Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I told myself I’d give this a shot, one honest go. Worst case, I hate it, sell the place, pocket the cash and use it to fix my life back in the States. Best case… maybe this is the change I’ve been looking for. I’ve quit my job, burned through half my savings to get my affairs in order before leaving, and now I’ve got no clue what I’m walking into.
Please, God, don’t let it be a nasty surprise.
The rental car is a tiny Ford Fiesta. I wrestle my suitcase into the trunk before sliding behind the wheel. Left side of the road—shit, that’s gonna take some getting used to. The GPS spits out directions to Hawk’s End, a name I heard of for the first time on the lawyer’s paperwork, some speck in the Midlands, an hour and a half from here. Google images showed a quaint, pretty, ‘Oh! so English’ village with cobblestone streets. It’s surrounded by gorgeous green countryside, but at the moment, the view around me is pretty gray and dreary.
The route’s a slog—motorways first, the M42 droning with lorries and rain-slicked asphalt, wipers squeaking against the windshield. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart thudding as I lean forward and mutter curses at every roundabout.
“Left, no, fuck—right!” A horn blares impatiently. “Oops, sorry, sorry.”
I’m a mess, second-guessing every turn, but then the rain stops and the green starts creeping in—fields, hedgerows, sheep scattered like dirty cotton balls. It’s Instagram-worthy picturesque, and normally I would have stopped to take selfies, but I’m too wired today.
The roads narrow, twisting into lanes barely wide enough for even the tin can of a car I’m in. Branches scrape the sides, and I flinch, imagining dents I can’t afford. My phone signal drops to one bar, then none—great, stranded in nowhere. The GPS lags, but finally, a sign: Berryhill, 2 miles. My chest tightens, breath shallow. Google earth was useless so I’ve got no idea what this cottage looks like—cute little stone thing? Total wreck? The lawyer said it was “rustic”. Whatever that means. I just hope it’s not a money pit. I’ve got enough for a few months, maybe, if I’m stingy. This has to work.
The village sneaks up on me—stone cottages, a pub called The Fox & Hare, a village hall, an ancient church with a crooked steeple, and two rows of higgledy piggledy, Tudor-style white and black shops. Then the road dips, and I see it: a manor house, massive and sleek, rising out of the green like something ripped from a fairy tale. White stone, six tall Corinthian pillars, a driveway lined with trees—it’s breathtaking, and my jaw drops, the car slowing as I gawk. Holy shit, my GPS is saying, “You have arrived,’ in a British accent.
No way. This can’t be it. Can it?
This is no cottage. Is it possible “cottage” is just a name, not the real deal? Was my grandmother secretly a rich snob? Did I inherit a freaking mansion? My pulse races, a wild, stupid hope flaring up. I picture velvet curtains, chandeliers, a bathtub I could drown in—not some shack. I’m shocked, buzzing, grinning like an idiot.
But then I see it, down a rutted lane. The manor’s still in sight, looming, but ahead… and there’s this. Sweetbriar Cottage. Small, squat, stone walls swallowed by ivy and weeds so tall it looks like it’s trying to eat the place alive. My heart sinks to a slow, heavy thud. The cottage is a pit stop to that manor’s palace—a poor cousin, crumbling and forgotten. I know it’s mine before I even stop the car. Must have been lovely once, but now it looks pretty rough with its mossy stones and sagging roof, and the land around it is practically a jungle, wild and overwhelming. I sit there, engine idling, reluctant to get out. This is it? This is my big escape?
I kill the ignition and hear something I almost never hear in the city. An orchestra of birds is singing. Okay, that’s good. I grab my suitcase, dragging it through the gravel. My boots crunch, sinking into mud as I fish the keys from my pocket—old, tarnished, mailed over by Grandma’s estate lawyer.
The door creaks open, hinges groaning, and I step inside. It’s an abyss. Not filthy, exactly—just… packed to the rafters. Two hundred years of junk crammed into a space slightly bigger than my old studio. Hoarder vibes hit hard. Old newspapers piled high, cans, bottles, odd bits and bobs, cracked ornaments. The faded furniture squats under dust, books and trinkets covering every inch. There are cobwebs everywhere and the air’s thick, musty, like wet paper and time.
The only clear spot is a rickety stool by the door. I drop my bag, my chest caving. Overwhelmed can’t cover it—I’m drowning in this mess, and conflicted as hell. God, I can’t spend the night here. Should I admit my plan had no merit, cut my losses and just turn around and go back? I can afford the ticket back to Chicago. Which is exactly what I want to do right at this moment. To get in the tin can car outside and get the hell out of here because what have I fucking done? Jumped from the pan right into the fire.