FLAME OF THE WOODS

Chapter 3 (First Day of Work)

I sat down on a chair in front of him and pulled the wheeled tray of food closer to our side. He did not move. Just sat there, still as stone, his gaze fixed past me like it had never shifted in the first place.

I reached for the folded paper the assistant had handed me earlier. My eyes scanned the name typed neatly at the top: Kale Draven.

Below it, a few lines stood out in bold:

The patient is immobile. Limited to slight movement in fingers and head. Minimal speech. Fully conscious. Highly sensitive to touch.

My breath hitched as I glanced up again. He was still sitting frozen.

His fingers barely twitched against the armrest. Suddenly, he made a slight movement of nod, so subtle I might have missed it if I’d blinked.

The air felt heavier somehow.

I gave him a slight smile, trying to ease the tension between us.

"Since talking’s hard for you," I said gently, "just give me a sign. When I ask something, move any finger on your right hand for yes. For no, use your left. Simple enough?"

Without hesitation, his right index finger tapped against the armrest of the wheelchair.

In that brief gesture, I know he is aware.

From the table, I reached for the tray and carried the soup carefully, one hand holding the plate, the other gripping a spoon. With gentleness, I brought the spoon to his lips. He turned his head away.

"Come on, sir, you have to eat," I coaxed. "You don’t want to waste this delicious soup, do you?"

I tried again, easing the spoon closer. Once more, he flinched and shifted away.

"Seriously? Don’t you trust me to feed you?" I asked, half teasing. "I swear, there’s no poison in here. Look, I’ll prove it."

I scooped a spoonful, slurped it down, and immediately regretted everything.

“Bwaa! Disgusting!” The bitterness hit first, followed by a sharp sour taste, and something that felt like a chewed grass straight from a cow’s mouth. I gagged and spat it back into the plate, face twisting in horror.

He smiled—soft, subtle, but definitely amused.

"Oh, so now you’re laughing?" I shot back, dripping sarcasm.

Still choking on the aftertaste, I stormed out and called for the housekeepers to help clear the wheeled table. I rushed to the kitchen thinking, I have to do this on my own.

Before I forgot, I rushed back to the master’s room and paused in the doorway. I wasn’t standing too close, but close enough to see him clearly; his chair was turned toward me, facing my direction.

"Do you really eat that stuff every day?" I asked, still grimacing. "That was awful! Just wait. I'll bring you something real. A proper meal."

Then I flashed him a grin, because if I didn’t smile, I would not know any other way to hide my tears from tasting that soup.

I cooked him some chicken soup with noodles in it. I didn’t let anyone help. I wanted full control. Too many cooks meant too many things could go wrong. I didn’t even know what those housekeepers had been putting in the master’s food. It made me wonder: were they trying to choke him to death with that disgusting taste?

I stepped into the room and found him just as I’d left him; still, silent, unmoving. I set the tray on the side table and picked up the new bowl of chicken noodle soup. Warm steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of garlic, ginger, and slow-cooked broth. The whole room seemed to breathe it in.

He didn’t move, but I caught the small shift in his throat; the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked hungry and wanted this.

I sat beside him and made sure he watched me take a spoonful. I slurped it slowly and smiled. “See? Safe and delicious.”

Then I scooped another bite and held it out for him slowly and carefully, like passing something fragile. He leaned in and took it. His lips closed over the spoon, and his eyes softened.

He tasted it. He savored it. Of course he did. My past employers used to fight over my cooked meals. They couldn’t get enough of it.

He finished his meal without a fuss. A moment later, the helpers came in to tidy up the table. With the room clearing out, I finally had a moment to look over his schedule.

This is my first job as a caregiver. My last jobs usually revolved around house cleaning and just cooking. Why didn’t they hire someone trained for this?

Then I remembered something I had listed in my resume: "basic caregiving," a skill I barely remembered listing. No wonder they picked me. It was not a mistake. Maybe it was luck. Or maybe the universe has a strange sense of humor.

I flipped through the papers and saw my duties: Feed him. Make sure he gets sunlight. And… bathe him?

I turned the pages over, figuring out if there was more. But no. No mention of cooking. No mention of cleaning. Just care. Real, full-on personal care.

As I frowned at the list, someone stepped into the room. It was the old assistant, dressed in the same suit.

“Well now, how did your first day go, Miss Mair?” he asked with a bright smile.

“I still haven’t gotten your name,” I said, remembering how disrespectful I think I am.

“Oh, pardon me,” he chuckled. “No one asks. You can call me anything, but it’s Fred.”

“Well, Mr. Fred… I regret to inform you that the soup in this mansion is terrible,” I said without blinking.

He laughed, hands behind his back. “Ah. My apologies. We’ll make sure the next meal is properly made. The helpers said you cooked in the kitchen alone. That shouldn’t have happened. That was on me.”

“I don’t mind doing a little extra,” I shrugged.

“Well, speaking of extras,” he added, still grinning, “Have you read the full contract?”

The smile on his face made me pause. There was something... odd about it. I know from the first moment that something’s weird going on with this old man. Although I hope I’m just overthinking his words and responses.

“To be honest, Mr. Fred… I skimmed maybe one and a half pages,” I admitted, still holding the paper in my hand.

The helpers left, leaving just the three of us. Fred stepped in a little closer, his voice lower now, like he was about to share a secret.

“For now,” he said, “your main job is to be with him. Meals will be handled, and I’ll help with the bathroom and other private things. But you’ll still need to bathe him once a week,” he said. “You know—do your thing.”

I blinked, confused. “My thing?” My brows pulled tight. “What exactly do you mean by that?”