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Briar

The island has been waiting for me to die here.

Okay, that sounds super dramatic, but it’s true. I feel it in the chill that cuts through my cashmere sweater, in the mist that sticks to my skin like it’s never going to dry. Heathens Hollow remembers me, even after all these years.

The pale girl from the big house—the one who never quite fit in.

My father’s driver doesn’t speak as we wind along the narrow coastal road from the private dock.

His silence seems deliberate, perfected over years of ferrying the wealthy to their island retreats.

The Waters family car, a sleek black Rover reserved exclusively for island use, cuts through the fog with precision, headlights barely penetrating the dense white curtain around us.

“You can stop here,” I say when the silhouette of Windward Estate emerges through the mist. My voice sounds foreign in the quiet car. Way too soft. I clear my throat. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, evaluating my thin frame, the pallor of my skin. “Ms. Waters, your father instructed?—”

“My father isn’t here.” I reach for the door handle. “I haven’t felt solid ground beneath my feet in hours. Please.”

He hesitates, then pulls over where the paved driveway meets gravel.

I step out, instantly wrapping my scarf tighter as the island air hits me.

So damp, so cold, practically dripping with salt and pine.

My body’s thermostat went haywire years ago.

Another system my immune system declared war on.

But here, at least I have a reason for all the layers I wear.

I’m not the weird girl bundled up in Seattle’s seventy-degree “heat wave.” Here, everyone would be cold.

“Your luggage—” the driver begins.

“Would you mind bringing it to the house,” I say. “I need a moment.”

He nods once, understanding the language of the wealthy—privacy paid for with generous tips, the currency Dad taught me to throw around like confetti. The car pulls away, leaving me alone on the path I used to run down as a child, when my body still obeyed basic commands without protest.

With each crunch of gravel under my feet, the memories hit me.

My mother’s laugh bouncing across the garden.

Her perfume, always citrusy, mixing with the sea air.

The way she’d grab my hands and twirl me around the great room during storms, old jazz records skipping on that vintage player she refused to replace.

And then... nothing, her gone-ness filling the house more than she ever did.

Empty rooms. Dad disappearing into work calls and late nights at the office.

And fourteen-year-old me, learning that grief is something you do alone.

Now, at twenty-seven, I’m back for the first time since I was nineteen. Before the diagnosis. Before the endless parade of treatments. Before I became a full-time patient instead of a person.

Windward Estate emerges fully as I crest the hill, a sprawling Victorian mansion that belongs on a horror movie poster—all dark wood and sharp angles weathered by years of storms. The house stands three stories tall with a widow’s walk atop the central tower, where my grandmother used to scan the horizon with her brass telescope.

Windows stare out at the churning Salish Sea as if searching for answers, demanding to know why I’ve been AWOL so long.

The house remains immaculate, of course. Dad would settle for nothing less, even for a property he visits perhaps once every few years. Status symbols require upkeep, especially ones with historical significance like the Waters family summer home.

I pause at the front steps, my lungs tight from the walk and the damp air. The pain is familiar, my constant buddy these days, but I breathe through it, counting slowly the way my last physical therapist taught me.

One, two, three in.

One, two, three out.

My camera bag weighs heavy against my hip, the only luggage I’ve insisted on carrying myself. Inside, three camera bodies and five lenses nestle in padded compartments, the tools of the career I haven’t quite abandoned, despite my father’s insistence that my “hobby” is too strenuous.

Mrs. Fletcher, the housekeeper who’s maintained Windward for decades, opens the massive oak door before I can reach for the handle. Her lined face breaks into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Pity camps there instead.

“Miss Briar!” She moves aside. “Good to have you back. It’s been too long.”

Home.

The word feels wrong, yet I have nowhere else to claim. My Seattle apartment sits sterile and empty, more hospital room than living space after years of accommodating my illness. This place, at least, holds memories from before.

“The house looks the same,” I say, stepping into the foyer. The familiar scent hits me, lemon polish, old wood, and that weird Windward smell I’ve never found anywhere else.

“Just how your father likes it. Your room’s all set, and I’ve stocked the kitchen with everything on that list Dr. Winters sent. ”

Of course Dad had my doctor send dietary restrictions.

Peak Maxwell Waters behavior. CEO of Waters Biotechnology, approaching his daughter’s illness like some business problem he can fix with proper management.

He probably has a color-coded spreadsheet tracking my “projected recovery timeline” on the island.

Checks it every morning with his coffee like a stock portfolio.

“Thank you.” I move toward the grand staircase, trailing my fingers along the polished banister. “I’d like to rest before dinner.”

