Maybe he’d just hang a banner up over the porch and save everyone the time of wondering who he was. NEWLY MOVED IN: CHRISTOPHER MYRON ELLIOT OF BALTIMORE. PLEASE REFER TO AS KIT. 

​

“You one of Basie’s friends?” the truck driver pressed.

​

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Basie, sir.” 

​

“Well, that’s a right shame,” the man said. “They’ll sell a house to anyone these days.”

​

Before Kit could wonder what that was supposed to mean, the man drove off, cranking the window up as he disappeared in a cloud of dirt and gravel. 

​

Kit wasn’t sure what was so strange about a man sitting in nice clothes on his own porch. Of course, most folks didn’t know that the cottage was his now. (Well, the cottage wouldn’t actually be his until the realtor, a man named Lewis Simon, arrived to sign the papers and give him the keys.) Kit hadn’t expected the semantics to matter to the locals. Where he was from, people minded their business.

​

Eventually, a vehicle that was more van than truck pulled into the driveway and parked behind Kit’s U-Haul. He almost expected half a dozen children to pop out the back doors, given the extended passenger cab and all the booster seats that filled it. The man who did exit circled around the front of the truck, a time-worn briefcase tucked under his arm. This was Kit’s only indication that the man was the realtor he was waiting for. The other clues, his business casual dress pants and cotton button down, were hiding underneath a large Carhartt jacket. Lewis Simon must’ve been crazy to be wearing a coat in this early summer heat. 

​

Besides his strange clothes, Mr. Simon was handsome in a small-town way. All his features were made of straight edges, except for his eyes, which were two lopsided moons. He wore his long, midnight hair in a frantic bun and his skin was just as pale as Kit’s, without the freckles.

​

“Sorry I’m late. Raising six kids under the age of eighteen pretty much guarantees I’m chronically running behind,” the realtor rambled. He shoved a hand between them and offered Kit a firm shake. “I’m Lewie Simon. Thanks for waiting.” 

​

“Kit Elliot. It’s no trouble at all. I’m partial to taking my time.” 

​

“That’s a relief. You’ve got your work cut out for you with this house. Not that it’s falling apart. The Yeats kept it in top-notch shape. It’s only that…Well, you’ll see.” 

​

Any number of mysteries could’ve been waiting for Kit as Lewie unlocked the door, but he wasn’t sure which one he was expecting the most. Maybe a family cat or dog? Kit wouldn’t mind having a pet, but it’d be hard to move all his things in if there was a four-legged friend stepping under his feet. 

​

The front door groaned open. Lewie led him down a short hallway into the main space and Kit saw just how mistaken he’d been. 

Wellhead Cottage was a sight. The pictures online were enough to have Kit emailing Lewie almost instantaneously, but there was something about stepping past the threshold that could not be captured in pixels and polarized glass. Kit centered the feeling to the very air in the house, the all-consuming atmosphere that felt a little bit like he’d met his own match. 

​

But the thing Lewie was referring to surrounded him in a different way. Because whoever the previous owner was, they had left all of their belongings. All their coats, hanging in the entryway. All their dishes, waiting on the drying rack to be put away. Pictures on the walls, books in the office, real life flowers on the windows. The evidence and history of an entirely different existence was everywhere. 

​

When Kit turned to Lewie, he found him squinting up at one of the family portraits on the wall. Lewie caught his curious look and answered the unspoken question with a sigh. 

​

“The man who lived here before, Basie—well, his mother passed away earlier this week unexpectedly. Shook him up real bad, as you can probably guess. He was eager to get out of the house.”

​

“Won’t he come back for any of his things?” 

​

“Definitely not. He just wants to get out of town.” Lewie scratched the back of his head. “A little hard to explain to someone from a city.”

 

It was true that Kit had never lived anywhere but a city before, but that did not mean that he had never lost anyone or that he did not know the shape of grief. Sometimes sadness was even worse in Baltimore, where the streets never slept or quieted their babbling. Looking around this quiet house, sitting on even quieter property, Kit could see how this silence could be hard too. 

​

“Now that you mention it, I do remember reading something in the contract about buying the house with its old belongings,” Kit said. “I suppose I hadn’t expected to buy the cottage fully lived in. The house in its current condition makes me expect the previous owner — Basie, you said? — to walk right through the door.” 

​

“If it makes you feel better, he can’t anymore. He doesn’t have the keys.” To prove his point, Lewie tossed the key ring onto the kitchen table.  “Everything inside the house is yours to do with what you wish. I would just wait a few days before you throw it all out or something. Just to give Basie some time to leave town before he sees everything on the side of the road.” 

​

“He doesn’t want it thrown out?” 

​

“If he did, he would’ve done it himself. I can get you the name of some cleaning companies. I know it’d be a lot to take care of all on your own.” 

