4. Ryan
Ryan
I wake to the smell of dust and old plaster.
The mattress beneath me has no sheets, just a bare, scratchy surface that feels like it’s been used as a scratching post by several generations of cats.
My clothes—yesterday’s jeans and a t-shirt that smells like airplane and exhaustion—are twisted around my body like I’ve been wrestling in my sleep.
Light cuts through the shutter slats in thin lines.
I squint at them, then at the ceiling above me.
A water stain spreads across the plaster like a dark continent, its borders soft and blurry.
The map of some unknown country. Below it, the door frame has warped, pulling away from the wall at the top so that the door, when closed, leaves a crescent of darkness along the edge.
The skirting board along the far wall has detached itself entirely from the plaster, hanging by a single nail like a loose tooth.
I slip off the mattress, and my knees crack. The floor is cold under my bare feet, and I can feel every uneven joint between the boards. The bedroom is small—smaller than it looked in the fading afternoon light yesterday, when I first dragged my suitcase up the narrow stairs.
The stairwell is a tight, twisting thing, the banister wobbling under my grip.
Each step groans a different note, a discordant scale descending into the ground floor.
The kitchen waits at the bottom, its tile floor cracked along the grout lines in a web of fine, hairline fractures.
I run my toe along one of them, and the grout crumbles.
The sitting room is somehow even worse. Paint peels from the walls in long, curling strips, revealing layers of older colors beneath—a pale green, then yellow, then something that might have been blue at some point.
The layers of someone else’s life, decisions made decades ago about what color the room should be.
I stand in the center of the floor and turn in a slow circle, and my shoulders begin to ache.
Not from physical labor—I haven’t done any yet—but from the sheer weight of it all, the fucking arithmetic of decay.
Each cracked tile is a repair. Each peeling strip of paint is sanding, priming, and painting.
Each warped door frame is measuring, cutting, and planing.
The water stain means a leak somewhere in the roof, which means climbing up there, finding it, patching it, and hoping the whole structure doesn’t collapse under my weight while I’m up there.
I groan to myself, already regretting my decision to come here.
I should have just sold it as is. I should have taken whatever pittance it would have brought and put it towards an apartment.
But I didn’t. I’m here. And now I have to deal with it.
I pad through the kitchen to the back door, which sticks at the bottom and requires a hard tug to open. The wood scrapes against the stone threshold, and a shower of paint chips dusts the floor. Outside, the morning air hits my face—cool, damp, and carrying the smell of wet earth.
The yard is a tangle of overgrowth. Weeds have colonized what was once a garden.
A low stone wall runs along the right side of the yard, standing as a boundary between my property and the next.
As I walk further from the back door, the land slopes down toward trees, and beyond those, the faint shimmer of what must be the river.
I step onto the flagstone path, and my bare foot lands on something sharp.
I hiss, hop to the grass, and look down.
A piece of broken terracotta has cut into the ball of my foot, causing blood to well up and drip onto the ground.
I press my thumb against the wound and stare at the yard with fresh, stinging clarity.
The garden needs clearing. The wall needs rebuilding. The path needs weeding and resetting. There are branches hanging low enough to scalp a person, and deadwood is scattered absolutely everywhere.
I sit back in the grass and shut my eyes tight, trying to regulate my breathing. This is all too fucking much.
I don’t know how to even do half the things that need to be done, let alone where on earth I’m supposed to get the necessary materials. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, in this country, in this yard, with blood trickling between my fingers. Honestly, I want to scream.
The morning sun is already too bright, and my skin feels tight, like it’s about to burn, even though it’s barely past dawn.
I shouldn’t have come here.
“You should not sit on the ground with an open wound.”
The voice comes from behind me, and I startle so badly I nearly have a goddamn heart attack.
I twist around, still clutching my bleeding foot, and see a man standing at the edge of the property.
He’s tall, lean, with dark, luminous skin and eyes that seem to catch the light in a way that makes them look silver.
His clothes—a crisp linen shirt, dark trousers that fit him like they were made specifically for his frame—look completely out of place in this wilderness of weeds and decay.
