Chapter 5
Five
AURELIA
Iwish life were simple enough that you could snap your fingers and be transported exactly where you wanted to be. Just like that. No waiting. But life isn’t that simple. Not even close.
The bus arrived at the station last night, well past midnight.
The place was empty. Just the lights above rows of cold metal seats, and me.
I had nowhere to go, so I sat here, and I’m still staring at the clock, waiting for time to move so I can finally look for the house where I’m supposed to work.
The air is getting colder as time passes. Every sound feels louder, including the ticking of the clock and the shuffle of my shoes against the floor.
A woman arrived not so long ago and sat beside me. She’s holding a white rose so tightly the stem bends between her fingers. She keeps looking toward the entrance, as if she expects someone to walk in at any second.
But no one came, and she stayed.
I slept through almost the entire journey here, and now my eyes refuse to close. Even as morning begins to bleed into the sky, I sit awake and restless.
The big clock ticks towards five.
I stand, moving toward the wall with the map.
The woman is still there. Now she’s looking at me.
“Hi,” I say, stepping closer. My voice feels too loud. I pull the paper from my pocket and point at the address. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know how to get here?”
Her dry and pale lips part. “The house is thirty minutes by foot,” she says. “You’ll find the path at the end of the road.”
Her finger lifts, pointing to the right.
“Thank you,” I say.
I turn away, folding the paper and slipping it back into my pocket.
A hand clamps around my wrist, drawing a sharp gasp from me. Her grip is cold as she leans in, eyes locked on something across the street, her finger lifting again, and trembling now.
“He’s watching you,” she whispers.
My heart stutters, then starts racing.
I try to pull my hand free, my breath turning shallow as I follow where she’s pointing.
Across the street stands a tall man in a black suit, smoking a cigarette. I can’t see his face, only thick smoke curling around him as he watches us.
As he watches me.
My chest tightens.
I blink and he’s gone.
The woman’s grip loosens, and my hand slips back to my side.
“Where did he go?” I ask, stepping away from her.
“Who?”
“The man.” I point toward the street.
“What man?” Her brows pull together in confusion.
She stands, then lifts the white rose toward me.
“Rose?”
My throat tightens. Slowly, I take the rose from her. The moment I do, she turns and walks away.
I look behind me. Then left, and right.
No one is here anymore.
The street is empty.
The man is gone.
Clutching the rose, I hurry toward the path in front of me. I forget that hours ago I could barely walk.
Now the rush carries me forward. Still, every few steps, I glance over my shoulder. The feeling won’t leave me. Like eyes pressed against my back, following each step I take.
A shiver crawls up my spine, goosebumps rising along my arms as I try to make sense of it. My breathing turns uneven, grows fast and too loud in my ears. Time slips somewhere behind me, direction with it, yet somehow, I find a narrow path.
At the very start of it, I see a house waiting at the end.
Even from here, it looks large. It faces the cliffs with gardens stretching around it.
There’s a strange pressure inside my head, like a moth trapped beneath my skull, beating its wings to escape. My thoughts crash into each other—too many, too loud. My chest tightens until it almost burns, my heart racing so fast it scares me.
For a second, I think this is it. That I might die right here, after everything. That this long journey ends with my heart giving out before I even reach the door.
And the worst part is… I don’t think I’d fight it.
Death doesn’t scare me. Being alive does.
Because if I walk up to that house and they turn me away, then what? I have nothing left to fall back on. Nothing but the weight of myself becoming someone else’s burden.
I had everything, now I have almost nothing. I can’t lose this too.
If I do, I know it will break something in me that can’t be fixed.
The white rose is still in my hand. I’m gripping it too tightly. A thorn presses into my skin, then deeper, until I feel the sting and warmth of blood, but I don’t let go. I keep walking.
Closer now, the details of the property begin to sharpen.
To the right, near the cliffs, a white pavilion is wrapped in red and white roses climbing over its wooden frame. A narrow path curves toward it, leading further down where stone steps disappear toward the beach below. I can’t see the shore, but I can hear it.
Ahead, the dirt path fades into a smooth pavement, stretching right towards two parked cars. Nearby, a man tends to the garden, pruning shears in hand, his black jumpsuit smudged with soil.
