The church hall smelled faintly of hymn books and floor polish. After the service, the congregation spilled into the garden, where trestle tables groaned with sponge cake and pots of tea.<\/p>\n
\u201cVan Cleef is the only bachelor left in this town,\u201d Aunt Marjorie announced, balancing her saucer in one hand as if it were a pulpit.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmbarrassing, if you ask me,\u201d Aunt Clara agreed, though her mouth was full of scone.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmbarrassing for whom?\u201d a neighbor asked. \u201cHe looks perfectly content to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cContent?\u201d Marjorie sniffed. \u201cForever the best man, never the groom. Forever the godfather, never the father. People are beginning to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef\u201ds mother set down her cup with a sigh. \u201cI don\u2019t know where I went wrong with that boy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane, waiting for her turn at the teapot, listened in silence. She had heard this chorus before. Every Sunday, the talk turned to Van Cleef.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt isn\u2019t you, dear,\u201d Clara said, patting the mother\u2019s arm. \u201cIt\u2019s that job of his. He blames everything on it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what is this job, exactly?\u201d Marjorie pressed. \u201cHas anyone ever understood it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe says he was born to do it,\u201d his mother muttered.<\/p>\n
\u201cBorn to do\u2026 what? He doesn\u2019t make it sound like banking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOr carpentry,\u201d Marjorie added. \u201cThough heaven knows we could use another carpenter.\u201d<\/p>\n
Laughter rippled across the group. Jane stirred her tea, then raised her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf no one knows what he does,\u201d she said, steadying her voice, \u201cperhaps I should ask him myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
The table fell silent. Even the spoons paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cAsk him?\u201d Marjorie repeated, scandalized.<\/p>\n
Jane met her gaze without flinching. \u201cYes. Someone has to.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
By Friday evening, the church chatter had grown louder in Jane\u2019s head than the tolling of the town clock. She walked into The Swan with a steady step and a thundering heart.<\/p>\n
There he was. Van Cleef Fairchild. Standing at the bar as though the oak counter had been built for him alone. The suit was dark grey, the cut too fine for a village pub. He turned, and his blue eyes caught hers as if he had been expecting her.<\/p>\n
\u201cFancy seeing you here,\u201d Jane said, her voice lighter than she felt.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd fancy seeing you,\u201d Van Cleef replied with the faintest smile. He gestured to the stool beside him.<\/p>\n
She sat, folding her hands on the counter. \u201cI didn\u2019t think your job allowed you any breathing space.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis too is work,\u201d he said, tapping the rim of his glass. \u201cThe pub is on my rota. I\u201dm here most nights.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane raised her brows. \u201cYou mean to say drinking pints and throwing darts is part of your profession?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPrecisely. Observation, conversation, recreation. Essential duties.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd does it pay well, this\u2026 occupation?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cImmeasurably.\u201d<\/p>\n
She shook her head, half-amused, half-curious. \u201cThen perhaps you\u2019d better tell me the rest of your day. What exactly do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef leaned back, as if preparing to recite a sacred text. \u201cThe alarm goes off at 9:25 sharp. I take a shower, brush my teeth, and brush my hair. Then I present myself for breakfast. There are discussions, mostly debates with the family. Afterwards, two hours in the library. Reading. It\u2019s crucial work.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReading is work?\u201d Jane asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course. Deeply taxing. I break for coffee at Caf\u00e9 Rouge, then a drive, sometimes lunch with a friend. By three o\u2019clock I\u201dm home for a nap. The gym follows. More family debate at six. Dinner at seven\u2014business over lamb cutlets. By nine, I’m back here, fulfilling my evening duties until midnight.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane stared at him, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. \u201cAnd you call that a job?\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef lifted his pint with great solemnity. \u201cI was born for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jane folded her arms on the bar. \u201cYou make it sound as though living is labor.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is,\u201d Van Cleef replied. \u201cMost people stumble through it without a plan. I treat it like a profession.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, you\u2019re not a lawyer, or a banker, or a doctor\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he interrupted smoothly. \u201cI’m a professional existence manager.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane blinked. \u201cThat isn\u2019t a real thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is if you do it properly.\u201d<\/p>\n
She laughed, shaking her head. \u201cAnd all those poor women who tried to get close to you? Did you tell them the same nonsense?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey asked the wrong questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the right question, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot what do you do? but how well do you do it?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane leaned closer. \u201cAll right. How well do you do it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExceptionally. I\u2019ve never missed a morning debate, never skipped a nap, and I play darts with great precision. Life requires consistency, Jane. That\u2019s what unsettles people. They expect mystery. What they find is discipline.\u201d<\/p>\n
