Chapter 7 - Resting on a bed of dirt

"Open yourself to your home as you would a friend. Over time, you will find that each time you open yourself up, you will unveil something new, something just beyond the reach of your last glance."

— The Way of the Weathered Home: Practical Wisdom for Old Souls and Older Houses

Tilly had found herself reading The Way of the Weathered Home every night before going to bed. Maybe it was the time of night—she'd heard that people were most receptive before falling asleep—but the words seemed to linger in her mind, shifting her thoughts about August House into something she hadn't expected. She wasn't particularly mystical or New Age, nor had she ever thought of herself as someone susceptible to esoteric ideas. Her mother had raised her to be practical, to approach the world with logic and sense. When she'd first picked up the book, it had been for the amusement of it, intrigued by the quaint and almost whimsical tone. It had felt more like a curiosity, a diversion, than anything substantial.

But, little by little, the thoughts had seeped in. Something was compelling about the idea of forming a bond with the house, something even vaguely romantic. Approaching August House as if it were a relationship made the idea of selling it harder to stomach. She felt attached now, tethered by more than memories. The house had become a character in her life, something with a heartbeat, something she was reluctant to let go of.

Tonight's reading had been about gardens and gardening, a deliberate choice. She'd had landscapers out over the past three days, clearing out dead plants, trimming back the unruly overgrowth, and uncovering paths that had been buried beneath years of leaf and vine. She had initially dreamed of tackling it herself, slowly reclaiming the garden inch by inch, but reality had set in—it would have taken months, maybe even years. She needed professionals to get it started, to lay the foundation for her work.

Yet, as she closed the book, a pang of something close to regret lingered. Maybe it wasn't logical, but she felt she'd missed an experience, a chance to connect to the house and garden in a way that only dirt under her fingernails and hours spent wrestling with weeds could have given her. Her thoughts drifted to the garden, and without fully realizing it, she found herself heading downstairs. The air was cool against her bare feet as she moved over the cold floor, quiet in the stillness of the night. She slipped out the back door, pulled by an impulse she couldn't fully explain, her fingers trailing along the doorframe as she stepped outside.

The moonlight cast a silver-blue glow over the garden, illuminating the freshly revealed paths and the shapes of half-wild plants stretching across the beds. She took a few tentative steps down the newly cleared walkway, her gaze sweeping over the familiar yet transformed space. The air carried a faint, earthy sweetness, still laced with the residue of cut vines and upturned soil.

Tilly moved deeper into the garden, pausing by the old fountain near the center. Even in its age and neglect, the statue at its heart held a certain grace. The figure of a faerie—wings lifted as if ready to take flight, arms raised skyward—stood poised on tiptoe, her features softened by layers of time and weather. Moss crept up her legs, and the stone had darkened, giving her an almost ethereal presence in the moonlight.

Tilly continued further until she could no longer see the house behind her, finding herself in the farthest corner of the garden, near a clearing that the landscapers had recently uncovered. Here, the night felt darker, untouched by the glow of windows or the familiar shapes of the house. She hesitated, glancing around, feeling a sense of solitude she hadn't anticipated.

The quote from her book flitted through her mind again: A true steward does more than restore what's been lost; they offer themselves to the house, a piece of themselves left in its halls and soil. She knew it was ridiculous, but something about those words made her pause, made her wonder if there was a ritual in being here, something she could leave behind. She slipped off her sweatshirt, folding it neatly beside her, and felt a surge of bravery as she pulled off the rest of her clothes, setting them in a small pile.

The night air settled on her bare skin, cool and almost electric. She lowered herself onto the ground, the grass damp and soft beneath her. Lying back, she gazed up at the sky, vast and dotted with stars that seemed to pulse in the quiet. The earth held a comforting warmth, a grounding presence beneath her, as she let herself sink into it, breathing deeply.

She felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the gentle rustle of leaves around her, and a sense of calm that wasn't entirely familiar but wasn't unwelcome either. For a long time, she lay there, absorbing the silence, the stars, and the feel of the earth cradling her.

Tilly lay still, the quiet enveloping her like a heavy blanket. She ran her fingers through the grass beside her, feeling the cool, damp earth against her skin, the gentle resilience of each blade. In a small motion, she gathered a handful of dirt and, almost ceremoniously, let it trickle over her stomach. The earth settled on her skin, bringing a slight chill that sent a tremor through her. She felt a strange mix of self-consciousness and a strange connection, an intimacy that felt both silly and oddly profound.

Her voice, quiet but clear, broke the silence as she said, "I am yours." The words seemed to melt into the darkness, merging with the gentle rustle of leaves, the barely audible hum of life in the garden.

In that moment, a faint sensation drifted across her shoulder, like the lightest touch of fingertips tracing her skin. She turned her head slightly, her eyes searching the shadows, but the garden lay undisturbed, stretching out in quiet mystery around her.

Then, almost imperceptibly, a similar sensation ghosted along her left leg, as if someone or something brushed against her with the gentlest of touches, tracing a path from her knee to her ankle. She held her breath, her fingers pressing slightly into the earth, grounding her in the strange stillness. It was like the garden was breathing with her, each sense heightened, each sound amplified.

"What is this?" she murmured, softer this time, almost as if she were speaking to herself. The words floated away into the night, captured by the silence, leaving her feeling as if she had touched something sacred, something ancient and unspoken.

She stayed there, still and quiet, the garden enveloping her, blurring the line between her body and the earth beneath her.

