The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 7 The Little Stone

Chapter 7: The Little Stone

Eathon awoke with a scream.

The room was dark. Above him, the night sky shimmered with a billion stars.

He was back at the Academy.

Alone.

His breath came shallow and fast. He looked around the quiet room — his room. His sanctuary. No one was here. No one could see. No one to judge.

His hands buried into his face as the sobs overtook him, silent but powerful. His chest heaved with guilt and loneliness.

He wanted to see his father again. Wanted to wake at dawn, lift timber with sore arms, cut dovetails and bow tie joints. Sharpen tools on the old oilstone. He wanted to watch the man who raised him shape wood and life with the same quiet strength.

Every memory came back in painful detail. Scraped knees bandaged. Birthdays made special. The warmth of a hand on his shoulder. The quiet comfort of a hot bowl of food. The soft kiss to his cheek when he was a boy. The lessons. The laughter. The pride.

And above all, the shame.

He had done the one thing Giuseppe would have never forgiven — taken life in rage.

Part of him had hoped they would catch him that night. That he would die in the act. But he lived.

And now this was the punishment.

He was alive. Alone. And unworthy.

After a long while, he drew in a shuddering breath, wiped his face on his sleeve, and stood. His mouth was dry, his stomach twisted in hunger. He hadn't eaten in over a day. His body might have been healed, but his soul felt bruised and brittle.

He checked his ID: 11:00 p.m. He'd been unconscious for six hours.

And still, the question burned: Who was that monster in black?

He had no answers. Not yet.

He set the boys' dormitory as his destination, and the illuminated trail lit up beneath his feet. He followed it out the door, across the moonlit grounds. The silver glow of twin moons bathed the Academy in a haunting beauty. Most buildings were dark, though a few taverns still echoed with drunken laughter.

Passing under a bridge, a scent drifted into the air — rich, savory, intoxicating.

His hunger sharpened. He turned off the path, tracing the aroma to a quaint ballast stone building with a white-rose-covered archway glowing under moonlight. A wooden sign swung gently in the breeze: Le Petit Bistro En Pierre.

He stepped inside, drawn by the smell.

A startled voice cried out from behind the bar, "Louis, il y a quelqu'un!"

A young man emerged. Slender, well-dressed in a red chef's uniform. Polished. Neat. His hazel eyes sparkled under long lashes, and his light brown hair was perfectly combed. He bowed deeply, his voice warm and nervous.

"Monsieur, I bid you welcome to the Little Stone Bistro. However, we are not yet open for service. We would usually be delighted to serve a Green Class student, but our preparations are incomplete, and the menu is—limited. Please understand."

His French accent was charming, but Eathon could hear something else beneath it — fear.

Eathon blinked, realizing how strange his sudden arrival must've seemed.

"Pardon me. I didn't mean to startle anyone. I just followed the smell. I haven't eaten in a full day, and..."

His stomach groaned loudly, cutting off the sentence.