Maria, tired of tripping over the same entanglement of brambles every single time she walked through the front gate, reached down and forcefully ripped the twisted plant from the soil. It came loose reluctantly and left Maria with numerous cuts and scratches on her palm. She wasn’t worried- she was used to that kind of thing.
Brushing her hands, Maria made her way up the path and opened the peeling front door.
“Grandma?” she called. There was no answer. It was likely that her grandmother was working in the garden. Maria wondered if it was something all old people did. Her grandmother, certainly, spent her days among the hyacinths and Lucida, pruning and planting until she complained that her back was aching too dreadfully to continue. Maria had grown up with wildlife and had become accustomed to various types of soil being dragged through the house, but she didn’t plan to take it up as a career.
Tossing her bag into her room as she past it, Maria sought her grandmother in the garden, and sure enough, spotted her bending over a cane sporting a tall, twisting plant covered in numerous dainty yellow flowers. A honeysuckle.
Maria’s grandmother turned as Maria approached from behind.
“Oh, hello, dear, you’re a bit late today,” she commented, brushing soil off her hands. “Must have been because of the rain, was it? I’m glad it’s eased off now.” She nodded and suddenly pointed towards the honeysuckle. “Do Ты like it, dear? That young man, Seamus, from Далее door gave it to me this morning. He’s such a nice young lad. I know it’s your favourite…”
Maria wasn’t really listening. Conversations with her grandmother often went this way. She could prattle for England.
“…so I bought the soil cheap and he gave me sixpence change, which I’m sure was wrong, but there Ты go.” She paused momentarily and Maria sought an opportunity.
“That’s great, Grandma, really great. Listen, I’m going to my room. If Ты need me, just holler, okay?”
“Ah, homework, dear? Yes, yes, Ты go. In fact, I remember once when I had to write a long essay about the Spanish Amada, I…” Maria left quickly, her grandmother continuing to talk to herself as she weeded the soil.
Maria often craved the sanctuary of her own room, away from the flat, non-existence she felt she lived. She found it a haven for her imagination- she dreamed constantly, wishing to plunge into the stories she created, always half-believing them to be true. She read Книги a lot, too, devouring one after the other in an attempt to break the boredom and tediousness of everyday life.
Maria stood dithering in the centre of her room, sifting through the possibilities of her afternoon. She realised that she had an essay to complete, but decided against her better judgement that she would do it tomorrow. Finally coming to a decision, Maria lifted a familiar, well-read paperback from her bookshelf and carried it to the window, peering out at the fields. It was quiet and peaceful out there, revealing no secrets, so Maria opened a Болталка page in the book and began to read.
It wasn’t long before some sixth sense made Maria glance up from the page. It was raining again, but being absorbed in the Фэнтези worlds of her literature, Maria hadn’t noticed. On her first glance, nothing seemed to be different- just trees and endless fields, muffled by the rainy mist. However, when Maria shrugged and looked down, something made her do a double-take.
There was someone out there.
Tall and broad, a man stood silently in the pouring rain, his black hair plastered to his forehead. He was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, just casually standing as if the freezing rain had no affect on his pale skin. He suddenly turned, so fast that it seemed impossible, and then he was staring at Maria, his eyes bright with what looked like hunger.
Wild, ferocious, scarlet eyes.
Maria shrieked and dropped the book in fright. She leapt back from the window and slammed the curtains closed, trying to calm her breathing. Once she had herself under control, and with the man safely out of sight, Maria began to think.
No-one could have that colour eyes, it wasn’t humanly possible. And how could he be standing like that in the freezing rain with so little coverage? It was an absurd mystery and Maria was intrigued. Fascinated. And yet also terrified. She couldn’t help dwell on his face, the contours of his skin. It was like trying to remember a face или a name and match it with someone Ты knew. It was déjà vu, when Ты had no idea what it was Ты remembered. Frustrating.
By the time Maria’s grandmother had called her for her tea, Maria couldn’t even be sure if he had been real, или a figment of her wild imagination.

Maria ate her чай in a thoughtful silence that evening, listening to her grandmother chatter on about spring beans and rhubarbs. However much she complained about her, Maria had to admit that her grandmother’s cooking was amazing, and as everything was home-grown, it tasted that much better. Maria couldn’t remember having ever eaten супермаркет ready-meals in her home. It was--
Maria suddenly looked up. Something her grandmother had сказал(-а) had caught her drifting attention and dragged it down to earth mercilessly.
“What did Ты say?” demanded Maria. Her grandmother looked slightly taken aback.
“That I saw a young man with the most extraordinarily pale skin walking past the garden this morning, dear.” She stabbed a potato with a fork. “Wearing very large sunglasses. Silly things.”
Maria was frozen, her сердце in her throat. So she hadn’t imagined him. It definitely wasn’t her mind running amok with her as it usually did. Her grandmother had seen him too. And sunglasses? A disguise, maybe, to cover the blood-like irises? It was very curious.
Maria washed up quickly after dinner, wished her grandmother a good-night and set about preparing for bed. Her school-work was unfinished, but she wasn’t interested in that. She had something she wanted to find before turning in. Something that might help to Подтвердить her thoughts, and possibly… possibly realise her fears.