"The book would tell me what to do," she whispered, her voice as soft as the night air around her. The words dissipated, leaving her in the deep quiet of the garden. She hadn't brought it with her tonight. Its worn pages and eccentric advice were waiting upstairs. Out here, she had only herself and the stars, the earthy scent of grass and soil, the cool, damp air clinging to her skin like a second layer.

She stared upward, letting her gaze wander across the constellations scattered in their familiar formations. The night's silence stretched on, thick with possibility, amplifying every small sensation—the press of damp grass against her back, the lingering scent of the garden, the distant whisper of leaves rustling somewhere behind her. She felt small yet grounded. She felt as if the vastness of the sky and the solidity of the earth had locked her in place.

Then, a soft touch brushed against her cheek, so faint she almost dismissed it as the flicker of a thought. Her breath caught, and she lay very still, as though afraid to break the spell of the moment. The touch was tender, lingering just long enough for her to feel its warmth before it faded, leaving her face cool again in the night air.

As she absorbed the feeling, another sensation followed—a subtle warmth that trailed across her right thigh. This touch, too, was delicate and brief, like the brush of a feather or a wisp of cloud moving against her skin. Her body tensed slightly, but not out of fear—more an instinctive response, a sharpened awareness of the garden's mystery enveloping her. She tilted her head, eyes searching the garden's dark edges as though someone might emerge from the shadows, though the night held its secrets.

"What is this?" she asked, barely louder than a breath, as though addressing the garden itself.

Silence answered, heavy and calm. She released a slow breath, looking back to the sky. For a moment, something flickered in her vision, a shadow or shape passing between her and the stars—a faint, momentary ripple. She blinked, eyes straining against the night's darkness, but the sky remained unchanged, the constellations shining steadily overhead as though nothing had disturbed their ancient patterns.

The air around her carried an earthy sweetness, mingling with the sharper scents of damp foliage and the faint tang of recent rain. It was as though the garden itself had wrapped her in a quiet embrace, each element holding her in place—sights and sounds and smells settling into an almost intimate silence. She felt an urge to whisper again, to ask the garden questions she couldn't quite form.

In the quiet, she could hear the distant chirp of a lone cricket, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a barely-there breeze. The night felt vast and somehow close, as if the air had thickened, heavy with unseen presence, pressing gently around her. And yet, for all its silence, the garden seemed alive in ways she hadn't anticipated—alive with touches and shadows and the lingering scent of old soil, as if it were breathing softly alongside her.

Tilly lay still in the grass, inhaling the earthy scent of damp soil and wild foliage around her. She felt an unmistakable presence nearby, a sensation she couldn't quite name. It wasn't like a shadow or a shape, but it felt warm, like a hand hovering just above her skin. She spoke softly, her voice barely breaking the silence. "I must be crazy," she said to whatever might be listening, then closed her eyes, letting the quiet take her as she drifted off.

Some time later, she awoke to the sound of something sprinting across the clearing—soft, quick footfalls crunching through the underbrush. She opened her eyes, disoriented, her skin prickling from the chill that had settled over her. It was still night, but the sky carried a faint, bluish tint near the horizon, hinting that dawn was close. A shiver ran deep through her bones, and she hugged her arms around herself.

Tilly sat up slowly, her limbs feeling heavy and clumsy. She glanced around for her clothes, which she'd carefully folded just a few feet away before lying down. But they were gone. A pang of irritation, mixed with disbelief, flickered through her. She stared at the empty spot, her mind racing. "Again?" she muttered to the silence. "That's not good for trust."

As she stood, brushing bits of grass from her skin, she spotted her clothes neatly folded on the opposite side of the clearing, as if someone had moved them there just out of reach. Tilly exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Better," she said, feeling silly talking into the dark but unable to resist. "But play nice. Your future might depend on it."

She dressed quickly, tugging on her t-shirt and slipping on her underwear. The thin fabric did little to shield her from the cold that had seeped into her skin. Barefoot and shivering, she looked around, trying to orient herself. She thought she could remember the way back, but every path seemed to wind her further off course. She took a wrong turn, then another, each twist and corner deepening the chill that gripped her.

Her teeth chattered, and her arms wrapped tightly around her, holding in what little warmth she could. She was just starting to wonder if she was truly lost when she caught sight of the fairy statue through the trees. Relief flooded her as she moved toward it, the familiar sight pulling her back to reality.

By the time she reached the house, the first streaks of dawn had painted the sky. She slipped quietly through the back door, hoping not to disturb anyone, but Nick was already up, emerging from the kitchen with a coffee mug in hand. He looked at her, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her appearance—barefoot, dirt-smudged, hair tangled from the night.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice a mixture of surprise and concern.

Tilly glanced down at herself, then back up at him. "I slept in the garden." She hugged herself, the warmth of the house seeping into her chilled skin. "Now I'm cold, I'm dirty, and I need to clean up."

Nick raised an eyebrow, but he didn't press for details, only giving a half-smile as she passed. She took the stairs two at a time, already craving the heat of a shower. In her room, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the steaming water and letting it chase away the last remnants of the night.

Afterward, wrapped in blankets, she slipped back under the covers, her mind drifting. The night in the garden, the strange rearrangement of her clothes, the feeling of something—someone—almost brushing against her skin—it was too vivid to dismiss yet too surreal to fully accept. Tilly drifted into a dreamless sleep, dim morning light filtering softly through the window.