The Mysterious Visitor in the Garden
Emily woke to the shrill crow of a neighbour’s rooster. “There he goes again,” she thought irritably. The bird fell silent, but sleep had already slipped away, leaving only a vague unease. She tossed on the creaky old bed, feeling the damp sheets and a slight hunger gnawing at her. Morning light seeped through the faded curtains, glaring into her eyes and sharpening her annoyance.
Reluctantly, she rose, shivering in the chill. Washing with icy water from the well had become routine, but scrubbing dishes in the cold still felt like a trial. Aunt Margaret’s house, where she was staying, had no hot water. Weathered by time but warm with memories, the cottage held echoes of her father and aunt’s childhood. Her grandfather had built it, and every groaning floorboard seemed to whisper stories of the past.
After her grandparents passed, Margaret stayed on alone. Her daughter had moved abroad, her son was studying at university in London. Emily, wanting both to keep her aunt company and revisit her own nostalgia, had come to the village for the second week of her holiday. “Good for me, good for Aunt Margaret, and at least I’m some help,” she’d thought while packing.
The household chores were light. Five years earlier, her father, William, had replaced the old stove with a gas boiler, easing daily life. Yet Emily found herself missing the days when a crackling fire warmed the house and the scent of woodsmoke hung in the air. Tending the garden was hardly taxing—watering, weeding—she threw herself into it with unexpected enthusiasm, as if rediscovering a forgotten rhythm.
The day before, Margaret had left for a nearby village—whether for a funeral or a celebration, Emily hadn’t asked. Her aunt had told her to “look after the place,” though what that entailed remained unclear. There were no livestock left; milk and cream came 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 with a smile. This rural holiday was unusual. Last year, she’d lounged on a beach, and two years before, she’d travelled abroad, but this old cottage in a tiny village near York felt special, like coming home. A breeze carried a strange sound—a rustle, or a groan—cutting through the birdsong.
Alert, she followed the noise. Peering behind the greenhouse—nothing. Circling the vegetable patch—silence. Only the neighbour’s ginger cat leaped from the fence and vanished into the grass. At the fence, the sound grew louder. Emily hesitated: go out in her nightclothes? With a shrug, she slipped through the back gate, pushing through nettles. The garden was a tangle of apple and pear trees, cherry and sea buckthorn bushes, while raspberries and currants lined the house.
In a thicket of honeysuckle and lilies, she froze. A young man lay sprawled in the long grass. Her heart lurched.
“Hey—” She knelt, cautiously touching his shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?”
She turned him onto his back. His breathing was laboured, his face pale. Emily dashed back inside, filled a bucket with cold water, and returned. Splashing his face, she dampened a towel and pressed it to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open weakly.
“Water…” he croaked.
She helped him sit, leaning him 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 his arm, she guided him inside, where he collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep instantly.
“Well then,” Emily murmured. “Alright, stranger things have happened.”
She set about making lunch, stealing glances at the sleeping guest. When he woke, his white shirt hung drying on the kitchen line, replaced by an absurd yellow t-shirt—clearly meant for him. He pulled it on, rubbing his temples.
“Ta,” he muttered.
“Don’t mention it,” she replied, shifting to informal address. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, slowly rising to sit at the table.
“Name?” she asked, setting a plate before him.
“Oliver,” he said, eyeing the food.
“Emily,” she introduced herself, sliding a fork his way.
“Emily,” he repeated softly. “Cheers.”
After tea, colour returned to his cheeks, and he devoured the pancakes she’d made. She watched warmly, pleased he was recovering.
“More?” She cleared his plate, mentally sighing at the prospect of heating water for washing. “Now, explain what happened.”
“Why?” Oliver frowned.
She looked him up and down.
“Because I’d like to know who and why someone’s sprawled in my lilies,” she said with a faint smile, then sobered. “Tell me.”
“Nothing much. Had a row with a friend, that’s all.”
Emily arched a brow.
“Bit too much to drink, old grudges,” he added, glancing at her. “Jealousy, that sort of thing.”
“Over what?” she pressed gently.
“Everything and nothing,” he evaded. “Like I said—jealousy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Very enlightening. Fine, keep your secrets. But you ought to see a doctor. I’ll go with you.”
Her tone was motherly. Oliver seemed five years younger—a student, perhaps. Yet not a boy… something odd about him.
With that, she 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 meant to hide anything, but she avoided unnecessary questions.
The next hours passed with Oliver resting as Emily read a book from her aunt’s shelf. They talked, and she was surprised by how easily conversation flowed. Later, she coaxed him into the garden for air.
Oliver walked steadier now, marvelling at the fruit trees as if he’d never seen the countryside. They sat on the grass, crunching apples and chatting about everything. By evening, she could guess his thoughts, yet knew little about him. It unsettled her, but she didn’t push. He’d share if he wanted.
After supper—which Oliver “helped” make, scattering flour everywhere while Emily laughed—they strolled into the field 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 else would you go?” She waved a hand. “Unless it’s the hospital. Stay put. Doesn’t anyone miss you? Have 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 reckon 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, money. But him? Maybe rural life kept you looking young. Whatever.
Sunday passed in a blur—chatting, gardening, cooking. Oliver was unexpectedly kind, easy company. That evening, he announced he had “things to sort” and left by taxi. Alone, Emily pondered him. A good man, open-hearted. Pity their paths might not cross again. She wouldn’t stay with Margaret forever, and visiting every few months wasn’t ideal.
That night, longing gripped her. How lovely those two days had been! She tossed restlessly. Monday brought Margaret’s return, and garden work distracted her briefly.
Then Tuesday, Oliver reappeared. She barely recognised him—white shirt, smart trousers—now every inch his age, assured and serious. Yet her first impression lingered.
“Hello,” she breathed.
“Hello. Fancy a walk?”
“Yes—just let me change.”
She slipped into a sundress and joined him. They wandered awkwardly past barking dogs. The rest of the week, he visited for hours—strolling, sitting in the garden, once even swimming in the river, splashing like children.
Emily let herself drift into this new feeling. Romance? Hard to say. But each visit quickened her pulse. Only one thought ached: tomorrow she’d return to London, with no plans to come back this summer. Unless for Oliver… But long distance?
“You know, I really like you,” Oliver said, tucking a stray lock behind her ear.
They lay on a blanket in a strawberry-strewn meadow. Her last day, but she couldn’t say it.
“Really,” he repeated, and she smiled. “I’ve been thinking—I’d move here to see you more. Handle business remotely.”
“Business?” she mused, stretching. “What business?”
“My business,” he said simply.
Emily laughed. “Sounds cliché. But… I like you too. I’d want to see you every day. But—”
“But I’m city-bound,” he finishedShe hesitated, then grinned. “Funny—so am I.”
