𝐆𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐚́𝐧 || 𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥

Chapter 1

The small town had seen better years. Some of the shops were boarded up, and a lot more of them were selling liquor than Seungcheol remembered from the last time he’d visited. A small child ran out in front of his car, and he jammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop. The kid froze in the middle of the road, staring at him with wide eyes. It was a long twenty seconds before someone noticed—a woman rambled out of a store, grabbed the child by the arm, and hauled him up onto the sidewalk. She never once glanced at Seungcheol, never acknowledged his presence or the near accident. After a moment, the road now clear, he drove on. This had never been the friendliest of towns.

He took a hard left just outside the town’s limits, the path climbing gradually as it brought him away from the meager urban sprawl. Within a mile or so, as the ground leveled off, he was surrounded by woods and fields. Ahead of him, bathed in the orange glow of the morning sun, were the walls of the orchard. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to feel when he saw it. Sadness? Nostalgia?

The wave of relief was a surprise. Relief at what? That the place was still standing? That he had a home to go to?

Not much of a home now, with his grandpa six months dead and buried. The orchard had been his domain, the place he’d carved out a life for himself after the loss of his alpha husband. The place he’d raised Seungcheol’s father. The place Seungcheol had been raised, when his mother had walked out and left his dad to parent two kids alone. Unable to handle it, he’d left them in the care of their grandpa. Those few years, which could have been filled with sadness, were the happiest of his childhood memories. He’d long since left them behind, left that life behind. Yet here he was, right back where he started.

An envelope sat on the passenger seat next to him. The fulfillment of his grandpa’s last will and testament—a set of keys, the deeds to the orchard, and access to a bank account with what little money his grandpa had left when he’d passed. The gates of the orchard loomed large ahead of him, and he rolled to a stop, upending the envelope to grab the keys. As he got out and crossed to the gate, he had the sense he was being watched, but a covert glance at the surrounding woods revealed nothing. Probably just a curious bird, snooping from the safety of their tree.

He fought with the heavy padlock on the gate, the lock stiff and corroded from disuse. It yielded, finally, the metal creaking as he swung the gate open. A gust of wind brought the scents of the orchard rushing to meet him, threatening to throw him back in time. He turned before the nostalgia could get a grip, marching back to the car.

This was just a pit stop, a few weeks to sort out the last of his grandpa’s affairs, and then he’d get back to his life.

Driving down the narrow, winding road that led to the house, he didn’t let himself think beyond that. The house looked worse than he’d imagined: windows cracked, the screen door hanging off its hinges. By rights, the path to the house should have been overgrown with six months’ worth of weeds, and yet it wasn’t. He turned off the engine and sat there a moment, half-expecting someone—his grandpa—to come out and greet him, wiping flour-covered hands off on a dish cloth. No one came, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard except the shrill calls of crows from the nearby apple trees, announcing his arrival. He remembered feeding them when he was younger and the little trinkets they’d bring him as a thank you. Did they remember him?

Were they calling him home? Rolling his eyes at the flight of fancy, he got out of the car, going around to the trunk to grab his things. He had a bedroll, a sleeping bag, and a camping stove; enough to ensure he’d be comfortable for his stay, no matter the state of the house. And if the house wasn’t habitable, well, he’d always loved sleeping under the stars.

He walked along the short brick path that led to the house, a bag slung over each shoulder. He’d been wrong before: weeds had grown up in the months since his grandpa had died, but they’d been trampled underfoot.