Chapter Text
There was no possible way that the rent for that house was really that cheap.
It was inconceivable.
You assumed off the bat that it’d been a typo or error on the publisher’s part, since you couldn’t find much else to justify the price. In complete disbelief, you rapidly flipped through the thin catalog stack to compare prices with the other ads listed, as if questioning the authenticity of what you’d read. Those particular housing advertisements were fairly new, too- maybe shoved haphazardly through the mail slot into the basket no less than a week ago.
Now normally, those were sent hurtling straight into the garbage with the rest of the junk mail. You had never expressed any legitimate interest in either house-hunting nor handling the stress of responsibility, especially the type that entailed from dabbling in something as demanding as real estate. Still didn’t, as a matter of fact, since it was difficult to care about a niche that disinterested you from almost every angle.
It was funny what desperation, a pinch of fear, and an insatiable, impulsive yearning for adventure had done to people, how the unsightliness of failure could send someone plummeting.
Bank notices, bills- you were bombarded by a ceaseless influx of necessary payments and debts you kept telling yourself you’d get around to. Cleaning up the wreckage that was your life and artistic career was so daunting to tackle that you inadvertently put off the process for months, which unsurprisingly, had worsened your already critical situation. The prolonged stagnancy and drop in activity had cost you, and all of that strenuous networking succumbed to being little more than a wasted effort.
You began compromising bits and pieces of the paychecks meant to cover food and living expenses to instead pay for new materials, even while the prices kept hiking. You dipped into funds with less and less restraint and forced yourself you paint, sketch- to create when you were withering amidst an artistic drought. The well had run dry long ago, but you pushed yourself for days, even weeks on end as if sheer effort alone could delay the inevitable. You’d pushed yourself so hard that in fact, your negligence and disinterest bled into your pieces, visually impacting your work in a negative matter. You lost clients and contacts, the very foundation of what you had worked so hard to build up.
Maybe your heart just…. wasn’t in it, anymore.
Incoherent with fear and misery, you tossed and turned and lost yourself in the stillborn silence of midnights. Your career, your passion, everything you had kick-started back when you were bright-eyed and blossoming with optimism, now crumbling like a sandcastle pitted against the oncoming tide. Nobody had bothered to let you in on just how frightening adulthood was going to be if you didn’t play your cards right every time, if you couldn’t enact an immediate plan of action every time something went horribly awry.
Fear of the unknown- the paralyzing terror of fumblingly blindly into the future.
It was just so defeating, so… humiliating. Was this situation even salvageable, anymore? Surely there had to be something you could fall back on, some kind of backup plan that could help you wriggle free from this. Personal experience alone had taught you that there was indeed, a way out of almost everything. This couldn’t have been an exception, maybe you just weren’t looking hard enough- trying hard enough to strain for a loophole you groped frantically towards.
And so here you were, hunched over the paint-smeared coffee table in naught but your sleepwear, all whilst you lowered yourself to skim through housing catalogs, fingers crossed that downsizing might give you more elbow room with finances.
You rode onto the hope too eagerly that maybe the listing you saw wasn’t an actual screw-up on the editor’s part, that it was very well intentional and that if you were theoretically, going to call the landlord right this instant to get a price check on the property, that what was printed in black would still hold true.
At this point, it was well worth taking the leap. You’d already staked so much into your own career, and even the most successful of businesses and enterprises out there had to gamble on their chances to get as far as they had. Nothing in the world was without risk.
That’s a part of life too, isn’t it?
You leafed through the last of the flyers and gazed expectantly at the endearing photo of the house, index finger ghosting over the buttons.
Exhaling a breath of air you hadn’t actually realized you’d been holding, you speedily dialed the number provided.
-----🌞-----
Luckily, the wait hadn’t stretched long enough to where your impatience had decided to go ham and pour gasoline all over the raging fire that was your inner anxiety. There was nothing in the world more nerve-wracking than the impending fear of return calls, whether it stemmed from an imminent awareness of rejection, bad news, or just… never receiving that call when you’d been anticipating it all this time.
You were blessed with the good fortune to evade that misery this once, thankfully.
The agent had responded promptly that same day, simultaneously sounding both out-of-breath and extraordinarily overjoyed that someone had made any effort at all to contact him to inquire about the small house. You did convey an interest that you would have liked to see it in person, since the picture printed on the catalog was a very pretty, flattering photograph of a fairytale cottage you’d half expect to see in those posh gardening magazines the elderly kept around.
An arrangement was efficiently made so that you were to meet him the following afternoon, where the agent would offer you a grand tour of the place and ultimately, see if the place was to your liking at all.