“Of course.” Her eyes linger on my face, cataloging the new hollows in my cheeks, the shadows under my eyes that even my expensive concealer can’t hide. “The garden’s looking nice, too. I remember how much you loved it.”

The maze. My grandmother’s pride, my mother’s joy, my childhood playground. “Who tends it now?”

“Damiano Ricci. Remember him? His mom used to cook for the summer parties. Italian family. He’s been taking care of the grounds solely for about five years now.

Mostly keeps to himself. Lives out of the old greenhouse.

Fixed it up to stay warm.” She pauses. “Bit of an odd duck… unusual… but he sure knows his plants.”

I nod, filing away the information. “I’ll look forward to seeing it tomorrow.”

“He’s usually in the greenhouse around now. Makes all kinds of potions with his herbs.” Her tone suggests disapproval mixed with reluctant respect. “Some folks around here swear by his remedies.”

My interest perks up despite feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.

After years as a human guinea pig—endless clinical trials and experimental treatments, each one supposedly “the miracle” that would fix my broken immune system—I’ve developed a thing for alternative stuff.

Not because I’m hopeful—gave that up ages ago—but hey, at this point, why not?

Maybe it’s the scientist in me. Or maybe Western medicine has just put me through enough hell.

“Huh,” I smile faintly. “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”

“Rest first,” Mrs. Fletcher says firmly. “Plenty of time for that. You’re here all season. No need to push yourself.”

The whole season. Three months of island time.

Dad’s recovery prescription: clean air, family property, distance from “stressful Seattle.” More like, keeping me away from his upcoming wedding to Melissa, his executive assistant.

She’s three years younger than me with perfect health and—shocker—never disagrees with anything he says.

Pretty convenient how I got shipped off right before all the wedding festivities.

Can’t have the sick daughter killing the vibe, right?

Upstairs, my childhood bedroom awaits, transformed from the teenager’s retreat I left behind to a sophisticated guest suite.

The walls, once covered in band posters and photographic prints, now wear a tasteful sage green.

The twin bed has been replaced with a queen, draped in crisp white linens and a pale blue cashmere throw.

My luggage has already been delivered and unpacked because god forbid I do it myself and waste precious energy.

My clothes hang in the cedar-scented closet, organized with military precision: casual wear, sleepwear, and those ridiculous formal outfits Dad insisted I bring “for dinner parties.” Right.

Like I’m planning to host fancy gatherings during my island exile. Like anyone would show up if I did.

I open the French doors to the small private balcony overlooking the rear gardens.

The maze spreads below, a geometric puzzle of precisely trimmed hedges, the pattern more complex than I remember.

At the center, barely visible from this angle, stands a stone gazebo where my mother used to read while I explored the green pathways.

Beyond the cultivated grounds, the wild forest begins, dense and dark even in daylight.

Something catches my eye among the hedges. A figure in black, moving through the maze like he owns every inch of it. Even from up here, I can tell there’s something different about him.

The way he moves. Confident.

Knowing exactly where he’s going. Tall, lean, but strong. Not gym-bro strong, but the kind that comes from actual work. It’s almost like the fog gets out of his way as he stalks through it .

He stops at a junction, kneels to examine something at the base of a hedge, then stands with a cutting tool glinting in his hand.

His hair, dark as wet earth and falling past his shoulders, is pulled back in a loose knot, revealing his profile as he turns slightly.

A pronounced jawline frames his face, severe beneath prominent cheekbones that catch what little light filters through the mist. The sleeves of his black shirt are pushed up, revealing forearms covered in intricate tattoos, dark patterns that from this distance look like twisted vines and ancient symbols against his suntanned skin.

He moves again, his hands quick and precise as they trim a branch, then trace along the hedge with a gentleness that seems..

. I don’t know, almost intimate? Like he’s talking to them without speaking.

His whole body moves with this weird awareness of the plants around him, like he instinctively knows what they need.

I can’t stop staring at him work, totally unaware he’s being watched from above. Just this lone figure, completely in his element in the maze’s controlled chaos.

So that’s Damiano Ricci. The “unusual” groundskeeper who has a way with plants.

Unusual is putting it mildly.

A wave of fatigue slams into me without warning.

My body’s favorite party trick. The journey from Seattle has wiped out what little energy I had left.

I drag myself from the balcony, shutting the doors against the endless chill.

The bed looks so good right now that I don’t even bother changing out of my travel clothes.

I kick off my shoes, pull the cashmere throw over me, and surrender to exhaustion.

Again.

As I drift toward sleep, I swear I can hear my mother’s voice on the wind, whispering to me like she used to: “Be careful, my Briar.”

She always said this island had a way of breaking fragile things. And if there’s one thing I am now, it’s fragile.