Page 3

The greenhouse envelops me in humid warmth, like walking into a living, breathing thing.

The air feels thick and alive, full of soil and green things and other smells—sharp, herbal scents I can’t name.

Rows of plants grow in what looks like organized mayhem, some I recognize, others completely foreign.

One corner has been turned into a simple living space.

A narrow cot with messy blankets sits against the glass wall.

A small wooden table holds a camping stove, a French press, and a stack of books with dog- eared pages.

Clothes—mostly black and gray—hang from hooks on a metal rack.

A guitar leans against a trunk that probably holds the rest of his stuff.

The space is minimal but intentional. Not a homeless aesthetic, more like someone who’s figured out exactly what he needs and nothing more.

“This is impressive.” I try to sound casual. “What are you growing in here?”

“Whatever the island offers, plus things I’ve brought from other places.” He goes past me to a workbench cluttered with tools and equipment. A stone bowl sits next to small jars filled with dried leaves and powders. “Some for looks, some for healing. Most serve both purposes.”

“And these medicines… Do they work?”

He gives me a measuring look, like he’s deciding how honest to be. “Depends on who you ask.”

“I stopped believing in miracle cures somewhere around my third clinical trial.”

Something shifts in his expression. Respect, maybe. Like I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “Good. We’re on the same page then. I don’t do miracle cures.”

“I’m Briar, by the way,” I say, realizing he’s only called me Ms. Waters. “Since we’re already discussing my medical history.”

His laugh catches me off guard. It’s low and genuine, transforming his whole face. “Briar.” My name sounds different in his mouth, like it’s something more interesting than it is. “It’s a good name for someone so resilient.”

“That’s one way to put it.” I look around, wanting to change the subject. I step closer to examine a plant with delicate purple flowers. “What’s this one?”

“Monkshood. Pretty, right?” He moves beside me, close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him. “Don’t touch it, though. Toxic as hell. People used to use tiny amounts for heart problems back in the day. Too much, and you’re dead.”

“You’re growing deadly plants in a greenhouse you sleep in?”

His smile turns wicked. “I keep knowledge in a greenhouse I sleep in. The difference between medicine and poison is often just dosage.” He plucks a leaf from a different plant, crushes it between his fingers, and holds it out. “Smell.”

I lean forward cautiously, inhaling the sharp, clean scent. “Mint?”

“Corsican mint. Good for digestive issues, headaches.” His eyes track over me, not in a creepy way, more like he’s reading something. “You’re shivering even in here. Poor circulation comes with autoimmune issues, doesn’t it?”

Self-conscious, I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. “A symptom of my condition.”

“I could make you something for that. Not a cure,” he adds, seeing my expression. “Just something to help with symptoms. ”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the movement fluid and casual. “Why not? This place takes enough from people.” He turns away, moving to a shelf of glass bottles. “Your grandmother got it. That’s why she made the maze. So even in all this fog, you could always find your way back.”

“You knew my grandmother?”

“I was just a kid when she died. My mom worked summers in your kitchen. I’d hide in the maze while she cooked.

” He holds up a bottle to check it in the light.

“Your grandmother caught me there once. Instead of getting mad, she taught me how to navigate it. Said kids should know escape routes since adults are the ones who build the traps.”

The image forms instantly: a serious-eyed boy learning secrets from my grandmother, the family matriarch whose stern portrait still dominates the dining room. Something tightens in my chest.

“I don’t remember you,” I say. I should, but I don’t.

“Of course not. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Yours was the house on visits. Mine was the grounds, year-round. Different worlds.”

“I guess...” A familiar twinge of guilt hits me.

Spoiled rich girl syndrome. Too wrapped up in my own drama to notice anyone outside my bubble.

I hate that about myself. Hate it even more when I live up to the stereotype.

“I should get back to the house,” I say, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his space.

“It’s getting late, but it was nice meeting you. ”

Damiano nods, setting down the bottle. “Yeah.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out something wrapped in brown paper. “Here. Put a spoonful in hot water before bed. Might help you sleep.”

I accept the package, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin burns against my ice-cold hand. “Is it poison?” I ask, only half-joking.

His eyes lock with mine, dark and unreadable. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.” He moves to open the door. “The maze looks better in the morning when the fog lifts a bit. I’m usually there early if you want a tour of all the changes I made.”

Outside, the cold hits me like a slap, the fog so thick I could reach out and grab handfuls. I clutch the little paper package, stupidly grateful for his strange gift.

“Thank you,” I say, simply.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his tall figure filling the greenhouse doorway, backlit and imposing. “See if it works first. I hope it helps.”

I return to the house, feeling his eyes tracking me until I turn at the hedge that marks the maze entrance.

In my pocket, I curl my freezing fingers around the package of herbs, my mind racing with questions about this strange man who talks about poisons and secret paths like they’re casual conversation topics.

Maybe island exile won’t be so boring after all.