Judging by the address, you had an inkling that you might be urged you to drive farther out than you were typically comfortable with.
Soleil Valley.
A cute, dreamy little countryside hamlet lost amidst an amber sea of wheat. You’d seen countless photographs and paintings of the place in a few of those pretentious art galleries you needed to schmooze up to for publicity. It seemed pleasant enough, sure, and locations like that held a special charm. It just wasn’t exactly your scene.
Not to mention that it was, in addition, a three-hour drive out of town.
It was, however, the calmest three hours of driving you’d ever spent in your life, which spoke volumes considering that spending a whole three hours with a broken radio and lack of an AUX cable was… tedious, at best. It wasn’t too challenging to navigate yourself out of the dreary suburbs, even if the local soccer moms didn’t have a clear definition of what good driving was supposed to be like. The irksome traffic typically died down around the mid-afternoon in your circle of the city, so the rest of the trip was relatively stress-free.
As you journeyed down the old highway, all traces of buildings and construction sites petered out into the shifting landscape. Houses, parks, and even the bountiful orchards run by those million-dollar derby owners receded into the golden glow of the sprawling countryside, where nothing but farmland stretched as far as the eye could see.
It was staggering just how beautiful it was, actually.
The way the sun had painted the valley in tangerine hues, the sea of wheat swaying into the distant horizon, dancing beneath the capricious path of the wind… the type of scene depicted in stories told to children at night.
It was a simple, underrated, breathtaking beauty.
Those blue-ribbon artistic renditions you’d seen on display managed to capture the essence of the valley quite accurately, though the envy of it all broiled resentfully in the pit of your stomach. You could probably replicate something like that if you really tried.
...Of course, the place was awfully remote. The last convenience store you’d gone flying past was a good twenty-five minutes ago, located smack in the corner of a four-way intersection surrounded on either side by either more wheat or a mile’s worth of crops. You hadn’t caught glimpse of a supermarket or police station in at least an hour.
It was just… pure serenity once you’d left the omniscient cage of the city, when the baying of car honks and hollering street-folk tapered far behind you.
You rolled down the window to relish the cool air that blew through, except the billowing breeze mostly just messed up your hair. Envelopes, crumpled flyers, and even the catalog you’d brought along fluttered right off the passenger’s seat and onto the floor. There was a half-assed attempt at retrieval seeing as you really needed to double-check the address for confirmation, but your GPS was adamant and confident in guiding you to your destination.
You shot the navigation app a judgmental glare when the automated voice demanded you turn left, where the pavement gave way to a tattered gravel road winding deeper into the ocean of wheat.
“I’m trusting you,” you murmured, steering the wheel gently with a palm, the vehicle rattling in rickety motions as the tires struggled atop the foreign terrain. You never drove this thing on anything that wasn’t asphalt or concrete, before.
After a straight five minutes of driving through the honey-gold heart of the fields, you finally happened across the little white cottage perched contentedly in the center of it all. The engine went quiet and you sat there for a minute to even your breathing, psyching yourself up with a brief pep talk and smiling nervously at your weary reflection in the rear-view mirror.
It was fine, this was fine. It wasn’t like you were attending a job interview. You’re literally just here to look at a house, say yay or nay, and then split. That’s it. With an insecure wink and a long sigh, you nudged the car door open with a foot and braced yourself against the crisp coolness of the evening.
The soft grass rustled beneath your heels as you stepped out of the car, staring in awe at the untouched landscape with mesmeric wonder. You took in a deep, contented breath and pondered if it wasn’t too late for you to bust out the sketchpad and start an outline of the view.
Maybe another time.
Jogging lightly up the weathered trail, you narrowly tripped upon the weeds, daisies, and small sprigs of grass that had long since reclaimed the worn path. The breeze picked up from behind you, distant wind chimes singing a soft melody in the clear air as it pulled you closer, beckoning through the wheat stalks. There across the lively field, just beyond the thin dirt trail that ebbed deeper into the bosom of the valley, you spotted your contact waving you down.
...Well, flailing was a more accurate way to describe it.
He was a portly man, stuffed into an irritating eyesore of a pink double-breasted suit. The weather was brisk and luscious, though the gentleman was sweating profusely in his clothes and padded pointlessly at the perspiration dotting his wide forehead. He bore the ugliest comb-over you’d ever seen in your life. Either way, gawking at your host wasn’t really going to be the best way to net yourself a good deal.
