"Arigato, Lovecraft-san." spoke a gentle voice behind me.
I gave a small nod and pushed open the heavy wooden doors. They creaked softly, reluctant to let me go. I stepped out into the grand hallway, the soft thud of my boot echoing against the polished wooden floor.
As I descended the staircase, I was met by a familiar sight- standing at the bottom of the stairs, a humanoid with the face of a lamb, dressed sharply in a crisp butler uniform. His wool was cleanly trimmed, and his demeanor was polished to match. In one hand he carried a silver tea tray, perfectly balanced. He bowed slightly.
"Shigoto wa owarimashita ka, Lovecraft-sama?" he said in his smooth, accented voice.
I gave him a nod. Words weren't needed here. We understood each other well enough.
I stepped into the kitchen. The chef had made me lunch cloaked by a tray to keep the steam in. It was dumplings. I ate the dumplings with a fork. Each bite released a burst of savory juices. The dumpling's filling glistened with color, rich and golden inside its soft skin.
Lunch left me warm and full—not heavy, just satisfied. I wiped my mouth, cleaned up, and made my way out the door.
Outside, the weather was perfect- the kind of sun-drenched afternoon that made everything feel like it had been washed in gold. The concrete walkway stretched ahead through the heart of the garden, and I strolled along it slowly, breathing in the scent of the soil and flowers warmed by the sun, lost in my memory.
Gardeners bustled about, trimming the overgrowth and watering beds of blooming flowers with practiced care. Some were kneeling in the soil, planting fresh bulbs in neat little rows, while others carefully pruned away dead leaves and errant stems. The atmosphere was peaceful, efficient and oddly soothing.
There were the Casablanca lilies—massive, white, and luminous, their recurved petals stretching wide like a starburst in slow motion. Their green stamens and burnt-orange anthers provided a contrast so sharp it looked painted on. They were showy, sure, but proud. They tilted their faces outward like they were aware of their beauty, ready to be admired by anyone who passed.
And then there were the sweet pea flowers—vibrant and delicate at the same time. They bloomed in almost every shade imaginable: lavender, salmon, deep maroon, bubblegum pink. A few had streaks or edges tinged with contrasting color, as if nature had signed them with a flourish. They clustered together in charming disarray, giving off a soft, sweet scent that hung in the air like a whisper.
Together, the flowers told a story about the mansion's owner. Sweet, gentle. Beautiful in a way that wasn't just skin-deep. Someone who created spaces for others to breathe, to feel safe. Someone you'd trust, even without knowing why. Naïve to a fault. Someone who didn't fit in yet had snuggled in the embrace of the world.
I reached down and gently plucked a single sweet pea blossom, twirling it between my fingers. A couple of the gardeners noticed and gave me small nods. I returned the gesture. No words needed.
The gate creaked open as I walked out into the village path, lined with stone walls and low fences. The villagers I passed greeted me with nods, some with smiles. Most were friendly enough. Of course, there were always a few who kept their eyes too long on my back, who whispered when they thought I wasn't listening. Their stares felt sharp, like fishhooks in the wind.
Didn't matter. I kept walking.
The path curved uphill, through patches of grass and wildflowers that hadn't yet been tamed by human hands. At the top stood a small shack I'd taken to calling home—half roof, mostly wood, but with just enough character to be lovable. It creaked in the wind and leaned a little to the left, like an old man with good stories to tell.
I slid open the door, stepped inside, and pulled out my fishing rod. It was old, rusty and small. It didn't match my size nor was it big enough to fish fishes over a kilogram. The line was short. Yet I carried it over my shoulder and took a rusty old bucket with me.
Minutes later, I was by the coast, feet in the sand, rod in hand. The sea stretched out endlessly, glimmering like it had secrets to tell but was in no rush to share them. I used the sea shells laying on the sand to dig out some bait.
The sand beneath the hole brought out worms and sand fleas. Mostly sand fleas which I pierced into the hook. I cast my line, took a seat on a smooth rock, and let the quiet roll in.
Sometimes, this was all I needed. Just the sea, the wind, and the chance that something unexpected might tug on the line.
