The red sedan rattled along the narrow country road, its paint faded like a sunset that had lingered too long. Noah Little pressed his forehead to the window and watched the world slide by—fields of tall grass, clusters of trees, a scatter of yellow wildflowers bending in the wind. He let out a sigh so long it fogged the glass.
Next to him, Grandmother Rose kept both hands on the wheel, humming to herself. The tune was something old—half lullaby, half memory. Every few miles she glanced at Noah with a gentle smile that said she'd seen that same bored expression before.
"Grandmother Rose," Noah murmured without turning his head. "Are we there yet?"
"Almost, dear." Her voice was soft but certain. "Another few turns and we'll be home."
Home, he thought. Not really mine. Just for the summer. He slumped lower in his seat and flicked his thumb across his tablet screen out of habit, though the signal bars had long since vanished. Outside, the city's edges had disappeared hours ago. No cars. No noise. Only endless green.
The road curved, and through the trees the farmhouse came into view—a two-story wooden house with white paint peeling like bark and a chimney leaning slightly to one side. Around it stretched a sea of overgrown garden beds and waist-high grass, dotted with bursts of color where flowers refused to be tamed.
Noah's eyes drifted to the right side of the road. Between two fence posts lay a stretch of land that looked sick. The trees there were brittle and gray, the ground patchy as if something had drained the life out of it. He frowned for a moment, then looked away. Probably just old soil. Nothing strange about that.
The car bumped over the gravel drive and stopped beside a crooked mailbox painted with the word LITTLE in faded blue letters. Grandmother Rose switched off the engine and gave a satisfied sigh.
"Here we are," she said, pushing open her door. "Home sweet home."
Noah climbed out, stretching stiff legs. The air smelled different here—like wet earth and leaves instead of concrete and smoke. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. He followed Rose up the steps and into the house, suitcase wheels clattering against the boards.
The farmhouse was small but full of light. Sunbeams slipped through lace curtains, painting soft patterns on the floorboards. Every shelf and wall carried traces of another life—ceramic teapots, pressed-flower frames, and photographs of a smiling man in a wide-brimmed explorer's hat.
"That's your grandfather Oak," Rose said when she noticed Noah studying a picture on the hallway wall. "He could never stay still. Always off chasing some mystery."
Noah nodded politely. He'd heard stories but had never met the man. The photo looked like it belonged in another century.
Rose led him to a small bedroom at the end of the hall. The window faced the back garden; a curtain fluttered lazily in the breeze. A wooden dresser, a tidy bed, a shelf lined with old adventure novels—all neat, all foreign.
"It's not fancy," she said, "but the sheets are clean, and the crickets sing better than any radio."
"Thanks," Noah mumbled, setting his suitcase on the floor.
While Rose disappeared to fetch lemonade, he unpacked half-heartedly, stacking clothes in the dresser and placing his tablet on the nightstand like a lifeline. When he tried the Wi-Fi, the spinning wheel blinked for a full minute before displaying No Connection.
He groaned. "No internet? Seriously?"
From downstairs came her amused reply. "Afraid the signal out here's as slow as a snail on a cold morning."
Great. A whole summer without games, without videos, without anything. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The silence was so heavy he could hear his own breathing. City noise had always filled the spaces between thoughts; here there was only the rustle of leaves and the creak of wood.
Eventually boredom pushed him to his feet.
Outside, the sun was sliding westward, staining the sky honey-gold. The air smelled of mint and damp soil. Noah stepped off the porch and followed the path that wound through the garden. Bees moved between flowers like tiny lanterns. Somewhere, water trickled faintly—maybe a stream beyond the hedge.
He passed rows of vegetables—tomatoes heavy on the vine, leafy lettuce, a patch of carrots half hidden under soil. Farther down stood an army of garden gnomes, their paint chipped, their smiles eternal. One of them, a tall red-hatted fellow, seemed to watch him a little too closely.
"Beautiful evening, isn't it?" called a voice.
He turned. Grandmother Rose was by the fence, watering cans in both hands, her straw hat tilted against the light. The fine mist from the spout glittered as it fell over the plants.
"You actually grow all this yourself?" Noah asked, wandering closer.
"Well," she said, smiling, "the earth does most of the work. I just keep it company."
She handed him a ripe tomato, warm from the sun. When he bit into it, juice dribbled down his chin, tangy and sweet. It didn't taste like store tomatoes at all.
"See?" Rose laughed. "Nothing beats a meal you've watched grow."
He wiped his chin and shrugged, pretending it wasn't that impressive. But something about the garden—the mix of smells, the hum of insects—felt strangely alive, as if it were listening.
By evening the house glowed with kitchen light. The table was set for two; the stew simmered on the stove, rich with herbs and vegetables from the garden. Noah sat watching the bubbles rise, hypnotized by the rhythm.
"Would you mind fetching two bowls from that cabinet?" Rose asked.
He did, and she ladled steaming portions for each of them. The first spoonful burned his tongue, but he couldn't stop eating.
"This is… really good," he admitted through a mouthful.
Rose chuckled. "It's amazing what a tomato and a bit of patience can do."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Then Rose spoke more softly. "I know this isn't exactly the kind of summer you wanted, Noah. No friends nearby, no gadgets to keep you busy."
He kept his eyes on the bowl. "It's fine."
"I used to have a house full of noise," she went on. "Your grandfather clattering around with his maps, me talking to the plants. Now it's just me and the wind most days." She smiled, but it wavered. "I'm glad to have someone else here again."
Something tightened in Noah's chest. He wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded. Outside, the cicadas were beginning their evening chorus, loud and endless.
"Your parents will be back before you know it," she said. "In the meantime, we'll make our own fun. Tomorrow we'll go into town—pick up some supplies, maybe an ice-cream cone if you're lucky."
That earned a small smile. "Yeah, okay."
Later, when the dishes were washed and the lamps dimmed, Rose walked him to his room. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
"Bedtime already?" Noah asked, yawning.
"Mm-hmm. The country runs on sunlight, not streetlights." She tucked the blanket around him with practiced care. "Goodnight, my boy."
"Night, Grandma."
At the doorway she paused, one hand on the frame. For a moment her expression softened in the lamplight—half joy, half worry. Then she smiled again and closed the door.
The room fell into silence. Through the open window came the chirp of crickets and the whisper of leaves. Noah lay awake, watching the moonlight crawl across the floor. He thought about the photos of Grandfather Oak—the wide hat, the explorer's grin—and wondered where he had gone. The adults said he'd simply wandered off on a trip and never returned. But what kind of trip lasted a whole year?
He rolled onto his side, staring through the curtain at the garden. From this angle, the world looked enormous—the tomato stakes rising like towers, the gnomes standing guard. A tiny flicker of red caught his eye near the fence, just for an instant, like a spark from a match.
Probably just a firefly, he told himself. But fireflies didn't glow red.
He blinked, and the light was gone. Only shadows remained—the gentle sway of plants in the midnight breeze.
Noah closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the crickets. The bed felt strange beneath him, softer than he was used to. Outside, unseen in the grass, something shimmered faintly and then went still, as if the garden itself were waiting.