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The gravel crunched beneath Aziraphale's shoes as he approached the imposing façade of Eden Priory, still scarcely believing the manor belonged to him. A distant relative he'd never known had left him the estate in their will, and although the inheritance had seemed absurd on paper, standing before the sprawling old house made it feel undeniably real. It was beautiful, despite its neglect. Ivy climbed the mellow brickwork, roses had long since escaped their borders, and the gardens beyond had surrendered to elegant disorder.
As he reached the front steps, a glimpse of faded red caught his eye; half-hidden beneath trailing ivy beside the great oak door was an old painted X, weathered by centuries until it was little more than a stain upon the brickwork.
"Never did know what that was for."
Aziraphale turned to find a tall, slender man with unruly auburn hair crossing the overgrown lawn, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat.
"Sorry about the state of the gardens," he said with an apologetic smile. "Hasn't been a Master here in quite some time. Anthony Crowley, groundskeeper. If you'll have me, I'd be happy to put everything back to rights."
"I'd like that very much." Aziraphale shook his hand.
Anthony smiled, then hesitated before turning away. "Oh, one thing. Best stay out of the East Wing. The floors are liable to give way, and I'd rather our new Master didn't fall through them on his first day."
"Oh, then rest assured I'll keep well away."
"Good," Anthony said, with a curious note of relief. "Welcome home."
After that, each morning he would find Anthony already somewhere amongst the gardens, sleeves rolled to his elbows and secateurs in hand, coaxing life from shrubs that had long since surrendered to disrepair. Somewhere along the way, Aziraphale had taken to joining him, discovering that restoring Eden Priory proved far more enjoyable in company than he had ever imagined.
Anthony knew every inch of the estate. He could name each ancient tree from the shape of its leaves alone, identify herbs by crushing them lightly between his fingers, and somehow remembered where flowers had once bloomed beneath years of weeds. Aziraphale listened with intent fascination, finding himself repeating unfamiliar names until they became as comfortable as old friends. Meadowsweet. Lady's mantle. Solomon's seal. Soon he found he could distinguish them for himself, earning the occasional nod of approval and one of Anthony’s million-watt toothy grins. Together, they reclaimed flowerbeds one spring afternoon at a time, working companionably in the cloudy sunshine until neat borders slowly emerged from the wilderness. It was satisfying work, and there was something tenderly intimate about passing one another trowels, brushing soil from sleeves, or standing shoulder to shoulder to admire the results of a day's labour.
When they tired, they would retreat to the stone terrace overlooking the gardens with steaming cups of tea balanced between their hands. The conversations wandered as lazily as the bees drifting through the blossoms, touching upon favourite books, impossible dreams, childhood memories, and the wistful comfort of old houses. More often than not, by the time they remembered the tea, it had grown entirely cold; Anthony never seemed to mind, and neither did Aziraphale, really.
It was difficult to determine when companionship became affection, or when affection softened into something altogether deeper. It happened as naturally as ivy climbing old stone; so slowly, so quietly, that neither of them noticed until lingering glances had become stolen kisses amongst the lavender, and reaching for the other's hand had become as instinctive as breathing.
It surprised Aziraphale how often he laughed. Properly laughed, the sound echoing across the gardens until even the birds seemed to pause and listen. Anthony possessed an infuriatingly dry wit that arrived so unexpectedly it caught him off guard almost every time, and Aziraphale found himself smiling more easily than he had in years. Yet, beneath the contentment, there lingered the faintest sense that something was...unusual.
The house remained oddly quiet. No letters arrived, no deliveries found their way up the long drive, no neighbours called by to introduce themselves, nor did anyone come seeking Anthony, despite the years he claimed to have spent tending the estate.
Aziraphale mentioned it once over tea. "It must get rather lonely."
Anthony merely shrugged, watching the breeze stir the roses. "You get used to solitude."
There were other little things, too. Though Anthony was always happy to prepare lunch for Aziraphale after a morning's work, he never appeared to serve himself anything. At first Aziraphale assumed he had already eaten before dawn, then that perhaps he preferred to dine later in the day. It felt impolite to ask, and so the question always slipped from his mind as easily as it had arrived. Whatever peculiarities Eden Priory possessed, they seemed remarkably easy to accept. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought to himself, old houses simply had their own secrets.
As the months passed, Aziraphale began to notice that there were even more questions he could never quite find the answers for. He found himself wondering about the relative who had left him Eden Priory, and realised he could not recall the person's name, nor who they were to him. Whenever he tried to picture the person, his thoughts seemed to drift into an uncomfortable, empty haze. It was peculiar.
More peculiar still was the East Wing. The months had slipped by, and despite the rest of the manor slowly returning to life, that part of the house remained untouched. Surely, if the damage was only structural, there must be someone who could assess it properly. He mentioned it one afternoon while they sat beneath the beech tree.
Anthony shook his head. "Nah."
Aziraphale blinked. "No?"
Anthony looked away towards the manor. "It's not worth it."
"Surely we cannot know that until someone has looked."