She laughed again, louder this time. \u201cYou\u2019re telling me your routine is why no woman has managed to\u2026 keep you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep me?\u201d He smiled faintly. \u201cI am not a stray cat, Jane. I simply cannot marry someone who does not respect the hours of my profession.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what hours are those?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane nearly choked on her drink. \u201cSo, you\u2019re on duty twenty-four hours a day?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCorrect. And right now, so are you. By speaking to me, you\u2019ve joined the shift.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane set her glass down, eyes narrowing. \u201cThen consider this my first official complaint: your working conditions are absurd.\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef\u2019s smile deepened. \u201cAnd yet you\u2019re still here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStill here, yes,\u201d she said, \u201cbut only because I want to know how long you can keep this nonsense up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNonsense?\u201d His voice carried just far enough for the men at the dartboard to turn their heads.<\/p>\n
\u201cA profession of naps and pints. Who would take that seriously?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnyone with sense,\u201d Van Cleef replied. \u201cLife is hard work if you do it well.\u201d<\/p>\n
One of the dart players called across the room. \u201cHe\u2019s not wrong, you know. Hardest worker in town, Van Cleef.\u201d<\/p>\n
Laughter rolled through the pub. Jane blinked. \u201cYou\u2019re all in on it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot in on it,\u201d the barman said, polishing a glass. \u201cWe just let him believe it. Makes the evenings lively.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane turned back to Van Cleef. \u201cSo, they humor you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he corrected. \u201cThey admire me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor what, exactly?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor excellence in my field.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou realize most people\u2019s fields involve actual labor, don\u2019t you? Fields with soil. Or ledgers. Or patients.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd mine involves precision. Observation. Balance. Not everyone can keep it up. That\u2019s why they falter. That\u2019s why they leave shaken.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShaken because you\u2019re impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShaken because they glimpse the truth. That everything they call leisure is, in fact, duty. To live well is to work without end.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words landed heavier than she expected. For a moment, Jane didn\u2019t answer. Around them, the pub buzzed with laughter, darts striking cork, and the steady clink of glasses.<\/p>\n
Finally, she smiled wryly. \u201cYou\u2019re absurd, Van Cleef.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd employed,\u201d he said, raising his pint.<\/p>\n
Jane left the pub that night with more questions than answers. The gossiping aunts had been right about one thing: Van Cleef was not like other men.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They met again a week later in the same pub, though Jane had sworn she wouldn\u2019t. Curiosity was stronger than resolve.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo,\u201d she began, stirring her glass of tonic, \u201chow was work this week?\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef\u2019s eyes lit up as though she had asked about some great empire. \u201cExhausting. Monday\u2019s debate ran into Tuesday. My mother was relentless about inheritance tax. I hardly had the strength for the gym afterwards.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane tried to smile. \u201cAnd the rest of the week?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSplendid. Wednesday, I tried a new nap position. Left side, not right. Transformative.\u201d<\/p>\n
She set down her glass. \u201cVan Cleef, do you hear yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n
He blinked. \u201cOf course. I\u2019m meticulous in my reports.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReports?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDaily journals. A good professional must keep records.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her hands were clenched on the bar. \u201cYou\u2019re not a professional, Van Cleef. You\u2019re\u2014\u201d She stopped herself, breath sharp.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo on,\u201d he said gently.<\/p>\n
Her restraint broke. The words tumbled out. \u201cYou\u2019re an unemployed grown man still living with his mother! That\u2019s what you are! You\u2019ve turned idleness into a bloody job description and expected us all to clap along.\u201d<\/p>\n
The chatter in the pub dipped. Van Cleef didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n
Jane pressed on, her cheeks hot. \u201cYour mother still makes your dinners and pays for it. And you expect us to call that work?\u201d<\/p>\n
Van Cleef nodded and smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you see how pathetic it looks? They sent you to Oxford, for heaven\u2019s sake! All that time, all that money\u2014for this? For naps and debates?\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence fell heavily between them. The barman turned away, pretending to wipe the taps.<\/p>\n
Jane\u2019s voice wavered, but she didn\u2019t stop. \u201cFor once in your life, Van Cleef, do something that makes your parents proud. Get a job. A real one. Or at least stop insulting the rest of us by calling your laziness work.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her chest rose and fell. She had never spoken to him like this, never spoken to anyone like this.<\/p>\n
Van Cleef sat utterly still. His face betrayed no anger, only something quieter, astonishment, perhaps, or wonder. He looked at her as if she had unlocked a door no one else had touched.<\/p>\n
\u201cJane,\u201d he said at last, softly. \u201cDo you know\u2026 no one has ever spoken to me like that?\u201d<\/p>\n
