Chapter Text
“We’ve left a welcome pack for the new farmer inside your cabin. You be sure to do your grandfather proud now.”
You watch as Mayor Lewis tips his hat, hooks his thumbs behind his suspenders, and ambles back down the dirt path toward town with a soft chuckle. Ever since greeting you at the bus stop, he’s been frustratingly hard to read—a strange blend of your grandfather and I were so close and this place is a wreck, think you’re up to it?
You’re honestly not sure if he wants you to succeed or fail.
Even standing here—really here—feels surreal. The air is thick with dust and the low drone of insects. You wish someone had reminded you about the bugs. The field ahead is a tangle of weeds and debris, a far cry from the tidy rows you remember.
But, it’s yours. Your family’s farm.
The same farm you visited as a child, when your grandparents still worked it with pride. You remember chasing the chickens through the yard, milking the cows, playing hide-and-seek in the corn rows, and tumbling through the hayloft until your cheeks ached from laughing.
Back then, you thought: this is what happy feels like. This is what grounded means.
You’re not sure when life began to drain that feeling out of you.
Only that the years took more than you realized.
Everywhere you look, memory overlaps with the present—a rose-tinted ghost clinging to everything.
Where the old oak once held a rope swing, only a frayed length remains, swaying limply. Your grandparents’ initials, once bold in the bark, have faded beneath years of wind and weather.
The mailbox leans, its paint chipped and peeling, the door barely hanging on.
The farmhouse itself has seen better days. Robin—the local carpenter—promised to stop by tomorrow to fix the porch boards and reattach the siding that’s come loose since the place was abandoned. Still, it stings to see it like this. To see how far it’s fallen from the careful, loving hands that once tended it.
You scan the property and wonder—not for the first time—if you’ve made a terrible mistake.
And yet… this is the first decision you’ve made in years that feels selfish in the right way.
Not for status. Not to meet someone else’s idea of success. But because it felt yours.
A dream you’d tucked away, too fragile to speak aloud. One you thought had passed you by—until your grandparents offered it back to you, trembling and tender, like a baby bird unsure of its wings.
The farmhouse had been boarded up after your grandfather passed, the land left untouched. Waiting. For what, you weren’t sure. Not until one evening, when your grandmother pulled you aside and told you what he had wanted: that the farm was meant for you. If you chose to sell it, she said gently, that was your business. But his wish was clear.
The weight of that gift had been overwhelming.
You sat with it for months, flip-flopping between selling—Joja Corp made a reasonable offer—and wondering if you were crazy to think you could actually do it. Build a farm. Build a life you wanted to wake up to every morning.
Anything, except the career you had walked away from in Zuzu City.
Accounting. It had seemed the reasonable, safe option. One your parents had actively encouraged at the time.
You’d climbed the ladder fast—from clerk to senior accountant, on track to become a financial analyst by winter—but the thought of doing it for the rest of your life left you cold. Empty. You had checked every box: the degree, the CPA certification, the steady job, even the relationship. You did everything you thought you should.
But somewhere along the way, the light in your eyes had dimmed, almost gone out.
You’d been going through the motions with a man you kept insisting was fine—but he wasn’t. His words were sharp, dismissive, always angled to make you feel small beside his accomplishments. And over time, you shrank.
Not all at once, but by degrees—each jab another tiny cut. You didn’t even notice how much you were hurting.
But cuts like that? They add up.
And by the end, you were bleeding everywhere.
The final straw had been his relentless push for you to sell the farm. He was already making plans for the inheritance: a trip, a new car, a penthouse condo near his office where the two of you could “settle down.” That last part had made your stomach churn—left you feeling caged in, desperate for air.
And still, you’d tried to bury the ache a little longer. Told yourself if you just worked harder, moved faster, kept pushing… eventually the good part of life would begin.
But that’s not how it works.
So you walked away. From the job. From the apartment. From the relationship.
No real farm experience to speak of—only scraps of memory from childhood summers to guide you.
Already, your back aches from hauling your meager belongings inside. The to-do list is enormous.
And yet—you can’t remember the last time you felt this hopeful.
Your parents had been alarmed. Confused. Worried. Because from the outside, it looked like you had everything: a good job, a driven partner, clearly defined goals. They didn’t understand.
Couldn’t understand.
Not at first.
You silently thank your lucky stars that your grandmother had been on your side—and that, in the end, your parents really just wanted to see you happy. Hadn’t understood how much you were hurting. They still might not understand, not fully, but they love you enough to trust your judgment. That’s more than a lot of people get.
And honestly, you can’t blame them for worrying. From their perspective, it must’ve looked like a breakdown. Or, at best, a midlife crisis.
Your eyes catch on an old scarecrow in the field, listing to one side. One arm’s broken clean off; the other droops beneath the weight of a brazen crow perched like it owns the place.
