privilege ? h.s

Chapter IV

Harry

The sun is beginning to set, casting a warm orange hue across the horizon. The long shadows stretch across the garden, and I feel the day's heat finally beginning to ebb away, the coolness of the evening air creeping in with the promise of relief. The soft rustling of leaves in the trees is the only sound, but even that is faint beneath the steady rhythm of my work.

I lift the shovel, digging deep into the soil, the dirt cold and damp from the morning dew. My hands are rough, scarred from what feels like several years of labor, and the weight of the tool is familiar. There's a rhythm to it now, almost like a quiet kind of meditation. Dig. Pull. Turn the earth. Dig again.

The work has always been something I could rely on. It was never easy, but it was a constant. Unlike people. Unlike promises that were broken long before I had a chance to understand them. My mother's illness, my father's fall from grace—it all seemed like one long blur of days spent in this same repetitive motion, only now, the earth I turn has a different smell to it. The house I work for is grander than the one I grew up in, the walls lined with comforts I never had. But the work—this work—is the same.

I pause for a moment, wiping sweat from my brow, and look around. The garden is expansive—much more than I'm used to. There are rows upon rows of beds, each meticulously tended. The kind of care I never had growing up. It's a place of wealth and privilege, but there's something about it that feels foreign to me.

I've been doing this for a while now, working for the Northwoods, but the quiet stillness of the place gets to me sometimes. There are no shouts or raised voices here, no echoes of the chaos I grew up in. The silence feels both peaceful and oppressive. The work is simple—water the plants, tend the flowers, trim the hedges—but there's something about the vastness of it all that keeps me moving, keeps me restless.

I bend down again, my fingers pressing into the soil, feeling the texture beneath my skin. The weeds come up easily enough today, the roots not as stubborn as they could be. The work is soothing, but my mind doesn't let me forget that I'm here under someone else's roof, doing what I've been told. I wonder how much longer I'll be here. How much longer I'll keep pushing the dirt around instead of doing something that matters. Not that I can complain.

I glance up at the house, the tall windows glistening in the fading light, and think back to the conversation I had earlier with the housemaid. Judith had stood there on the porch, and for a moment, I thought maybe there was something more to her than just another lady of the house. But no, I remind myself. She's just like the rest of them. A woman of privilege, oblivious to the things that matter.

I pull another weed from the ground, letting it fall to the side in a small pile. The sun has dipped lower now, and the golden light makes everything feel softer. The colors of the garden look more vibrant in the fading daylight.

The ache in my back grows sharper as I bend to pull another weed, but I don't mind it. The ache reminds me of who I am and what I've become. I learned early on that you don't stop just because something hurts. You push through it. You keep going. My father used to say that, though not often. His voice was a rasp, a dry whisper of what it had been before. I still remember the feeling of his calloused hands pressing against my shoulder when I was younger, as if he could teach me something about survival just by touching me. He didn't have to say much. His silence was enough.

My mother's illness was slow, cruel. I was too young to do much except watch as the light slowly faded from her eyes, but it made me into someone who couldn't afford to waste time. There was always something that needed to be done, something that needed fixing. It wasn't a bad way to grow up—it just wasn't a way that left much room for anything else.

I pause again, taking in the scene before me. The breeze picks up, rustling the leaves and pulling my shirt tighter against my back. I haven't worked like this in a while—not since I took this job, not since I left everything behind. But the weight of my past still follows me. I can't escape it. Even in the quiet garden, I'm haunted by the things I've left undone.

My hands work automatically now, the rhythm of digging and pulling as natural as breathing.

And then, for a brief moment, I stop.

I swear I saw her again—Judith.

She's standing in the doorway of the house, her figure half obscured by the curtains, and I can't help but watch her. She doesn't see me, of course. But I can't tear my eyes away. There's something in the way she stands there, something in the way her gaze drifts across the garden, that pulls at me.

I can't place it.

I turn away before I'm caught, pulling myself back into the work, back into the rhythm that I've made for myself here. But that feeling, that odd tug in my chest, doesn't leave me. I shake my head, trying to banish the thought.

It's nothing, I tell myself. She's just another person who doesn't matter. Just another distraction in a life I'm trying to forget.

But as the last rays of light disappear, leaving only shadows behind, the thought lingers.

Something about her.

I can't shake it.

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I know this one was short but I wanted to slowly introduce Harry. This story will be like a slow burn. I'm a little anxious & second guessing myself about this book but I really hope you guys stick around to see the outcome.

Enjoy!

- K