She shook her head. \u201cI can\u2019t imagine why.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s remarkable.\u201d His lips curved, not quite into a smile. \u201cYou may be the first honest woman I\u2019ve ever met.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane pushed back her stool. \u201cOr maybe just the first fool who believed there was something to find.\u201d<\/p>\n
And she walked out, leaving Van Cleef staring into the space she had occupied, as though he had only just discovered the meaning of absence.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jane dragged her pen across the manuscript.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe first paragraph has teeth,\u201d she said, tapping the margin, \u201cbut the second is all bluster. Let\u2019s cut it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her colleague looked worried. \u201cBut Jane, we\u2019ll lose wordcount.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we lose it,\u201d Jane replied crisply. \u201cBetter that than filling a chapter with nonsense.\u201d<\/p>\n
The colleague sighed, resigned. Jane leaned back, crossing out another florid sentence. It was the same every day: too many words trying to sound like sense.<\/p>\n
And yet, even as she trimmed the excess, her mind strayed elsewhere. To a man who treated existence itself like a manuscript he refused to edit. Van Cleef.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A week later she found herself in the caf\u00e9 by the square, book unopened, coffee cooling beside her. When the chair opposite scraped against the floor, she didn\u2019t need to look up.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou left me quite undone last time,\u201d Van Cleef said. His tone wasn\u2019t bitter. If anything, he sounded grateful.<\/p>\n
\u201cI only told you the truth,\u201d Jane said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d He folded his hands on the table. \u201cAnd truth is rare. It made me think.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout love.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes flicked up. \u201cLove?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI believe I may be in it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane stared. \u201cWith me?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded. \u201cYou spoke and the world shifted. No woman has ever managed that. Most left dazed. But you\u2014\u201d He paused, searching her face. \u201cYou clarified me.\u201d<\/p>\n
She laughed softly, though not kindly. \u201cClarified you? I called you an unemployed man still living with his parents.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExactly,\u201d he said, as if it were a compliment.<\/p>\n
Jane shook her head. \u201cYou\u2019re impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot impossible. Transformed. I\u2019ve decided to change things.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her brows lifted. \u201cChange how?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll hand in my notice and go travelling.\u201d<\/p>\n
She blinked. \u201cHand in your notice? You mean you\u2019ll finally leave this\u2026 profession of yours?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExactly.\u201d He straightened a cuff. \u201cIt\u2019s time for new duties. Broader duties. Foreign debates, new caf\u00e9s, libraries in languages I can\u2019t yet read. Imagine the reports I\u2019ll write.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane gave a short laugh, brushing away a flicker of unease. \u201cAnd what will you live on, may I ask?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll manage. Travel is work, Jane. Hard work. But I was born for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiled despite herself. \u201cThen make sure you send postcards. Paris first, if you please.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cParis first,\u201d he repeated, smiling.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Sunday after Van Cleef\u2019s disappearance, the church garden buzzed with speculation. Sunlight fell across the trestle tables where teapots steamed, and sponge cakes sagged under the weight of cream.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s gone to Paris,\u201d Aunt Marjorie announced, balancing her saucer as though the entire garden were her courtroom.<\/p>\n
His mother gave a wistful smile. \u201cParis has always meant something to us. He was conceived there during my honeymoon. That\u2019s why I named him Van Cleef\u2014after Alfred Van Cleef, the jeweler. I\u2019ve always loved their jewelry. And I suppose I wanted him to carry a little of that elegance with him. His father would have been so proud\u2026 if only he\u2019d lived to see it.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, the table was quiet, the aunts shifting in their seats. Then Aunt Clara dabbed her eyes and forced a bright smile. \u201cOh, how thrilling. Postcards, Jane. He promised you postcards, didn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane managed a faint smile. \u201cYes. He did.\u201d<\/p>\n
The neighbors leaned in. One said he had been spotted at the station with a valise; another swore he\u2019d heard him humming La Vie en Rose. The talk was lively, merry even, as though Van Cleef\u2019s \u201ctravelling\u201d were a gift to the whole village.<\/p>\n
Jane sipped her tea, but her chest tightened. Eccentric though he was, the silence troubled her.<\/p>\n
By the time the cups were emptied and the hymnbooks packed away, Jane found herself walking beside his mother. The aunts led the way, chattering about timetables and ferry crossings. The rain held off, though the air was heavy, and the road home glistened faintly from the morning\u2019s shower.<\/p>\n
When they reached the house, the aunts made themselves comfortable at the kitchen table. Jane stayed standing, uneasy, until his mother spoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen I woke up this morning,\u201d she said, her voice thin, \u201che wasn\u2019t in his room. His luggage was gone. He told me last night he would be travelling. ‘Time to broaden the duties,’ he said. I asked if he meant Paris. He only smiled, kissed my hand, and promised he would write. I thought he sounded happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Aunt Clara brightened, clutching her handkerchief. \u201cThen we must wait for his first postcard. Perhaps Paris, perhaps Rome. How exciting!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWherever he\u2019s gone,\u201d Aunt Marjorie said, lifting her chin, \u201che\u2019ll make an impression. He always does.\u201d<\/p>\n