Spurring yourself to look anywhere but his tragic choice of hairstyle, you plastered an award-winning smile and greeted him with a sprightly disposition.
“You must be the kid who wants to see this ol’ place,” the agent strode over, holding out his sweaty hand and clamping down on yours like a vice.
Kid? You were a grown adult; the hell did he mean by that?
“The names’ Ronaldo Pizza, one of the few realtors ‘round this charming community,” he spoke in a southern drawl.
With a last name like that, everything had suddenly made sense. Like it was an epiphany.
“Oh,” you unintentionally mouthed. “Is that your real last na-”
“Yes it is,” he interrupted shortly, already on the same wavelength.
You don’t begrudge him for the reaction, really. Heaven only knows how often he got that one thrown his way.
“You sure as hell chose a weird place to live, kiddo. Nothin’ but catfolk ‘round those parts. Good people, ‘o course. Just ain’t nothin’ to do at a place like this.” As if to prove his point, Ronaldo made a wide motion with his outstretched arms towards the landscape.
“...Really?” you followed up.
“Yeah. ‘s one of the smallest villages in this region, so I heard. Got a population of a thousand somethin’ at most, and that’s if you’re goin’ where all the hustle ‘n bustle is. Otherwise, it’s almost in the middle ‘o goddamn nowhere,” he nodded, advancing towards the house in a jolly gait.
The entryway to the front lawn was adorned lovingly with a rose archway- sans the actual roses. The yard had become dominated entirely by an expansive and colorful range of flowers, save for a few gnarled, persistent weeds. Oak-leaf geraniums dappled the peeling walls in jovial bursts, as heads of wheat had sprouted so close to the cottage that they lightly kissed the faded white of the worn picket fence. An enchanting wall of bright yellow roses and their thorny brambles had overgrown one corner of the garden, lacing through the dilapidated lattice wall. Draped gloriously by the creaky gate were tall spikes of pink gladiolus, brushing softly against your clothes as you trotted past the broken gate.
The garden was perfumed by the tangy and dizzyingly sweet scent of nectar. The evening was light and breezy, not cold enough to make you shiver, but not so warm that it was stuffy. The lively garden was seemingly trapped in an eternal state of summer, with the way swallowtail butterflies flit to and fro between every speck of color. The flowers had been tenderly cared for, even if the house creaked and moaned from neglect. As you floated idly to the front door, you noticed a familiar fruit-bearing tree poised proudly beside the leaning fence.
Was someone habitually coming down here to check on them?
“What kind of tree is that?” You began with a conversational trill, ogling the view.
“Dunno,” the porky man responded with an unhelpful huff, clearly uninterested.
“Oh,” your lips pursed into a thin line, disheartened that the topic was cut prematurely.
“Now, there are a few things I oughta tell you ‘bout this place,” he proceeded cooly, as though the previous exchange had never taken place. “This here’s a forgotten beekeeper’s cottage, though the apiaries all got cleaned out a few months after the last guy here moved out. The garden over yonder is a pretty big one, perfect if you’re the type that likes to throw ‘em huge barbeques. ‘Cept you know, you’re a little lackin’ in the neighbor department. Think the closest person lives a lil’ up that hill.” He pointed over the tilted garden wall, where you followed his gaze but met only an off-color cluster of bushes.
“It took them that long to clean up after he left?” You whistled.
“Well, it was clear he wasn’t comin’ back. We put up ads for another beekeeper since the agency really wanted to hang onto this place, but nobody applied. They wound up just forgettin’ bout this place, since it’s so damn far from everywhere else that nobody in the right mind wanted to live here. To be real with ya- this cottage was abandoned for about four… maybe five years. Inside is probably gonna look like shit, kid.”
If that wasn't a mediocre sales pitch, then you didn't know what was.
To exemplify this, the door had to be forced open with impact since the rusted handle refused to budge. The entire cottage shook and groaned from the intrusion, irritating great puffs of swirling dust. You covered your mouth quickly with your hands and maneuvered inside.
“C’mon, lemme show you ‘round the place 'fore it gets dark.” he urged, beckoning to you with mild irritation.
That wasn't totally ominous, or anything.
The splintered floorboards creaked miserably beneath your shoes. Everything was draped beneath an obscenely thick coat of dust, soft tendrils of light trickling inside from the cracked windows. The decrepit living room was spacious and wide, with a bay window facing the right-hand side of the overgrown yard. You pictured the many ways that could be refurbished, maybe add a few cushions or pillows to make it a cozy hangout on rainy days- though you didn’t have nearly enough furniture to properly decorate a room this massive.