-----
The rod gave a subtle tug.
I felt it, like a ripple through still water. Something had taken the bait. My fingers tightened around the old reel as I leaned forward, careful not to jerk or pull too hard. This rod was barely holding together on its best day. Too much force and it would snap like a twig.
Slowly, deliberately, I began to reel in the line, the spool creaking with every turn. The fish resisted. A strong one. It ran, stealing line with sudden bursts, darting left and right in defiance. But I didn't rush. I wasn't fishing for dinner. I was fishing for the feeling. The dance. The moment. Let the fish run, I thought. Let it believe it's free.
Eventually, the tension eased. The fish had made its move, and now it was tiring. I reeled again, smoother this time. But just as I felt the line gaining ground, it went limp.
Gone.
I reeled in the empty line, the hook swaying gently as it rose out of the water. I didn't sigh. I just nodded to myself and reached into the tin can beside me, plucking out another sand flea. It squirmed slightly between my fingers. I pierced it onto the hook with care, then stood, letting the rod swing back and cast the line again, as far as it would go.
The bait splashed into the surf and vanished beneath the water.
Then, I waited.
The sun had shifted in the sky, no longer above my head but already beginning its long descent westward. Its light took on a golden hue, softening the edges of the world, as if the coast had been dipped in honey.
I sat down again, this time sinking deeper into the sand, elbows resting on my knees, eyes on the horizon. The breeze picked up—a breath from the ocean, cool and damp, carrying salt and the scent of distant islands. It wrapped around me gently, pushing back the warmth of the sun just enough to make my skin tingle. I closed my eyes.
The air felt untouched. Like it hadn't passed through the lungs of a soul before reaching me. Pure. Untamed. It whispered through the grass behind me and rustled the leaves in the low trees up the slope. I breathed it in.
Peace.
That rare kind of silence where even the waves seem respectful. No seagulls cried, no boats clanked. Just the wind, the sea, and the occasional groan of my old rod swaying in my grip.
Then, a familiar tug.
I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the line grow taut once more. This one was smarter, or maybe just angrier. It didn't just pull—it danced. Jerked. Dove. The rod bent in a graceful arc, creaking under pressure. I let the fish run again, giving it rope.
I reeled gently, carefully watching how the tension shifted. Then I tugged—not hard, just a nudge. Then another. A rhythm. A tease. I could feel the fish beginning to turn, heading back toward shore. It was almost like a conversation now. A slow negotiation between predator and prey, both unsure which was which.
The line came closer. I could see it cut through the water, a shadow beneath the surface thrashing and weaving. I leaned forward.
Then, in one sudden surge, the fish made its final stand.
Snap.
The rod broke with a sharp, clean crack. The top half splintered off and flew forward, dragged a few feet before being taken by the tide. The line slacked, the fish gone. Just like that.
I stared at the broken rod in my hands. The old thing had held up through a lot of abuse and now it had finally had enough.
I let out a long sigh—not from frustration, but resignation. "Guess I need to buy another one." I muttered to no one in particular.
Bending down, I gathered the fragments, collecting every piece with quiet reverence. The line, the reel, even the snapped shaft. Can't waste anything in this economy. I wrapped the remnants in a cloth and tucked them back into my bag.
But I didn't move from the shore.
Instead, I leaned back on my elbows, letting the sun kiss my face, its heat soaking into my skin. The wind had grown cooler now, brushing through my hair with long fingers. It tugged at my shirt, blew grains of sand gently across my legs. I let it.
The air was colder now, but not biting. Just enough to remind me I was alive.
I didn't need a rod to enjoy this. The fishing was just an excuse, really—a way to slow down. To be here. To feel the shift of day to night in real time. Each breeze, each lap of the wave, each change in light—it all felt like part of a quiet story the world was telling me.
And then, from up the path, came the thunder of footsteps and laughter.
Three kids tore down the slope, shouting and chasing each other, their sandals flapping against the packed dirt. They stopped upon seeing me. And they maintained a soldier posture and file as they raised their hand in salute.
I saluted them back.
"It's going to be an interestingly boring day." I murmured to myself with a wry smile.