​

Kit stuffed his hands in his pockets, examining the house around him. The kitchen was cozy, made lighter by the white cabinetry. An open window over the sink spilled light onto the surrounding counters, where hand painted canisters and a few parched plants added some color. He spared an interested glance at the oven, which seemed to be in good enough condition to keep up with his baking habits. 

​

Ambling into the living room, Kit found the walls were half bookshelves, half pictures. It felt like an intrusion to examine the pictures too closely, but the shelves were beautiful. They wrapped around the living room and continued into the entry hallway that Kit had passed through on his way in. Books, in his opinion, were an excellent welcoming committee. There were plenty of window seats and couches in the living room, too, each promising a comfortable spot to read and draw. 

​

It was smaller than he pictured, but if he were being honest with himself, the size was perfect. 

​

Lewie waited for him back in the kitchen, closely watching Kit drift around the space. He leaned up against one of the countertops that, to Kit’s surprise, had words of prayer inlaid on the side. 

​

“Is that a Catholic altar?” he blurted.

​

Lewie frowned down beside him. “Huh, forgot about that. Della wanted to keep some things of the church this place used to be. Most of it is gone though, except for the bench by the door. That used to be part of a pew.” 

​

Kit remembered this little piece of Wellhead’s history from the listing online. Wellhead Cottage was the first building ever built in Long Lily. Even Henry St. Anna, the town’s founder, had lived here while his own house was being built. This meant the floors were original to the house, and so were the stained glass windows in side rooms. During an interview over the phone, Lewie had explained to Kit that Della renovated the place herself, putting up enough walls to give it the semblance of a real house, complete with upstairs bedrooms with low, vaulted ceilings. 

​

“Am I remembering right that your offer letter mentioned you’re a painter?” said Lewie, rolling one of his sheets into a tight scroll.

 

“Only as a hobbyist,” Kit answered. He was admittedly a bit distracted by the arching stained window, running his fingers along the pieces of smooth glass and their chipped edges. 

​

“There’s something upstairs I need to show you, then.” 

​

This captured Kit’s attention. He nodded good-naturedly and followed Lewie up the stairs. Each of their steps echoed out loud creaks and Kit was so charmed by it, he almost went down the steps to go back up all over it again. All his previous homes had been newly built when he moved in and never bore the charm of rickety stairs or walls that creaked in the wind. 

​

The upstairs hallway was a trove of pictures, all hanging on the wall without any particular care for spacing or organization. An alarming number of the photographs were cabinet cards, recognizable by their sepia hues and eerie, Edwardian subjects. The rest were old nature photographs, faded snapshots of country days gone by. 

​

The real treasure laid behind the door to the master bedroom. 

​

A quiet gasp slipped out of Kit’s lips. 

​

Along the green vaulted walls was a mural of a patch of flowers. Marigolds, daisies, tiger lilies, wild flowers he didn’t know the name of all swayed larger than life on an invisible breeze. Easy brushstrokes betrayed the trained, meticulous hand that laid the paint down. Perhaps the only thing that was peculiar about the piece was that it wasn’t done. Only half of the wall was complete, the other half a mess of sketched pencil markings. He followed the graphite outline to the floor where paint cans and rolled tubes waited along the baseboards.

​

There was something about the painting. The more Kit examined the wall, the more he was certain he’d seen the mural before. Possibly it was a copy of a famous piece he might’ve seen in a museum. Or maybe it was just that Kit liked looking at flowers and these ones were so realistic, they exuded familiarity. 

​

“What do you think?” Lewie called out behind him. 

​

“It’s hard to believe no one else placed an offer on the house. For its size, it is deceptively full. It almost feels…” Kit didn’t know how to tell Lewie it felt too good to be true. In any other case, Kit would be suspicious that a house of this price, and this quality, would last on the market long enough for him to find it nearly a week later. But he’d grown a sort of sixth-sense at telling which people were worth his time and which could not be trusted. 

​

Lewie Simon could be trusted. Therefore, the house was exactly as Kit perceived it — perfect. 

​

“For what it’s worth, I actually did have a few offers before yours. But I had a good feeling about you,” said Lewie. “But what I was actually asking about was the mural. Do you think you’ll be able to finish it?” 

​

Kit turned back to the wall. Whoever completed the piece would have to have masterful skill and plenty of time on their hands. 

​

“I’m curious. Why does it matter?” he asked.

​

“It was in Ms. Yeats’ will. I’m sure you could hire someone to do it for you if you don’t want to commit to it, but— ” 

​

“I can finish it,” Kit declared, holding back a small smile. 

​

Lewie nodded, eyes bright. 

​

“Thank you for not disappointing, Mr. Elliot. If you’ll follow me back downstairs, we’ll get the paperwork signed. Then Wellhead will be yours.”