🌾CHAPTER 2 – GOLDEN’S POV
1371 Words
I knew I was in trouble the moment the silence didn’t leave.
Not after the car drove away. Not after the dust settled. Not even after that annoyingly calm man told me I was staying.
It stayed.
It wrapped around me like something invisible and stubborn, like it had already decided I wasn’t going anywhere.
“This place is… too quiet,” I muttered, mostly to myself, though I knew he could hear me.
Ahead of me, Yseldous kept walking like he hadn’t heard anything at all.
Or worse, like it wasn’t worth responding to.
I narrowed my eyes at his back.
“Are you ignoring me on purpose?”
“No,” he replied, not even turning around. “I’m walking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is here.”
I let out a frustrated breath, stepping more carefully over uneven ground. My shoes were not made for this. Nothing about me was made for this.
“Do people here always talk like that?” I asked. “Or is it just you?”
He slowed down just slightly, enough for me to catch up beside him.
“Like what?”
“Like everything you say has some hidden meaning,” I said. “It’s exhausting.”
He glanced at me, briefly.
“There’s no hidden meaning,” he said. “You just don’t like simple answers.”
I stared at him.
“I like answers that make sense.”
“They do make sense,” he replied. “You just don’t agree with them.”
That shut me up for a second.
Not because I didn’t have something to say, but because I suddenly didn’t know which thing to say first.
So I settled for glaring at him instead.
He didn’t react.
Of course he didn’t.
The farmhouse came into view, and I slowed down without meaning to.
It wasn’t ugly. That would’ve been easier to deal with.
Ugly things are easy to reject.
But this place wasn’t ugly.
It was… honest.
Plain wooden walls, a wide porch, windows that were open instead of sealed shut. It looked like it had nothing to prove.
I didn’t like that.
“I’m not staying here,” I said, even though we were already walking toward it.
“You are,” he replied calmly.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I stopped walking.
He didn’t.
That made me more annoyed than it should have.
“Do you ever consider that people might have opinions?” I called after him.
“Yes,” he said, opening the door. “And sometimes those opinions don’t change anything.”
I walked in anyway.
Because as much as I wanted to refuse everything, I needed to see what I was dealing with.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt it again.
That unfamiliar feeling.
The air was warmer, softer somehow. It smelled like wood and something faintly sweet, maybe food from earlier. There were no polished surfaces, no cold shine, no sense of distance.
Everything felt… used.
Not worn out. Just used.
Lived in.
“Where’s the air conditioning?” I asked, turning slowly.
“The windows,” he said.
I looked at him.
“That’s not air conditioning.”
“It works.”
“It doesn’t work,” I insisted. “It just lets more heat in.”
“It lets air move,” he replied. “That’s enough.”
“For you,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
I pressed my lips together.
He wasn’t even trying to convince me.
That was the worst part.
He led me down a short hallway and opened a door.
“You’ll take this room.”
I stepped inside, my expectations already low.
They somehow dropped further.
It was simple. Too simple.
A bed with plain sheets. A cabinet. A small table. A window that let in too much sunlight, like it didn’t understand privacy.
There was no mirror big enough to check my outfit properly.
No decorations.
No personality.
“This feels temporary,” I said.
“It’s not,” he replied.
I turned to him.
“You don’t decorate?”
“I maintain,” he said.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It works.”
There it was again.
That word.
Works.
Everything to him was about function. Purpose. Use.
Nothing about comfort. Or beauty. Or feeling.
I crossed my arms.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to stay.”
I walked further into the room, running my fingers lightly along the wooden table.
It was smooth, but not perfectly polished. There were tiny marks, barely noticeable unless you looked closely.
Proof that it had been used.
Touched.
Real.
“I don’t belong here,” I said, softer this time.
“I know,” he replied.
I looked up quickly.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you acting like this is normal?”
“Because it will be,” he said.
I laughed, shaking my head.
“No, it won’t.”
“It can,” he corrected.
“I don’t want it to.”
“That’s different.”
I turned away from him, suddenly feeling tired in a way I didn’t understand.
Not physically.
Just… tired.
“I want to call my father,” I said, pulling out my phone.
“No signal,” he said.
I froze.
Then I checked.
Nothing.
I moved closer to the window.
Still nothing.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
I exhaled sharply, lowering my phone.
“This is insane,” I whispered.
“It’s a place,” he said again.
“It’s a trap.”
“It’s a pause.”
I turned to him slowly.
“A pause from what?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at me like he was trying to decide something.
“From whatever you’ve been running from,” he said finally.
That hit harder than I expected.
I laughed it off, quickly.
“I don’t run.”
“You do,” he said.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t need to,” he replied. “People who don’t run don’t react like this.”
I opened my mouth to argue.
Then closed it.
Because for a second, just a second, I didn’t trust what I might say.
“Dinner is at six,” he said, stepping back toward the door.
“That’s it?” I asked. “You’re just leaving me here?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
I frowned.
“You’re very sure of things.”
“I pay attention,” he said.
He turned to leave, then paused.
A second later, he walked back and handed me a glass of water.
I blinked, surprised.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“You’ll need it,” he said. “It gets hot.”
I stared at the glass.
Then at him.
“You’re confusing,” I said.
“You’re not,” he replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re exactly what you show,” he said. “You just don’t like being seen that clearly.”
I didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
He nodded once, like that settled something, then walked away.
For real this time.
I stood there, alone again.
The silence came back immediately.
Of course it did.
I walked to the window slowly, holding the glass in my hand.
Outside, the land stretched endlessly.
Green. Wide. Alive.
Too big.
Too open.
Too… honest.
“I don’t belong here,” I whispered again.
But this time, it sounded less like a statement.
And more like a question.
I took a small sip of water.
It was cooler than I expected.
Simple.
But… good.
I let out a quiet breath, leaning against the window frame.
“Three months,” I murmured.
“That’s all.”
But deep down, something didn’t feel temporary anymore.
And that scared me more than anything else.
- Writer
