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I force myself to sit up, then stand, ignoring the dizziness that follows. My reflection in the antique vanity mirror shows a ghost—brown hair limp around a too-pale face, collarbones sharp beneath my sweater. I look away quickly. There’s nothing sexy about how I catalog myself these days—just a clinical inventory of what’s falling apart this week.

I splash cold water on my face in the ensuite bathroom, reapply tinted lip balm more for the moisturizing properties than the color, and pull my hair into a loose knot. Better. Not good, but better.

Downstairs, Mrs. Fletcher is setting a single place at the small breakfast table in the kitchen rather than the formal dining room.

“I thought you might prefer something cozy tonight,” she explains, setting down a bowl of what smells like fish chowder. “Local catch, fresh this morning.”

“Thank you.” I slide into the chair, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic bowl. The heat feels wonderful against my perpetually cold fingers. “This is perfect.”

It’s wild how the kitchen hasn’t changed in eight years, a time capsule while my life’s been a hurricane. The copper pots still hang from the ceiling rack,polished until they gleam. The stone countertops have the same faint purple stains near the sink where Mom used to crush blackberries for Sunday pancakes. That massive hearth with its iron hooks dominates one wall, with those oak cabinets that have grown darker with age. Even the knife marks on the butcher block island are still there, evidence of seven-year-old me “helping” with dinner.

It’s fucked up how stuff stays the same while people disappear. Mom’s hands used to move through this exact space, touching these same things, but she’s been reduced to a memory while these stupid copper pots are still here, unchanged. Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why Dad keeps this place so perfect. Not because he’s sentimental, but because he’s terrified, as if keeping all the physical things exactly the same might prevent him from losing anything else.

I trace my finger along the wood grain in the table. God, when did I become so dark? Before I got sick, people used to say I was funny, the life of every party, not this morbid chick obsessing over mortality. Add it to the list of things my illness stole. Goodbye to my sense of humor replaced by too much time thinking about impermanence. My college friends would be like, “Who are you and what happened to Briar?”

Sometimes I ask myself the same thing.

Mrs. Fletcher busies herself at the counter, affording me the dignity of eating without scrutiny. Imanage several spoonfuls before my appetite wanes, but the warm broth soothes my throat and settles in my stomach. Small win for today.

“The island hasn’t changed much,” she says conversationally. “A few new shops in town. The Godwins built that members’ club everyone whispers about.”

“The Vault,” I say, recalling the briefing my father’s assistant provided. Because of course Maxwell Waters believes in thorough preparation, even for shipping his daughter off to recovery island. “Apparently, quite exclusive.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s lips thin with disapproval. “Not the sort of place the Waters family would frequent.”

I bite back a laugh. If she only knew about my collection of fetish photography from my short time at NYU, before my immune system staged its coup. The pristine Waters princess with her very not-pristine collection of kink and BDSM shots. Dad nearly had a stroke when he found my portfolio during one of my hospital stays. The entire collection mysteriously vanished afterward—another casualty of illness and Daddy’s damage control.

“Right.” I try to keep a straight face. “But isn’t it where everyone goes now?”

“For a certain element.” She sighs, relenting slightly. “Though some respectable families attend their events, too. The old boundaries aren’t what they were. It’s a shame.”

I nod, even though I don’t agree. Always the people pleaser. “The soup is really good.”

After dinner, I get too restless to stay inside, despite the cold evening air. I layer up even more than usual, grab my phone, and slip out the kitchen door into the garden.

The night has transformed the landscape into something out of a gothic fairy tale. The moonlight barely breaks through the fog, casting everything in a silver haze. The maze hedges look taller in the darkness, their shadows stretching across the wet grass. The air tastes different at night. Heavier. Saltier. Electric with the ocean that surrounds us on all sides.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I follow the winding path. Dew has already formed on the ornamental grasses that line the walkway, tiny droplets reflecting what little light manages to penetrate the mist. In the distance, an owl calls, the sound both mournful and warning.

Night shift clocking in, day shift clocking out.

No sign of the gardener—Damiano—on the main grounds, but there are lights on in the greenhouse at the far edge of the property.

Curiosity wins over caution. I head down the gravel path past the maze entrance, my boots making too much noise on the loose stones. The greenhouse windows glow amber against the darkening sky, warm light spilling out between plants pressed against the glass.

As I get closer, I’m hit with a rush of earth and growing things—the opposite of the antiseptic hospital smell that’s become my second skin. I stop at the door, suddenly unsure. Am I trespassing? Technically, my father owns this building and pays whoever works inside, but that doesn’t mean I should barge in.

Before I can decide, the door swings open. The man from the maze fills the doorway like he was carved to fit it perfectly. He’s taller than he looked from my balcony, with a presence that instantly makes the space feel smaller. His dark hair hangs loose now around a face that belongs on the cover of some “Hot Gardeners of Italy” calendar: sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and eyes that fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier cover his forearms completely, intricate botanical illustrations intertwined with what looks like ancient symbols. The dark ink disappears beneath his white tank top, hinting at more artwork mapped across his body.

“Ms. Waters.” His voice carries just enough of an accent to make my name sound exotic. “You’ve come back to Heathens Hollow.”

“I have.” I stand a little straighter, refusing to be intimidated, even though he towers over me. “You’re Damiano Ricci, right? The groundskeeper.”

Something like amusement flickers in his eyes. “Yes. Among other things.” He doesn’t move from the doorway. “Did you need something?”

The question doesn’t sound like something an employee should ask, but then, he doesn’t look like anyone’s employee either. He talks to me like we’re equals. Like I’m the visitor on his territory, not the other way around.

“I saw the maze from my window,” I say. “It’s more elaborate than I remember.”