"Please, Aziraphale." There was something in the way he said it that made Aziraphale flinch. Not anger or frustration, but fear. "The East Wing is not somewhere you need to be. There is so much more here. The gardens. The library. Everything we've made together. Why spend time worrying about one old, broken part of the house when there is so much of it still waiting to be enjoyed?"
Aziraphale looked towards that section of manor, towards the shadowy windows that remained dark and silent. He knew Anthony meant well; perhaps that was what unsettled him most.
"You're very stubborn when you want to be," he murmured.
Anthony gave a small huff of laughter. "Only when I'm right."
The familiar teasing eased something between them, and when Anthony reached for his hand, Aziraphale let him. He leaned closer, allowing the groundskeeper's gentle kiss to brush against his lips, warm and familiar and comforting. For a moment, there was nothing else, only Anthony. And yet, when they parted, Aziraphale still found himself looking towards the East Wing.
The uneasy feeling remained.
It was not that Aziraphale intended to disobey Anthony, but curiosity had always been one of his more persistent qualities, and after months of being told that the East Wing was forbidden, the unanswered questions had begun to feel heavier than the warning itself.
The East Wing was colder than the rest of the house. Dust lay undisturbed across the floors, cobwebs adorned every corner, and faded sheets covered the furniture. Aziraphale moved slowly through the rooms, though he could not have explained why he had chosen this path; it was as though some part of him already knew where he needed to go. At the end of the hall stood a chamber room door. With trembling fingers, he pushed it open.
The room beyond was untouched. A bed stood against the far wall, the blankets faded with age. Beside it sat an old wooden chair, and for one dreamlike moment, Aziraphale thought he could see someone there. Someone waiting, someone he knew. Then, the illusion faded.
Two skeletons remained.
One rested upon the bed. The other sat beside it, collapsed gently into the chair as though sleep had taken them before anything else could. Their bones were aged and fragile, but their hands remained unmistakably joined, fingers still intertwined after all these years.
Aziraphale stared. He did not scream. He did not run. Instead, he felt a strange, overwhelming sorrow rise within him.. And then, somewhere behind him, a voice whispered:
"Aziraphale."
He turned. Anthony stood in the doorway; the colour had drained from his face, and there was a visible devastation in his expression that Aziraphale had never seen before.
And then everything returned. The memories did not come gently; they arrived all at once, like a door forced open after centuries of being locked.
Eden Priory had been his home for centuries. He had inherited it from his uncle, long before the ivy had grown thick upon the walls and the gardens had fallen into a state of dilapidation. Anthony had already been there then, the brilliant and wondrously knowledgeable groundskeeper who knew every flower, every path, every secret corner of the estate. He had also been the man Aziraphale loved. They had kept it hidden, though the servants had always known. They had exchanged knowing smiles when Anthony lingered too long over tea, or when Aziraphale found excuses to wander into the gardens.
Then came the plague. A servant returning from London carried it unknowingly back to the manor. Aziraphale remembered ordering the others to leave, and he remembered trying to follow, but failing. The fever had taken too much from him. He had been too weak to leave. Anthony had stayed, of course. He had sat beside Aziraphale's bed through every terrible night, refusing every plea to abandon him, holding his hand. Aziraphale had died first and Anthony had followed not long after. The memories faded into the present, and Aziraphale looked at him with tears already gathering in his eyes.
"How many times?" he whispered.
Anthony looked away. "Couldn’t say. The house resets itself every few decades. The rooms crumble, the gardens decay, and you forget everything. I tried telling you once," Anthony swallowed. "The truth hurt you so much…you spent days refusing to speak to me. You were in so much pain."
"So, you let me believe."
Anthony gave the saddest smile. "Because that way, I get you back. Even if it's only for a little while."
Aziraphale crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Anthony with the crushing sorrow of finally understanding what he had endured. For centuries, Anthony had carried every memory, every goodbye, every loss, while Aziraphale had been granted the mercy of forgetting. "I am so sorry. I wish you had not carried this alone."
"I know." Anthony held him tightly, shaking. “S’okay, I love you.”
“And I love you, my sweet.”
They remained there until the tears had passed and the room felt a little less like a tomb. Eventually, Aziraphale looked towards the two figures resting peacefully beside the bed. "Why does it happen?"
Anthony followed his gaze. "I don't know."
"Every few decades, I forget. The house begins again. Why?" Anthony had no answer. Then Aziraphale looked around the chamber of the East Wing, the room where they had spent their final moments together. "Does it always end here?"
Anthony was quiet for a long time. "Yes."
Aziraphale reached for his hand. "Then perhaps that is where we have been going wrong."
This time, they stayed. They sat together in the shelter of the East Wing and remembered. They mourned. They accepted the life they had lived, and the death that had followed it. And though neither of them knew it yet, the moment Aziraphale finally stopped running from the truth, the loop broke. Years later, visitors would travel from all over to see the famously haunted Victorian estate. They came hoping to catch a glimpse of its two gentle spirits, though they never did.
The ghosts of Eden Priory were far too busy loving each other.