You let out a laugh—sharp, too loud, laced with disbelief.
What the hell are you even doing here?
But then you stop.
You breathe.
And in that quiet moment, something settles. You make a promise—to yourself, to the land, to your grandfather’s memory:
You’re going to try.
You’re going to make this place a home again.
~*~
You had collapsed into bed the day before, content to let the farm hold its breath for one more day. Now though, you’re standing in front of the open pack that was left for you.
Lewis has a warped sense of humor.
That’s the only explanation.
The so-called welcome pack consists of a few run-down tools, some packets of parsnip seeds, and a cheeky handwritten note:
Put in ground, water, grow.
~L
Not exactly the heartfelt welcome you’d imagined—but you’ll take it. Whether it’s meant as a joke or just Lewis’s idea of practical advice, you can’t quite tell. If he’s hazing the new farmer, well, that’s odd.
Still, you’re not deterred. You slip on your sandals, sling your backpack over your shoulder, and set off toward town—hoping to stop by Pierre’s for a wider variety of seeds, maybe wander through the streets, meet a few locals, and, if the stars align, lay the groundwork for friendships along the way.
The day is beautiful: crisp and bright in that particular way only early spring manages. Cool enough to keep you moving but warm enough to lift your spirits.
The city’s mad pace is far behind you now, replaced by Pelican Town’s own kind of loud. Leaves roar as the wind rushes through them, birds chirp and bicker from every treetop, and even the distant crash of waves adds a soft, constant hush to the background.
It’s the kind of day that makes you feel lighter. Shoulders starting to unknot, back standing straighter, taller. The smile blooming on your face comes easily as you adjust your backpack and nod to the first person you see—a surly-looking man in a JojaMart uniform, clutching a thermos as he crosses the square.
“G’morning, neighbour! I’m—”
You reach out your hand, but the man steps deliberately wide around your reach, putting a clear distance between you. Without meeting your eyes, he mutters, “Not interested,” and walks off without another word.
Ouch.
That stings more than you’d like to admit. But hey—maybe he’s just having a bad day. Everyone gets those.
You shake it off and keep walking, pausing at the bulletin board outside the store to check birthdays and upcoming town events. It’s quaint and personal in a way you’re not accustomed to yet. Then you try the door handle.
Locked.
Today really isn’t shaping up to be your day. You check the store hours. Open at 9:00 a.m. You glance at your phone just in time to watch the time tick from 7:59 to 8:00 a.m..
Crud.
Too early to start shopping, and too far to bother heading home only to turn right around again. You’re wound tight, barely containing a coil of restless energy and growing uncertainty. What else is there to do while you wait—something to help ease the tension building inside?
The beach.
It’s close enough. Maybe you can slip off your sandals, roll up your overalls, and let the saltwater and sand wash out the tightness growing in your chest before the day truly begins.
With that plan in mind, you head off, kicking a small stone down the cobbled path like a kid, watching as it bounces and skitters into Lewis’s yard, stopping at his boot.
He looks up from the small garden he’s tending and grins. “How was your first night on the old farm? Like the welcome package?”
Yep. Definitely hazing you.
“It’s… quieter than I remember,” you say, trying to stay earnest. “Different without Gramps and Grams around, but it felt right.”
You hesitate, then add, “Thanks for the seeds,” doing your best to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. Joke or not, the gift took time and money—and on the off chance it was sincere, the last thing you want is to sound ungrateful.
Lewis just chuckles. “Little early for Pierre’s. Where you headed?”
“Oh, just taking a trip down memory lane. Thought I’d stroll the beach until the shop opens.”
He nods, glancing toward the bridge. “Say hi to Willy if he’s out fishing. He’ll talk your ear off about it. Elliott’s down that way too.”
Willy? Elliott? Does he think you know anyone yet?
Lewis must see the question on your face. “Willy’s the fisherman. Good guy, old friend. Elliott’s our local reclusive writer. Bit eccentric.”
You raise an eyebrow.
Lewis certainly doesn’t shy away from passing judgment.
If anything, he's the one giving off strange vibes. You’ll reserve your opinions and make up your own mind.
“Thanks for the… warning?” you offer, not quite sure how else to gracefully exit the conversation.
He just nods and turns back to his garden, already lost in it again.
You carry on.
A woman approaches from the opposite direction—and wow, she’s stunning. Long blonde hair, a pink sundress, and a camera dangling from a strap around her neck. She walks with confidence, scanning the bridge, then you.
“Staring,” she sing-songs—not unkindly, but not kindly either. “Rude much?”
“Oh, uh—sorry. I’m new. Just moved into the farm up the road. Was hoping to meet some neighbors.”
You offer your hand.
She looks at it like it might bite her. Eventually, she shakes it—barely—gripping your fingertips like a fragile artifact before withdrawing and inspecting her manicure, as if your existence has somehow chipped her polish.