“Got a bit ‘o bad news for ya. While you can set up your wifi up here ‘n play with most of ya fancy toys, the reception here is downright awful. Don’t be expectin’ your cell phone to help bail you out in case of an emergency. Landline works just fine o’ course.”
That was… actually pretty abysmal. Landline phones were pretty cheap to access, sure, but now your phone was rendered obsolete save for those time-sinking apps you like to check in with. Hm. You were going to have to think about that gimmick.
He rallied you into the kitchen which, had been in as many tattered pieces as your life, shards of glass and abandoned dishware littering the squeaky floor. Coffee stains and scorch marks etched the ancient stovetop while insects wiggled and squirmed beneath the safety of the sink to escape detection. What made you do a double-take, however, was the oven. Not just any ordinary oven, either, but one of those fancy rustic wood-fired types that cost over five grand in the market. It hadn’t seen proper care in ages, but it was remarkably intact. Maybe you could dust it off a bit and sell it for some primo cash.
Or make some bomb-ass pizza with it.
“The good thing ‘bout this hideous place at least, is that they’re rentin’ it out for dirt cheap. In fact, the agency is so desperate for a new tenant that they’re willing to foot the bill for repair costs if ya wanna clean up the place. And uh… trust me. This place needs a shitton of work,” he chortled, parading out the kitchen from a side door back into the heart of the house.
“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout electricity, cuz they tested the wires last night 'fore you showed up and called. Everything still runs, and the place draws water just fine like every other house ‘round here,” he boasted with a clap of his hands. The sound echoed sharply across the cottage, bouncing off the walls.
The stairs threatened to give way upon the first instance of tension. You didn’t trust the integrity of the building enough to follow behind Ronaldo in close proximity, but it’d look rude if you didn’t stick close. As if you were insinuating that the stairs weren’t strong enough to support both you and him. The doorframe of the forlorn bedroom caught in the gallant light of the falling sun, with a second bathroom on the opposite end of the second-floor hallway.
“Yup, ya got two bedrooms and two bathrooms. One of each on either floor, though the master bedroom is gonna be downstairs. Guess the upper one is good if you got a roommate movin’ in, or got a kid comin’ along the way. Good family house. It’s a damn shame they let it fall into disrepair. Wouldn’t be givin’ it away for that price if anyone bothered.” As per the usual, Ronaldo proceeded with as much professionalism one could reasonably expect this deep into the tour.
All in all, you'd seen everything there was to see in a little under than an hour. It had already grown dark outside, and the stalks rustled restlessly when you scampered back outdoors, waxy leaves whispering to the spellbound sky. Cotton-candy clouds of pastel pink melted into the sinking sun, little white stars wheeling in the eventide canvas of the airy twilight.
“Now, I’m gonna go ahead ‘n level with ya. This place? ‘S a real piece ‘o shit,” Ronaldo turned to you with a skeptical frown, rapping his knuckle against the door.
“Ah,” you replied simply, as if you didn't already have a clue.
“Now if you want, I think we got a lil’ more time, I can show you another house or two a tad further into the valley. They’re a hell of a lot nicer than this shack, I can tell you that much. Ain’t even gonna need to bother fixin’ it up-”
By some sheer whim, your eyes gravitated up towards the grassy hill where the wildflowers and sweet pink honeysuckle hugged the chipped spaces of the fence. The baby-blue house of your one and only neighbor roosted blissfully against the howling wind, the windows lighting up one by one, lace curtains drawing to reveal a small, cat-like child pressing their sleeved hands against the glass as they peered eagerly outside.
It was difficult to parse their exact appearance from where you watched, though what enraptured you were their eyes. Brilliant, rounded eyes with thin onyx slits, glimmering in the color of the wheat fields. Gentle and trusting, those eyes, scanning the lonely view of the abandoned cottage before ultimately, their gaze met yours. You were locked into the child’s stare, petrified by a jarring revelation that knocked you silly.
Had you seen them somewhere, before?
Panic, exhilaration- was there a word in the human language that could describe the shocking sense of familiarity felt when you saw this child? A sense of comfort, familial affection- a bittersweet sadness burning in the back of your throat. Somehow, that had been the catalyst.
You fluttered back to the agent, a whirlwind of movement as you met their gaze evenly with a determined, resolute smile.
“I’ll take it,” you interjected, having long forgotten that they'd been droning on this entire time.
“...What?” Ronaldo balked, the papers tucked beneath his arms scattering to the ground. While he scrambled pitifully to pick them up, the smile on your face had only grown.
“The house. I’ll take it.”