He looks up when he notices me watching.
For a moment, we just stand there. Then he lifts a hand and waves.
I force a smile and wave back.
He probably thinks I’m just another lunatic, running from office walls or trays full of strangers’ orders. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of work. It’s just… I hate people. And this job feels like it was made for me.
Alone.
Right now, that’s all I need.
Three steps lead up to a black wooden door, roses carved deep into the surface. I stop in front of it, my hand hovering inches away, waiting for my courage to catch up with me.
The door opens before I can knock.
An older woman stands in front of me, her dark hair pulled into a sleek, tight bun.
Her posture is straight, almost too stiff.
She wears a black pencil skirt that falls just above her knees and a fitted, three-button jacket, structured like a blazer.
Beneath it, a white blouse is buttoned all the way to her neck.
Her eyes settle on me.
“Miss Vale, I assume.” She lifts a brow, her gaze moving from my face down to my shoes. “You’re early.”
“Yes,” I say, my hand half-raised between us.
She doesn’t take it. Don’t even look at it. Instead, she steps aside, pulling the door open wider.
“Come inside.”
I nod and step past her.
The house is bigger than I imagined. The floor beneath me is dark wood, softened by deep brown carpet.
The walls are painted a rich green, lined with framed pieces that feel older than the house itself.
At the end of the hallway, glass doors open toward the garden.
And to the right, a wooden staircase curves upward.
The woman opens a door to the left and gestures for me to enter.
Black, polished leather sofas face each other. Bookshelves climb the entire left wall, filled from floor to ceiling. On the right, a fireplace stands beneath a row of painted portraits, their eyes almost too real, as if they’ve been watching this room for years.
She gestures toward one of the sofas.
I sit.
She takes the seat opposite me, just as composed.
“Miss Vale,” she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap, a controlled smile forming on her lips, “before we begin, there are a few things I should mention that were not included in the advertisement.”
“Yes,” I say, glancing at her, then down at myself.
I’m not dressed for this. My dress is wrinkled, the fabric creased from too many hours on the bus, and the blazer still has a faint scent of salt.
“The job requires you to house-sit for ninety days,” she starts. “You aren’t permitted to leave the town, nor have visitors. The only people with access to the house are the gardener and myself.”
Her voice stays even.
“There was a tragedy here a year ago,” she continues, “so the owner is currently away.”
She exhales, softer this time.
“Every thirty days, you will receive money for groceries and anything else you may need. Our gardener, Victor, and I will come by every Wednesday. He maintains the garden and will drive you into town, help you get what you need, and bring you back.”
I blink twice, my hands resting still in my lap.
“The owner is a good man,” she adds, her tone shifting just slightly, “but he is still… affected by what happened. He expects his house to be treated as a home.”
“Of course,” I say, drawing my hands closer together.
“Very well.” She rises from her seat. “The job is yours.”
She extends her hand.
When I place mine in hers, her grip tightens around my hand.
“Out of all the candidates,” she holds my gaze, “you were the most suitable.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me show you the house.”
“I’ll take you to your room so you can settle in.”
I follow her.
“This room is more of a lounge,” she says as we pass through, then continues down the hallway toward the large glass doors. “And this leads to the garden.”
I glance outside.
The man is there again. He lifts his hand, waving.
“That’s Victor. The sweetest soul.” Her voice drops for a moment before she straightens and keeps walking.
She moves to the left side of the hall and opens the first door, stepping aside at the frame.
I walk closer and look in.
“This is the kitchen and dining area for staff,” she explains. “Since you are staff, you are permitted to cook and eat here.”
She gestures slightly.
“That door on the right leads to the main dining room.”
I nod.
She closes the door, and we continue.
A few steps further, another space opens on the left. A long table stretches across the room, surrounded by chairs that look rarely used.
On the right, there’s a second living area with its windows opening toward the garden and the cliffs beyond.
“Dining room and living room,” she says, pointing ahead.
I pause for a second. The sea stretches out beyond the windows. I close my eyes, letting the scent reach me. When I open them again, she is already two steps ahead, walking back.
I hurry after her, glancing through each window as the morning light grows stronger, spilling across the floors.
