WebNovels

Chapter 28 - He wasn't part of the plan

It was a Wednesday, quiet and bright, the kind of early autumn day that whispered for someone to go outside. The sky stretched wide and cloudless above the campus, and the breeze carried just the faintest scent of dry leaves and sun-warmed grass.

The weather was far too nice to stay cooped up in a dorm room.

Mira zipped up her small bag—a bottle of water, some snacks, an old camera, and a spare roll tucked beside a folded windbreaker just in case. She wore a coban green-colored pair of suspender shorts, and a light hat that shaded her eyes without blocking the wind.

With no real destination, only a vague curiosity to see what lay beyond the main campus paths, she crossed the old footbridge at the south end of the grounds and followed a narrow road that curved toward the neighboring village.

The path was old but cared for—compact dirt and pebbles with soft grass growing along its edges. Early autumn had just begun to touch the landscape. Wild vines curled lazily over broken stone walls, their leaves tinged with soft yellows and pale oranges. Here and there, tiny white flowers still bloomed defiantly among the changing greens, and Mira knelt down more than once to photograph them, letting the sun kiss her shoulders as she adjusted her angles.

A tangle of goldenrod shimmered against a rusted fence. A cluster of crimson berries clung to a bush that looked ready to let go of summer. Mira stopped every few minutes—sometimes crouching low to get the right frame, other times just standing still, breathing in the silence.

The road narrowed as she walked deeper into the village edge. Fewer people, more fences covered in ivy and moss. Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes rang, soft and metallic.

Then she saw him.

An old man crouched beside the roadside, focused intently on the base of a wild thistle. He wore a loose cotton shirt, worn overalls, and a wide-brimmed hat splattered with faded paint. A basket rested beside him, already half-full of clipped leaves and unfamiliar stems.

Drawn by curiosity, Mira approached. "The weather's so nice today," she said, her voice light and warm. "And the colors—it's like the whole countryside is showing off."

The old man looked up, smiling, friendly lines creasing his face. "A perfect day for watching the land breathe," he agreed.

Mira smiled back. "May I ask… what are you doing here?"

"Collecting Polytrichum commune," he said, holding up a tuft of vivid green moss. "Haircap moss. Common, but beautiful. Holds water like a sponge and catches light just right in the mornings. Grows thick—like a tiny forest, if you look close enough."

She knelt beside him, intrigued. "That's beautiful. Are you a botanist?"

He chuckled. "An artist, actually. Retired, more or less."

She tilted her head, amused. "An artist?" Her eyes flicked to the paint stains. "I suppose I should've guessed."

"Guilty as charged," he said. "I used to do large-scale work—landscapes, village scenes, wild plants, sometimes portraits. Now I mostly paint for myself."

"That sounds amazing," she said sincerely. "Do you live around here?"

"I've got a small workshop and garden not far from this road. Would you like to visit?"

Her eyes widened with delight. "Really? That would be such an honor."

He stood with a little effort, brushing off his knees. "Come along then. It's not far, and I think you'll like the garden."

As they began walking, the path winding gently ahead, Mira couldn't help but glance at the moss in his hand again.

"I'm Mira, by the way. First-year student. I couldn't resist the nature around here—it's too beautiful to ignore."

He gave a nod, pleased. "Nice to meet you, Mira. I'm Quillan. And I think you've just stepped into the right story."

Mr. Quillan led Mira to an old, but well-kept car parked beneath a tree just off the side of the road. "It's a bit of a walk to my place," he said as he opened the passenger door for her, "so we'll cheat a little today."

She smiled and climbed in, her camera resting gently on her lap.

As they pulled away from the roadside and onto a winding, tree-lined path, the countryside unfolded around them. Rolling fields stretched into the distance, dotted with the warm tones of autumn—amber grass, golden leaves, and the first blush of red in the treetops.

"My son and daughter live in the city now," Mr. Quillan said after a moment, his voice casual but fond. "They come visit when they can, but I prefer it here. Quiet. Simple. And beautiful. Helps clear the mind. Helps me think—dream—draw."

Mira nodded, her gaze out the window, watching a group of starlings dart through the sky. "I can see why," she said. "It's stunning out here. Like the landscape is trying to speak."

He chuckled. "Maybe it is. You just need to know how to listen."

"You used to work as a professional artist?"

"Yes. With an art company for many years. Exhibitions, commissions, that sort of thing. But now…" He gestured toward the road ahead. "Now I just paint what I love. No deadlines. No clients."

She turned toward him, smiling. "That sounds like the dream."

"You'd be surprised how often people forget to dream when they're too busy chasing."

The car continued along the narrow road, climbing slightly into a secluded area wrapped in forest. When they turned a final bend, Mira gasped softly.

A wooden house stood at the end of a gravel drive, embraced on all sides by a lush, slightly wild garden. A large maple tree greeted them at the gate, its leaves already turning a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"This is…" Mira murmured, "…incredible."

Mr. Quillan gave a small, proud nod. "Welcome to my little corner of the world."

He parked and stepped out, waiting for her before leading the way up a moss-lined path toward the house. The porch creaked slightly beneath their feet, and the scent of dry wood, herbs, and faint paint lingered in the air.