“?a va—I’m okay,” I begin, but my voice cracks from disuse. I swallow and try again. “Um… Bonjour… Co…Comment tu…”
He steps closer, and I notice how gracefully he moves, as if he’s perfectly aware of every part of his body.
“Camille Moreau,” he answers, thankfully understanding what I meant to ask. “And you are bleeding on my—” He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. “On your land.”
I look down at the blood staining the grass. “Yeah, I am.”
He kneels beside me.
“May I?” he asks, reaching toward my foot.
I flinch back instinctively. “Oh, uh, no thank you.”
His grey eyes meet mine, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
“The ground here is not clean. You will need to clean that properly.” He stands in one fluid motion. “I have a first aid kit in my car.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.” The statement is flat, certain, and leaves no room for argument. “Wait here.”
He turns and walks back toward what I now notice is a narrow gap in the wall—a place where the stones have crumbled enough to create a natural passage between properties. I watch him disappear through it.
I should be more concerned about a stranger appearing in my yard, offering medical help.
But I’m too tired, too overwhelmed, and frankly, too hot in this sun to care much.
My foot throbs with each heartbeat, and I’m suddenly aware of how absurd I must look—barefoot, bleeding, sitting in the weeds of a property I can’t possibly manage.
He probably thinks I’m squatting or something.
When he returns, he’s carrying a small black case, and, without asking permission again, he kneels next to me and opens it, revealing an array of antiseptics, bandages, and medical supplies that look far more professional than anything I’d expect in a standard first aid kit.
“Give me your foot,” he says, not looking up as he prepares a sterile wipe.
I hesitate, then slowly extend my leg.
His hands are surprisingly gentle as he takes my ankle, turning my foot to examine the cut. His fingers are cool against my skin, and I have to fight the urge to pull away. There’s something way too intimate about this—a stranger touching my bare foot, examining the wound with clinical precision.
“It is not deep,” he notes while dabbing antiseptic on the cut. I hiss at the sting, my toes curling involuntarily. His nostrils flare in response. “But you should not walk barefoot out here. There are many hazards.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, watching his hands work. His movements are efficient, practiced. The bandage he applies is perfectly even, not too tight, nor too loose. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Or something.” He secures the bandage and looks up at me. Those grey eyes are disconcerting for reasons I can’t begin to put into words. “You are the grandson.”
It’s not a question.
My stomach tightens.
“How do you know that?”
“Alberte’s cottage has been empty for many years. The village has been curious about who would finally claim it.” He closes the first aid kit with a soft click. “You do not look like him.”
I blink, a bit surprised. “You knew my grandfather?”
“I knew of him.” Camille rises to his feet fluidly, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. “Everyone here knew of Alberte Legrand.”
There’s something in the way he says my grandfather’s name—a weight, a history I don’t understand. I push myself up, wincing as I put weight on my bandaged foot.
“Thank you for the first aid,” I say, trying to ignore the strange vibe this guy gives off. “I’m Ryan, by the way.”
“Ryan,” he repeats my name slowly, as if tasting it. “You are American.”
“Well, yeah. I’m sure that’s obvious.”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but something close to it. “You will need many things for this place. The roof, for example. It leaks.”
I glance up at the cottage. From here, I can see the sagging roofline and the moss growing in the gutters.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“There is a hardware store in the village. They can order materials for you.” He pauses. “I can show you, if you like.”
The offer should feel generous, but there’s something far too calculating in his gaze that makes me hesitate. I don’t know this man. I don’t know why he’s being helpful. My experience has taught me that strangers don’t offer assistance without wanting something in return.
“I can find it myself,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “But thank you for the offer.”
“As you wish.” He steps back, creating distance between us. “But the store is closed on Tuesdays. And today is Tuesday.”
Of course it is. I resist the urge to laugh at my own bad luck.
“Then I’ll go tomorrow.” I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of the slightness of my frame compared to his. “Thanks again for the bandage.”
Camille studies me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “The cottage has been neglected for many years. Some of the damage may be… structural.” He chooses his words carefully. “Be careful where you step.”