took him into the garden for fresh air.
Oliver walked steadier now, marveling at the apple trees as if he’d never seen the countryside. They sat on the grass, crunching apples and chatting about nothing and everything. By evening, Emily understood his thoughts but still knew little about him. It nagged at her, but she didn’t press. If he wanted to share, he would.
After dinner—which Oliver “helped” with, coating the kitchen in flour while Emily laughed—they walked to the field to watch the sunset.
“Sunsets here are magic,” Emily said. “When you’re stronger, we’ll climb the roof to watch. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“You want me to stay?” he asked, surprised.
“Where else would you go like this?” She waved it off. “Unless it’s hospital. Rest up… Does no one miss you? Call your parents?”
“My parents?” Oliver 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. Same age, then. She was used to men in suits, with wives and money. This… Was this normal for nearly thirty in the village? Well, whatever.
Sunday passed lazily—talking, gardening, cooking. Oliver was surprisingly easy company. That evening, he said he had things to sort and left in a taxi. Alone, Emily turned him over in her mind. Sweet bloke, open, kind. Shame they’d likely never meet again. She had no plans to live with Margaret, and visiting every few months wasn’t much.
That night, loneliness pinched her heart. How lovely those two days had been! She tossed, restless. Monday brought Margaret back, and garden work distracted Emily from thoughts of Oliver.
Tuesday, he returned. She barely recognized him—sharp white shirt, expensive trousers. Now he looked his age, serious and sure. But her first impression lingered.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi. Fancy a walk?”
“Sure, just let me change.”
She slipped into a sundress, and they ambled awkwardly past barking dogs. He visited daily after that—walks, garden sittings, once even a swim in the river, splashing like kids.
Emily let herself drift into this new feeling. Not quite a romance, but each visit set her heart fluttering. The ache came knowing she’d leave tomorrow—no plans to return. Unless for Oliver… But long distance?
“You know, I really like you,” Oliver said, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
They sat on a blanket in a strawberry-dotted meadow—her last day. She hadn’t mentioned leaving.
“A lot,” he repeated. Emily smiled. “I’ve been thinking… I’d move here, see you more. Handle my business remotely.”
“Your business?” she asked lazily, stretching. “What’s that?”
“My company,” he said simply.
Emily laughed.
“Sounds posh. But… I like you too. I’d want to see you every day. But—”
“But I live in the city”But I live in the city too,” Oliver grinned, and Emily’s laughter echoed through the meadow as the golden sun dipped below the horizon.
