Sometimes, where people are familiar together, it happens that someone joins in, causing short circuits and patterns get disrupted.

It started with the garden.
An estate/hotel was looking for a gardener (m/f).
A man with an aura of wildness came.
A day later there was a young woman at the door, with all the required qualifications and her autistic toddler.

There was the owner’s secret: a letter from the bank.
There was pressure to participate in an absurd sewage project. Absurd? Not if you saw the bullet hole in the tire of Henry’s Landrover, with which he had crashed.
There was death and there was a miraculous resurrection.
Some guests left as a different person. In them, a long-dormant transition had finally taken place.
Nor was the estate left untouched.

In the end, it was not about the precious water, but about money. Fraudulent, big money. And not a word of that part is made up, even though this is a novel. It did happen on the island of Sardinia.