His mother nodded faintly, her eyes glistening. \u201cI miss him already. But yes. We shall wait.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane said nothing. Outside, rain began to lash against the windows\u2014sudden, pitiless rain that turned gardens to swamps and lanes to rivers. The aunts carried on with hopeful talk, but Jane\u2019s eyes lingered on the empty chair at the head of the table, as though it was holding a silence of its own.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The rain had not stopped for three days. It poured down gutters, hammered tiles, and turned the village lanes into shallow rivers.<\/p>\n
On the fourth morning, the knock came. Two constables stood at the door, rain dripping from their hats. His mother answered, the aunts hovering behind her.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Fairchild?\u201d one of them said softly.<\/p>\n
She nodded, her lips pale.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m sorry to bring you this news. Your son\u2019s car was found at the old stone bridge. The keys were still in the ignition.\u201d<\/p>\n
Aunt Clara clutched her handkerchief. \u201cHis car? But\u2014where is he?\u201d<\/p>\n
The second constable glanced down, then back at them.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere was a valise on the back seat. Empty. And\u2026 the river\u2019s been swollen with the rains. We pulled a body downstream this morning. His papers identified him. It was your son.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEmpty?\u201d Aunt Clara\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cWhat do you mean empty?\u201d<\/p>\n
The constable didn\u2019t answer. He only lowered his eyes and continued, his words heavy as the rain outside.<\/p>\n
A sound escaped his mother\u2014part gasp, part cry\u2014as though her lungs had collapsed.<\/p>\n
The officers bowed their heads, offered condolences, and left the family in ruins.<\/p>\n
It was Aunt Clara who reached for the telephone. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the receiver. Jane answered on the second ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cVan Cleef\u2026 he\u2019s gone,\u201d Clara sobbed. \u201cHe\u2019s with his father now!\u201d<\/p>\n
The words knocked the breath from Jane\u2019s lungs. \u201cGone? What do you mean, gone?\u201d<\/p>\n
But Clara only wept harder. \u201cThe river took him. Oh Jane, the river took him!\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane had no choice but to go.<\/p>\n
By the time she reached the Fairchild house, the scene was one of devastation. Aunt Clara sat crumpled with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Aunt Marjorie paced the parlour like a caged bird. His mother sat by the window, staring out at the rain as though she were searching for him in it.<\/p>\n
Jane closed the door softly behind her. \u201cI came as soon as I heard,\u201d she said, her voice barely carrying.<\/p>\n
Marjorie turned sharply. \u201cYou were the one who pressed him, weren\u2019t you? Told him he was wasting himself?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMarjorie\u2014\u201d Clara\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI only told him the truth,\u201d Jane whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd look where the truth has brought us,\u201d Marjorie snapped, before turning away, her shoulders heaving.<\/p>\n
Clara reached for Jane\u2019s hand, her own damp with tears. \u201cHe listened to you, Jane. You must know that. He never listened to us, never listened to anyone. But you\u2026\u201d She broke off, sobbing into her handkerchief.<\/p>\n
Jane knelt beside the chair by the window. \u201cMrs. Fairchild,\u201d she said softly. \u201cI’m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman\u2019s eyes never left the glass. \u201cHe promised me Paris,\u201d she murmured. \u201cHe kissed my hand and promised me Paris.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jane\u2019s throat closed. \u201cPerhaps,\u201d she whispered, though the word felt hollow.<\/p>\n
Outside, the rain beat harder, pitiless, turning the garden to swamp and the lane to a river. Inside, the clock ticked loud and merciless.<\/p>\n
When Jane finally stepped back into the storm, the village was waiting. Neighbors lingered under umbrellas, their eyes following her, but not a word was spoken. The silence was heavier than pity, heavier than blame. Only the rain spoke, drumming on every roof and cobblestone as she walked past.<\/p>\n
No postcard would ever come\u2014only the rain, writing its own message against every pane of glass, every street, every heart.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
From Jane\u2019s notebook,<\/em><\/p>\n
I still hear the rain sometimes. Not outside, but inside\u2014as though it found a way to live behind my ribs. The village has moved on, of course; they always do. The same eyes that once watched me in silence now look elsewhere. But I carry their judgement.<\/em><\/p>\n
Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was my truth that pushed him. Or perhaps he had already decided, long before my words reached him. I will never know.<\/em><\/p>\n
What I do know is this: he believed existence itself was work. He handed in his notice, and he left no postcard. Only silence. Only rain<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My life involves precision. Observation. Balance. Not everyone can keep it up. That\u2019s why they falter. That\u2019s why they leave shaken. Because they glimpse the truth. That everything they call leisure is, in fact, duty. To live well is to work without end.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":25288,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24271","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-caroline-giudice"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24271","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24271"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24271\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":25291,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24271\/revisions\/25291"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25288"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24271"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24271"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24271"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}