Inside, the house was like stepping into a curated dreamscape. The living room was filled with shelves and hanging pieces from different cultures—delicate Japanese ceramics, Balinese wooden masks, Indian textiles, and Vietnamese calligraphy. Light filtered in through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across everything.

Mira turned in slow circles, wide-eyed. "This is a treasure trove."

Mr. Quillan chuckled. "Collected most of it during my travels. Some gifted by fellow artists."

He led her to a wide room at the back—the gallery.

Mira's breath caught.

Canvas after canvas filled the space. Some framed, others propped against the walls or scattered across the wooden floor. There were dreamy watercolors of pink hydrangeas, bold strokes of blooming peonies, soft sketches of dandelions blowing in the wind. A few paintings were half-finished, outlines still waiting to be brought to life.

She stepped gently around the room, her eyes taking in the mix of color, texture, and emotion in each piece. "They're… beautiful," she said softly. "There's so much feeling in them."

(Photo by me. A corner of Sado Island, Japan, in summer)

Mr. Quillan smiled. "Thank you. They're a part of me, I suppose."

Mira stopped before a piece depicting a wild hillside overrun with golden vines, the same kind she'd seen earlier on her walk. She leaned in slightly. "This one feels alive."

"They all are," he said gently. "In a way."

She looked up at him, a question already forming on her lips.

But just then, a quiet rustle came from somewhere deeper in the garden.

Mr. Quillan glanced toward the sound. "Ah. Looks like someone's still out there."

Mira blinked. "Someone?"

"My helper. You'll meet him soon." He smiled, mysterious. "Very bright. Just not the talkative type."

Mr. Quillan led Mira through a side door that opened onto a narrow stone path, half-covered by moss and flanked by thick greenery. Overhead, vines and branches had grown into a graceful arch, forming what felt like a natural tunnel—a living corridor of dappled green and gold. Light filtered in through the canopy in soft patterns, and the air smelled faintly of soil, leaves, and something sweet and herbal.

Mira slowed her steps, her fingers brushing the leaves as she took in the quiet magic of the place. "This feels like walking into a secret world," she murmured, eyes wide with wonder.

"It is," Mr. Quillan said with a smile. "The garden knows how to keep a secret or two."

As they walked, Mira suddenly paused near the edge of the path. Dangling from a thick vine twisted around a wooden arch was a strange, elongated purplish fruit with a faintly leathery skin, cracked open slightly to reveal a pale, jelly-like interior speckled with black seeds.

"Is this… a fruit?" she asked, reaching out gently to touch it.

Mr. Quillan turned back and smiled. "Ah, the Akebia trifoliata. Not many people recognize it."

She tilted her head. "It's beautiful. Like something from a fantasy novel."

"It's also called the chocolate vine or three-leaf akebia. Native to East Asia—China, Korea, Japan. In the wild, it grows in mountain forests and along riverbanks. Here, it does well along the garden's edge where it can climb freely."

Mira leaned in, curious. "Is it edible?"

"The pulp inside is sweet and can be eaten fresh. The rind is more bitter, but in some regions, they stuff and cook it. Medicinally, it's been used in traditional Chinese medicine—believed to help with inflammation, promote urination, and even assist with blood circulation."

"Nature's pharmacy," Mira murmured.

"Exactly," he said. "It's one of my favorites—not just for its look, but for what it reminds me. That even the strangest-looking things can hold quiet power."

Mira smiled, brushing her fingers lightly against the vine before continuing down the path.

The tunnel soon opened into a sunlit garden. Raised beds overflowed with herbs, flowers, and experimental plantings. A few butterflies danced lazily among the blossoms. Near the far end, partly shaded by a small apple tree, was someone bent over a planter, quietly trimming a cluster of delicate white blossoms.

"Ah," Mr. Quillan said, nodding ahead. "There he is."

Mira squinted. The figure moved with precise, focused motions—slender build, tousled dark hair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the edge of a notebook tucked into his back pocket.

She blinked.

It couldn't be.

Could it?

Mr. Quillan called out, "Young man! We have a guest."

The young man straightened, brushing soil from his hands before turning.

Mira froze.

Adrian stood beneath a lattice of climbing vines, his hands raised as he carefully adjusted a twist of garden wire around a high stem. His fingers worked with deliberate care, threading the vine along a bamboo support, coaxing it upward without forcing it. A small coil of wire hung from one wrist, and smudges of soil darkened his fingertips.

The late afternoon sun lit the side of his face, catching in the tousled strands of his dark hair. The garden around him was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird somewhere above.

He paused—mid-motion, hand still reaching toward the vine—as if sensing something. Then slowly, he turned his head toward the path.

His eyes met Mira's.

A flash of surprise passed through them—quick and subtle—followed by the smallest curve of his mouth, not quite a smile. Amusement. Recognition. Maybe even curiosity.

Mira stood frozen at the garden's edge, her camera forgotten in one hand, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Mr. Quillan stepped beside her with a gentle smile, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his linen trousers. "Ah, perfect timing. Mira, meet Adrian—brilliant botanist, accidental tech wizard, and a fixture in this garden nearly as much as the ivy."

Adrian gave a small nod, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.

 

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