The Mysterious Visitor in the Garden
Emily woke up to the piercing crow of the neighbour’s rooster. “Oh, not again,” she groaned, irritation bubbling up. The bird fell silent, but sleep had already slipped away, leaving behind a vague unease. She shifted on her squeaky old bed, the sheets damp beneath her, a slight hunger gnawing at her. Morning light seeped through the faded curtains, stinging her eyes and cranking up her frustration.
Reluctantly, she got up, shivering slightly. Washing her face under the icy water from the well was something she’d grown used to, but scrubbing dishes in the cold still felt like torture. Aunt Margaret’s house—where she was staying—had no hot water. The place was worn by time, a little rough around the edges, but full of memories from her father and aunt’s childhood. Her grandfather had built it, and every creaky floorboard seemed to whisper stories of the past.
After her grandparents had passed, Aunt Margaret stayed on alone. Her daughter had moved abroad, and her son was at university in London. Emily, wanting to keep her aunt company and relive a bit of nostalgia herself, had come down to the village for the second week of her holiday. “Good for me, good for Aunt Maggie, and at least I can help out a bit,” she’d thought, packing her bags.
The house wasn’t hard to manage. Five years ago, her dad, Oliver, had swapped the old stove for 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 hanging in the air. The garden chores were light—watering, weeding—things she tackled with unexpected enthusiasm, as though slipping back into a forgotten rhythm.
Yesterday, Aunt Margaret had left for the next village—something about a funeral or a christening, Emily hadn’t paid much attention. She’d been told to “keep an eye on the place,” though what exactly that meant was unclear. There were no animals left to tend to—milk and cream came from the neighbours. The garden? She’d already fallen into the routine. So, the day was hers—walks, reading, peace.
Emily stepped into the garden, plucked a ripe apple, and smiled as she breathed in the crisp morning air. A village holiday was different. Last year, she’d lazed by the seaside; two years before, she’d been abroad. But this old house in a tiny village near York was special—familiar, like home. A light breeze carried an odd sound—a rustle, maybe a groan—cutting through the birdsong.
She stiffened, following the noise. Peeked behind the greenhouse—nothing. Circled the vegetable patch—silence. Just the neighbour’s ginger cat leaping off the fence and disappearing into the tall grass. Then, near the fence, the sound grew louder. Emily hesitated—should she go out in her pyjamas? Shrugging, she slipped through the back door, wincing as she brushed past the nettles. The garden was a tangle of apple and pear trees, cherry bushes and sea buckthorn, raspberries and blackcurrants flowering along the house.
In a thicket of honeysuckle tangled with lilies, Emily froze. A young man lay sprawled in the long grass. Her heart lurched.
“Hey…” She knelt, tentatively touching his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
She rolled him onto his back. His breathing was ragged, his face pale. Emily bolted back inside, filled a bucket with icy water, and returned. Splashing his face, she soaked a towel and pressed it to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open weakly.
“Water…” he rasped.
She helped him sit, propping 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 grimaced. “Don’t need a doctor—just help me up.”
Emily looped an arm around him, steering him inside. He collapsed onto her bed and was out like a light.
“Well then,” she muttered. “Alright, fair enough.”
She started on lunch, glancing at the sleeping stranger. When he finally stirred, his white shirt was drying on the kitchen clothesline, replaced by an odd yellow T-shirt—clearly meant for him. He pulled it on and sat rubbing his temples.
“Cheers,” he grunted.
“Don’t mention it,” Emily replied, already shifting to casual banter. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, dragging himself to the table.
“What’s your name?” she asked, sliding a plate in front of him.
“James,” he said, eyeing the food.
“Emily,” she offered, nudging a fork his way.
“Emily,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Thanks.”
After tea, colour returned to his cheeks, and he dug into the pancakes she’d made with surprising appetite. She watched, pleased he was feeling better.
“Finished?” She took his plate to the sink, mentally bracing herself for the cold-water scrubbing ahead. “Right then—spill. What really happened?”
“Why?” James frowned.
Emily arched a brow.
“Because I’d like to know who and why someone’s passed out in my lilies,” she said lightly, then turned serious. “Go on, then.”
“Nothing major,” he brushed it off. “Fell out with a friend. That’s it.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
“Got drunk, had a barney,” James added, shooting her a glance. “Old grudges, envy, all that rubbish.”
“Over what?” she pressed, softening her tone.
“Over everything and nothing,” he dodged. “Envy, like I said.”
Emily huffed.
“Very enlightening, thanks. Fine, if you don’t want to talk. But you should see a doctor. I’ll go with you if you like.”
She gave him a look—almost maternal. James seemed younger than her by five years—a student, probably. Though definitely not a schoolboy. Still, the whole thing was odd…
With that, she took him under her wing. He refused the hospital, tried to leave, but she convinced him to stay till evening. “Aunt Maggie’s back Monday—he can stay till then,” she figured. Not that she was hiding anything, but she’d rather avoid questions.
The next few hours passed with James resting as Emily read to him from an old book of her aunt’s. Then they talked—easily, naturally—and she was surprised how quickly the conversation flowed. Later, she coaxed him outside for fresh air.
James walked steadier now, marveling at the apple trees like he’d never seen the countryside. They settled on the grass, crunching apples and chatting about everything. By evening, Emily could follow his train of thought—but he remained a mystery. It unnerved her, but she didn’t push. If he wanted to share, he would.
After dinner—which James “helped” with, coating the kitchen in flour while Emily laughed—they wandered into the field to watch the sunset.
“Sunsets here are magical,” Emily said. “When you’re stronger, we’ll climb onto the roof for a better view. Tomorrow, maybe. Or Monday.”
“You want me to stay?” James sounded surprised.
“Where else would you go in this state?” She waved a hand. “Hospital’s the only option. Might as well stay. Won’t anyone be worried? Have you called your parents?”
“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 shock. Her age, then. She was used to men in suits, married, wealthy. This… Was this normal for nearly thirty in the village? Whatever.
Sunday passed in a blur—chatting, gardening, cooking, cleaning. James was unexpectedly easygoing, kind. That evening, he announced he had loose ends to tie up and left in a taxi called from town. Emily stayed behind, turning him over in her head. Nice bloke, open, genuine. Shame they’d likely never cross paths again. She wasn’t moving in with Aunt Maggie, and visiting every few months wasn’t the same.
That night, loneliness gnawed at her. Those two days had been lovely. She tossed and turned. Monday brought Aunt Margaret back, and hard work in the garden distracted her—briefly.
Then Tuesday, James reappeared. Emily barely recognized him—crisp white shirt, tailored trousers. Now he looked his age, serious, assured. But she still pictured him as she’d first seen him.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi. Fancy a walk?”
“Yeah—just let me change.”
She threw on a sundress and joined him. They ambled awkwardly down the village lane, dogs barking from yards. The rest of the week, James came by for hours—walking, sitting in the garden, once even swimming in the river, splashing and laughing like kids.
Carefully, Emily let herself lean into this new feeling. “Romance” felt too grand, but each visit made her pulse skip. The only acheThe next morning, as she packed her bags, James appeared at the door with two train tickets and a hopeful smile, saying, “Fancy a proper adventure?”
