Wild Rose Chapter 1 and 2

Wild Rose Chapter One – Wild Ground

by MissT

Rose Carter arrived at the cottage in the kind of rain that didn’t fall , it attacked. Sideways, persistent, and with a personal vendetta. She stood in the gravel drive, soaked to the knickers, car keys in one hand and a crumpled Tesco bag in the other, glaring at the crooked old slate-roofed building like it owed her an apology. “This better not be haunted,” she muttered. “Or full of spiders. Or ex-boyfriends.” — The cottage — Bryn Glas, according to the faded gate sign — had belonged to her great-aunt Edith. A woman who had lived alone, written poems that skirted the edge of scandal, and died peacefully at 91 with no children, no regrets, and (according to family gossip) a drawer full of unanswered letters and very good wine. Now, it belonged to Rose. Forty-eight. Newly divorced. Widely underestimated. And currently standing in the rain with eyeliner smudged into a look she’d call desperately chic. — She squelched along the mossy path, boots protesting. The roses flanking the door were a tangled mess — bold, blooming wildly, unapologetically overgrown. They snagged her coat sleeve like they had something to say. “Oh don’t start,” she snapped. “I’ve had worse than you clinging to me.” — Inside, the air smelled of cedarwood, a hint of lavender, and maybe just a memory or two. Not bad, considering no one had lived here in years. The lights flickered on without complaint. The heating made a loyal little hum. The Wi-Fi? Nonexistent. The television? Nowhere to be seen. She smiled. “A forced digital detox. Fabulous. Just me and the ghosts then.” On the windowsill sat a single teacup, placed with intention. Beside it, a note in her aunt’s handwriting: > Welcome home, Rose. She’s yours now. Let her wake you up. Rose raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, Edith. You always did love a bit of mystery.” — She poured herself a generous glass of red from the emergency bottle, kicked off her boots, and wandered through the rooms with the slow pace of someone arriving in their own life for the first time. Everything felt… still. But not lifeless. Like the place had been holding its breath. Waiting. — Upstairs, the bedroom was small but charming — a slanted ceiling, faded floral sheets, and a brass bedframe with a romantic sort of creak. It felt like the kind of room where someone once read poetry in their knickers and meant every word. Rose sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. Her ex would’ve called it “dated.” She called it “free.” — She was halfway through her second glass when she saw him. Down by the stone wall at the end of the garden. A man — tall, broad-shouldered, coat pulled up against the wind. He paused, lit a cigarette, and stared straight ahead for a moment as the smoke curled around him. Then, he looked toward the cottage. Not long. Just long enough. And then he turned and walked out of sight. — She stood by the window for a minute longer, the cool air creeping in as she cracked it open slightly. The garden below looked ancient and alive — overgrown, blooming, whispering secrets she hadn’t been told yet. Maybe this place wasn’t about starting over. Maybe it was about becoming. She took another sip of wine and leaned against the frame. She wasn’t lost. She was just wild. And finally in the right soil.

Chapter Two – Old Pipes, New Roots

Rose woke the next morning with a vague headache and a thirst like an alcoholic at a closed pub. The red wine had been good. Too good. And now it was staging a small rebellion behind her eyes.

She rolled across the bed and stared at the view.

Green. Glorious. Unapologetically Welsh.

Mist clung to the valley like gossip, soft and slow. Fields rolled in every direction, stitched together with dry stone walls and dotted with sheep that looked utterly unbothered by the weight of the world. The hills in the distance breathed under a sky still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

Her great-aunt had definitely known how to pick a place.

Bryn Glas sat just outside Abergavenny, tucked between ancient hedgerows and small forgotten lanes, where the GPS gave up out of respect. The nearest neighbour was five miles away. The nearest decent coffee? God knows.

She padded across the landing and stopped in her tracks at the bathroom.

“Jesus, Edith.”

It was pink.

Not just pink — pink with purpose. Bath, sink, toilet, and walls. Barbie herself might have thought it was a bit much.

Rose reached for the light switch and immediately regretted it.

“Oh no.”

The overhead fixture flicked on with the intensity of an interrogation room. The bubblegum walls practically glowed. She squinted, shielding her eyes.

“I need sunglasses to pee. Fabulous.”

She stepped further in. The mirror was framed with little ceramic roses, and a faded loofah hung like a ghost of spa days past. It smelled like lavender soap and something older, like memories preserved in talcum powder.

The shower hissed and moaned when she turned it on, like it had been personally offended by her arrival. After a few prehistoric coughs from the pipes, lukewarm water dribbled out.

She stepped in anyway. Manchester it was not.

Back there, every bedroom had an en suite, and the house was kitted out like a brass and marble showroom. Elias had loved it. All gleam. No heart.

When they divorced, they struck a deal. He kept the house. She kept Bryn Glas, and half the savings.

Beth, her old neighbour, had wasted no time telling her that Elias had moved in his midlife crisis before the ink was dry.

“I know you mean well,” Rose had said, “but I don’t need ex-husband updates. Especially ones in tight jeans and fake lashes.”

Elias had been cheating for years. Rose had stayed for the kids. Told herself they needed a stable home. That he was a good father.

But now the kids were grown, gone, and living their own lives, there was no reason to keep lying to herself.

She hadn’t walked away to start over.
She had walked away to start true.

Later that morning, she took her tea outside, into the garden that sprawled like it had never heard the word “boundaries.”

The grass brushed her calves. Nettles loitered near the fence, and the roses — wild, tangled, glorious — leaned into the path like they owned the place. She let them. For now.

She was halfway to the stone wall at the bottom of the garden when she paused.

He was there again.

Same coat. Same posture. Standing still as if he belonged to the landscape. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Then — as if sensing her — he turned.

Not fully. Just enough for her to catch the shape of his face. Shadowed. Familiar, maybe, or just the kind of face you didn’t forget easily.

No wave. No nod.

And then he walked on. Over the stile and into the woods beyond, the smoke from his cigarette curling behind him like a question mark.

Rose stood there a moment, her mug cooling in her hand.

“Well,” she muttered, “that’s not at all unsettling.”

She looked back at the cottage, then out at the hills. The wind tugged at her hair, warm and wild.

She had come here for peace.
She hadn’t counted on mystery.

Or men with brooding energy and very good coat game.