Chapter 1: The Welcome and the Warning
The taxi crunched away down the gravel road, leaving Derek standing on the cracked pavement with his duffel bag at his feet. The house was smaller than he’d pictured, a two-story box clad in faded yellow siding, but the front garden was a wild, cheerful burst of untamed flowers. The screen door squeaked open before he could even step forward.
“You must be D. I’m Katja. Welcome to the madhouse.”
She came down the steps with a warm, confident smile, her hand already extended. Her handshake was firm, practical. She was maybe twenty-three, with long brown hair that fell in loose waves down her back. She wore a simple tank top and cut-off jeans, and her demeanor was instantly managerial, but in a friendly way. She looked like someone who knew how to unclog a sink and give solid life advice in the same breath.
“Thanks for having me,” Derek said, hefting his bag. “The place looks great.”
“It looks lived-in,” she corrected with a laugh, leading him inside. “That’s the polite term for it. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the chaos committee.”
The inside was cool and dim after the sunlit street. A small corridor led past a cozy-looking living room, then opened into the kitchen. The air was rich with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. Sunlight streamed through a window over the sink, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. At the center of it all was a large, worn wooden table, scarred with years of use, surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs.
Three girls were scattered around the room, and the chatter died down as he entered.
“Everyone, this is Derek. He’s taking the room upstairs. Derek, this is everyone.” Katja swept a hand around the room. “The blonde vision of anxiety by the fridge is Fiona.”
Fiona offered a small, hesitant wave. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with a cascade of long, almost white-blonde hair that made her look like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. Her features were delicate, her eyes a wide, uncertain blue. She clutched a glass of water like it was a shield.
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“The force of nature currently burning our toast is Petra,” Katja continued, nodding toward the girl at the counter wrestling with a humming silver toaster.
Petra turned, and a brilliant, practiced smile flashed across her face. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. She had auburn hair cut in a sharp, chin-length bob that suited her lively features. She was petite, buzzing with a restless energy even while standing still. “Hey. D, right? Cool.”
There was a beat of silence where she just looked at him, her gaze flickering over him once, quickly, before she turned back to the toaster with a little too much force. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her posture suddenly rigid. It was a subtle thing, a slight stiffening of the shoulders, but in the relaxed atmosphere of the kitchen, it stood out. Odd.
“And lurking in the doorway, judging us all, is Sabine,” Katja finished, her tone dry.
Sabine leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. She was a few centimeters taller than the others, with an athletic leanness to her. Her long, straight black hair framed a face that was trying very hard to look bored and sophisticated. She gave Derek a slow, appraising look, from his short-cropped brown hair down to his worn sneakers.
“Charmed,” she said, her voice flat.
“Okay, tour time,” Katja announced, clapping her hands together once. “We’ll start with the epicenter of all drama: the kitchen. Rules are simple. You buy it, you eat it. Label it if you’re possessive. You use a dish, you wash it. We are not a hotel with maid service.”
She led him back into the corridor. “Living room. Shared. TV remote is a democratic institution, mostly. My room is down here.” She pointed to a closed door off the hallway. “The rest of you are upstairs. Bathroom’s up there, too. Four of you sharing one bathroom. I hope you’re fast.”
The stairs creaked under their weight. The upstairs was a long, narrow hallway with four doors and one standing open, revealing a tiled bathroom.
“That one’s Fiona’s,” Katja said, pointing to a door with a small, hand-painted watercolor of a bird tacked to it. “Next to her is Petra’s. Then the bathroom. Then Sabine’s. And this,” she said, stopping at the last door at the end of the hall, “is you.”
The room was small, simple, and clean. A single bed with a plain blue comforter was pushed against one wall, a battered wooden desk stood under the window, and an empty wardrobe waited with its door ajar. The window looked out over the back garden, a tangle of green leading to a line of trees.
“It’s perfect,” Derek said, meaning it. It was space. It was quiet. It was his.
“Good. Rent’ due on the first. We’ll talk house rules proper later. Settle in.” She gave him a final, assessing smile and headed back downstairs.
Derek dropped his duffel bag on the bed. The springs groaned. He could hear the faint sounds from below: the clatter of a plate, the low murmur of voices, a sudden, bright laugh from Petra that was cut short. He walked to the window and looked out. The garden was wild and beautiful. This could work. This could be a fresh start.
This could be a fresh start.
The thought was solid, a weight in his chest that felt like hope. He unzipped his duffel, the sound loud in the quiet room, and started pulling out his meager possessions—a few folded t-shirts, a stack of books on fitness physiology, his running shoes. They looked lonely in the empty wardrobe.
A soft knock on the doorframe made him turn. Katja stood there, her smile a little softer now, less of a welcome committee and more of a person.
“Forgot the most important part,” she said. “My domain. Come on, I’ll show you where the actual authority resides.”
He followed her back down the creaking stairs. She led him past the kitchen, where the low murmur of voices had resumed, and stopped at the door he’d seen off the main hallway. She pushed it open.
“Behold. The command center.”
Her room was a world apart from the sparse upstairs. It was warm, deeply lived-in. A double bed with a thick, quilted blanket took up one wall, and a small desk was tucked under the window, covered in a neat chaos of papers, a laptop, and a mug full of pens. Books were stacked on the floor beside a small, overstuffed armchair.
Books were stacked on the floor beside a small, overstuffed armchair. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. It was the room of someone who held things together.
Katja leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed. The confident hostess was gone, replaced by someone who looked… tired. The sunlight from the hall cut across her face, highlighting a faint tension around her eyes.
“So,” she said, her voice dropping from its earlier public pitch. “Everyday life with three girls in the house isn’t always easy.”
Derek gave a small, understanding nod. He could already feel the delicate ecosystem of the place.
“You know, I’m a figure of reference for the girls—a surrogate mother,” she continued, a wry twist to her smile that suggested she knew how absurd it sounded for a twenty-three-year-old. “Fiona and Petra are still in their first year of collage err school and have to work really hard to get their diplomas. Fiona’s… fragile. Petra’s all fire, but it’s a distracted fire. And Sabine…” Katja sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Sabine has to find a job. She just hangs around here all day. It’s not good for her.”
She uncrossed her arms and took a step closer, her gaze direct and unflinching. “I’d like you to keep an eye on the girls.”
The request hung in the lavender-scented air. It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t keep an eye on the brats all the time and everywhere,” she said, and then she laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more release than amusement. She looked at him expectantly, the weight of the household clearly resting on her shoulders.
“Of course I will!” Derek replied, the answer coming easily. It felt natural, a simple trade for the sanctuary of the small room upstairs.
Brats… you think with a smile.
The word echoed in his head, affectionate and telling. It painted a picture of spilled nail polish, slamming doors, and whispered secrets. It sounded a lot less quiet than he’d anticipated. And maybe, just maybe, a lot more interesting.