CHAPTER 29: THE SHED
The shed sat at the edge of the Woodstone property like an afterthought.
Logan had walked past it dozens of times — a weathered structure that probably held garden tools or forgotten furniture or the accumulated debris of two centuries. He'd never thought much about what else it might hold.
Today he crossed the lawn with purpose.
[GE: 160/160. FULL POOL. NO ABILITIES PLANNED.]
The grass crunched under his feet, brittle with early winter frost. His breath fogged in the afternoon air. The main house rose behind him, and from the second-floor window, he caught a glimpse of movement — Isaac, watching from his usual post.
"He sees everything. Files everything. Never forgets."
The shed door was old but solid. Logan pushed it open.
Three ghosts looked up at him.
The first was tall, handsome, dressed in the red coat of a British officer — Nigel, if Logan remembered correctly from the show. The second was shorter, more weathered, with the suspicious squint of a career soldier. Jenkins. The third sat in the corner with a fife, playing a tune no living ear could hear.
"Baxter," Logan said to the fife player. "Nice melody."
Baxter stopped playing. All three ghosts stared.
"You can see us," Nigel said. His accent was crisp, formal, military. "And hear us."
"I can."
"Most living people cannot."
"I'm not most living people."
Jenkins's eyes narrowed. "How did you know his name?"
"Because I watched the show."
"Sam mentioned you." Half-true. "She said there were ghosts in the shed who kept to themselves. I wanted to introduce myself."
"Introduce yourself." Jenkins's tone was flat. "To ghosts."
"Is that strange?"
"It is unconventional."
Nigel stepped forward, and even after 250 years of death, his bearing was impeccable. Straight spine, squared shoulders, the posture of a man who'd faced battlefields and survived.
"Until he didn't."
"I am Nigel Chessum," the ghost said, extending a hand before remembering it couldn't be shaken. "Captain, His Majesty's forces. These are Lieutenant Jenkins and Private Baxter."
"Logan Arondekar. Sam's brother. No military rank."
"A civilian, then."
"A civilian with unusual perceptions."
Nigel smiled — warm, genuine. "We don't receive many visitors from the main house. The other ghosts..." He paused delicately. "They tend to remain on the other side of the property line."
"Revolutionary tensions?"
"Lingering disagreements. Though I confess, after two and a half centuries, the passion has somewhat... cooled."
Jenkins snorted. "Speak for yourself."
"Jenkins believes the war is still ongoing."
"The war IS still ongoing. We never surrendered."
"We died, Jenkins. Death is somewhat equivalent to surrender."
"Death is a tactical setback. Not a surrender."
Baxter resumed playing his fife, apparently uninterested in the conversation.
Logan leaned against the shed doorframe, taking in the space. It was larger inside than it looked — room enough for the three ghosts to maintain their own territories, their own routines.
"It must be lonely," he said. "Being separate from the others."
Nigel's expression flickered.
"We manage. And I..." He glanced toward the main house, visible through the shed's dirty window. "I have found ways to occupy my time."
"You watch Isaac from here. Just like he watches you from there."
"Someone in the main house speaks very highly of you," Logan said casually.
Nigel went very still.
"Does he."
"They mentioned your bearing. Your dignity. The way you carry yourself even after..." Logan let the sentence trail off meaningfully.
"Who told you this?"
"Does it matter?"
Nigel was quiet for a long moment. Then he walked past Logan, out of the shed, and stopped at the property line — an invisible boundary that seemed to hold him in place.
From here, the main house was clearly visible. The second-floor window. The figure standing in it.
"Isaac Higgintoot," Nigel said softly. "Captain, Continental Army."
"You know him."
"I knew him. Before. When..." Nigel's voice caught. "When things were different."
"They served together. Before they were enemies. Before they were dead. Before 250 years of wanting and never speaking."
"He watches this shed sometimes," Logan said. "From that window."
Nigel's head turned sharply. "He does?"
"Almost every day."
The ghost looked at the main house. At the window. At the figure standing in it.
Isaac was still there. Even from this distance, Logan could see his posture — rigid, careful, deliberately not looking in their direction.
But he was.
"I have thought about crossing," Nigel said. "Many times. But the distance..." He shook his head. "Fifty yards. It might as well be an ocean."
"Oceans can be crossed."
"Not by ghosts."
"Ghosts can do a lot of things they didn't think possible." Logan thought about Pete's hand in his. Three seconds of warmth. "You might be surprised."
Nigel stood at the boundary for a long time, looking at the house, looking at the window, looking at the man who'd been his enemy and something else for longer than most countries had existed.
"Thank you for visiting, Mr. Arondekar."
"Logan."
"Logan." Nigel smiled. "Perhaps I will visit the main house sometime. If..." He hesitated. "If you think I would be welcome."
"I think you would be."
Logan walked back across the lawn.
At the second-floor window, Isaac stood watching. His eyes tracked Logan's return, then shifted — just slightly, almost imperceptibly — to the shed.
To Nigel, still standing at the boundary.
Neither moved.
But something in the distance between them had changed.