Your grandfather passed, leaving his land to your care. As you clean the place up, going through your grandfather's things, you notice some notes about a mysterious horse that appears to have been living in a pond for years. Could that be the same b...
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At first, Riaghan only calls you only by your full first name.
He says it tentatively, unsure, as though a simple mispronunciation would insult you into running away. Almost as though he believes he is not worthy to say it. At this point he only brushes his hands against yours in accidents, apologizing quickly after your skin connects. This often happens since he insists on helping you out in the kitchen and garden, working close enough as though he wishes the incidents would occur.
Then he calls you love, perhaps by mistake. Riaghan is carefully slicing vegetables for dinner while you set the table. The pan sizzles with oil as it heats up, your stomach growling with emptiness from a hard day's work. As you open the silverware drawer, Riaghan gestures in your direction without looking and says, "pass me a spoon, love?"
"Here," you say as you hand him a carved bamboo spoon, barely managing to keep your tone casual. The two of you return to your separate jobs as though nothing happened, Riaghan humming a melodic song you aren't familiar with. You don't think that he even realizes what he said.
Since your appetite has only just returned in full force, it takes a little while for you to finish all the food on your plate. Riaghan eats fewer vegetables, his meat just cooked enough that a reasonable person would not think him insane. For a horse raised in a lake out in the back acre of your grandfather's land, he has impeccable table manners. He eats like a princess, though throughout dinner, eyes every bite you take in your mouth as though cataloging it. Even though he finishes his food first, he observes you as though measuring how much nutrients you end up consuming.
After dinner, as per usual, he helps you clean. While filling the sink with water, he glances over at you. "What did the doctors say today?"
You had taken the train into the nearest city to get a medical graduate's opinion. Briefly, you consider lying to him about the severity of the disease you fought off. "Well," you stack the plates and silverware, "I did test positive for that mutated flu virus, though most of it is dead now."
Riaghan hums, prompting you to continue.
"I have some more pills I need to take to avoid the risk of a recession." The bottle is safely in the bathroom upstairs, along with the unused prescriptions from your grandfather.
"I'll make some tea," Riaghan says suddenly, drying his pale hands. He puts a blue speckled kettle under the sink faucet and fills it to the brim, fingers skimming over the tea box.
"Where did you learn to..." you gesture vaguely in his direction while he ignites the gas stove.
"After you left," Riaghan pauses for a moment as though collecting himself, "awhile after you left, my mother died." He clears his throat, clearly not wishing to continue.
The confession feels like a dull kick in the throat, like an echo of when you got the phone call. The Phone Call. It is my responsibility to inform you that your grandfather has passed phone call. You immediately look down at your hands, knowing there are no words you can say to ease the pain of reliving his nightmare.