She stops beside the staircase. “Upstairs are the bedrooms. Two master rooms, two guest rooms,” she places her foot on the first step, then glances over her shoulder. “You coming?”
I walk behind her.
A wooden railing runs along the floor, smooth beneath my fingers as I pass. Plants sit beside each door, their leaves grazing the walls. To the right, furniture lies draped in white linens; the fabric stirring faintly as the wind moves through.
“The right side is off limits. That’s where the two master bedrooms are.” She pauses, her gaze lingering down the hallway, as if she is seeing something that only she can see. Then she turns to the left and gestures for me to go first.
There are two more rooms on the left; both doors open. She points to the one on the right. “This one is yours. It has a view of the garden. There’s a phone inside if you want to call your family or relatives.”
“It’s one line,” she adds, “connected to three phones. One in your room, one in the master bedroom, and one downstairs in the hallway.”
I nod.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. When she places it in my hand, the weight of it surprises me.
“There’s three thousand inside,” she says. “The owner is generous. Victor and I are going into town in an hour. You can come with us, pick up whatever groceries you need for the week. After we bring you back, you’ll be on your own.”
I look down at the envelope, running my thumb along the edge.
As she turns and walks toward the stairs, I part my lips.
“May I ask what happened in the house?”
She places her foot on the first step. “Victor knows the story better than I do, Miss Vale,” she says, her tone careful, like each word is being placed exactly where it should be. She glances back at me. “Coming?”
“Yes,” I say, and follow her down.
We step outside in silence, the door closing softly behind us. By the time we reach the front of the house, Victor is already there, leaning against the car, his black jeans worn at the knees and his beige jacket stained with dry dirt.
The woman slips into the front seat as Victor pushes himself off the hood and slides in behind the wheel.
I waited for a moment, looking at the key in the lock.
I turn back and lock the door. It clicks as I twist the key twice. When I pull it free, I keep it in my hand, pressed tight against the envelope of cash.
The car waits for me, a dark green Volvo 240, its color nearly swallowing the end of the house behind it.
I open the back door and slide in. The moment I sit down, Victor starts the engine, and we pull away.
“The key?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“It’s yours now,” the woman says. “And my apologies, I didn’t introduce myself.”
She turns in her seat and offers her hand. “Margaret Danvers. I’m the housekeeper.”
Victor glances at me through the rearview mirror. Beneath his heavy brows, blue eyes hold steady on mine. “Victor De La Cruz. Gardener.”
“Aurelia Vale,” I say, careful with each word. I look out the window as the house begins to fade behind us. “House sitter.”
Margaret gives a small nod toward Victor. I catch it just before I turn back. “I told Miss Vale you would explain what happened a year ago.”
I shift in my seat, leaning back, the key turning slowly between my fingers.
“We don’t really know,” Victor says. “Only what we were told.”
He meets my eyes again in the mirror.
“A year ago, the owner came back after two months abroad. He found his wife and daughter in the bathroom.”
His voice tightens, and his eyes return to the road.
“His wife was… a lovely woman. She was quiet and distant, sometimes. No one really knew what was going on in her head.”
He glances at Margaret.
“That night, she told us to leave. Said not to come back until the next day. We didn’t question it.”
A pause settles in the car.
“We only understood why when the owner called.”
“He told us they were both dead.”
My heart starts beating faster with every word he says.
“She drowned her daughter in the bathtub,” Victor continues, “then took sleeping pills and lay down beside her. The owner came too late.”
“After that, he barely came back,” Margaret adds. “That’s when the position opened.”
Victor lets out a quiet chuckle. “You’re not the first one,” he says. “There was a woman before you. She left and never came back. Told Margaret she saw a ghost of a little girl and her mother.”
Margaret nudges him sharply. “Stop it. Don’t scare the poor girl.”
I swallow, my pulse still racing loudly in my ears.
“Do you still want the position?”
“Yes,” I say, my gaze fixed on the window as the road slips by. “I have ghosts of my own haunting me.”
They exchange a look but say nothing more.
The truth is, every house keeps a ghost. Something that stays, long after it should have left. Maybe I’m meant for this place. Meant to haunt it with her.
She never had a second chance, but I do.