She gives you a once-over, slow and judgmental. You cross your arms, suddenly on the defensive.
“Name’s Haley. Nice to meet you, farmer,” she says, like the word itself is somehow an insult. “You’re dressed a lot cleaner than I thought you’d be.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
You glance down at your peach overalls, green tee, and Birkenstocks. You’d thought you looked cute this morning. No rips, no dirt. But somehow her tone makes you feel like you’ve shown up in a clown costume.
“Oh. Well… glad I could surprise you?”
Your attempt at self-depreciating humor falls flat. She doesn’t laugh—just shrugs, lifts her camera, and steps back.
“Lovely to meet you, but I gotta catch the light. I’m sure you understand. You’ve probably got loads of dirty farmery stuff to do.”
With a vague wave, she saunters off toward the library.
Stars, you’re batting a thousand in the friend department today.
By the time you reach the beach, your heart has slowed and your breathing has evened out. Anxiety quelled—at least for now.
Maybe it’s just bad luck. Maybe you’ve bumped into all the town’s weirdos before 9 a.m.
You’re not a weak person—hell, you uprooted your whole life to be here—but bravery felt a lot easier on paper.
Now that you’re here, really here, it’s harder to ignore the part of your brain whispering: What the hell are you doing?
But then you gasp.
The view steals the thought clean from your mind.
The sea stretches out in front of you, glittering and vast. The sky feels close enough to touch, and the breeze carries salt and promise.
You roll up the cuffs of your overalls.
Breathe in deep.
Wade up to your ankles in the cold water.
And take your first real step into this new chapter of your life.
~*~
Elliott March sets the warm mug of tea on his desk, uncaps the bottle of ink, lifts his quill, and lowers himself into the chair with a sigh.
Still nothing.
The page stares back at him, stubborn and blank.
It’s been days like this. Long, fruitless hours where the words hover just out of reach—mocking, evasive. He’s tried everything: pacing, reciting passages of his manuscript aloud beneath the stars, letting the waves crash against his ankles as if the sea might carry some epiphany in with the tide. Nothing.
Even the Saloon has become part of his strange little routine, though he hates to admit it. Searching for a scrap of inspiration in a glass of red and some harmless conversation. Harvey is always kind. Leah makes him laugh. And Shane—well. Sometimes even bluntness is preferable to silence.
It’s been just over a year since he moved to Pelican Town, and still, the words haven’t come the way he thought they would.
He’d imagined the change of scenery would be… everything. That all he needed was space—freedom from the cold architecture of home, from his brother Alistair’s smirking disdain, from his mother’s frown that never quite left her mouth, even when she smiled. From his father, who didn’t frown at all—just stared like Elliott had already disappointed him before he’d said a word.
This was supposed to be the answer.
A new place. A small cabin. A simpler life.
He presses his fingers to his temple. Was I naive to think that was enough?
Still, he can’t quite regret it.
He wouldn’t even be here—wouldn’t have been able to do this at all—if not for the trust. His grandmother’s last and quiet rebellion. An irrevocable fund, separate from the family wealth, beyond his parents’ reach.
Not grand, no. Not by March standards. But it was his. Enough to purchase the cabin. Enough to live modestly, month by month. Enough to keep writing, even when the words refuse to come.
And most importantly—it’s completely untouched by the March name.
He looks at the tea. Still warm.
He sets the quill down. Leans back. Allows the silence of room to stretch.
The weight of it all presses in—the unspoken expectation, the inevitability of what returning to that life would mean.
There had never been space for a poetic soul like his. That much had been made abundantly clear in every disapproving glance, every strained conversation over polished silver and cold tea. No—should he go back, he’d be expected to put his dreams aside entirely. Trade ink for ink-stamped policies. Take up law. Or worse: become his brother’s shadow, upholding Alistair’s image, supporting his role as Ambassador, preserving the March name.
That quietly looming legacy—that inheritance of duty he wants so badly to leave behind—weighs heavy on his chest.
Elliott turns toward the sea, seeking solace. The rolling waves usually soothe him, offer clarity where thought grows tangled. Today, though, something shifts.
Someone stands in his line of sight.
You.
One hand holds a straw hat to your head, shielding it from the breeze. The other hangs at your side, sandals dangling from your fingers. The wind plays gently with the curls in your hair.
And then—just for a moment—the sun parts the clouds.
A stray beam of spring light catches you, wrapping your form in gold.
It’s not just beautiful. It’s arresting.
Elliott still doesn’t know your name. Can’t see your face clearly from this distance. But something in him stills. Catches. Leans forward, as if drawn.
The words—after days of silence—begin to form.
Yoba has seen fit to send me a muse,
place her within my line of sight
light her up from the outside—
and I cannot help but wonder
if she shines as brightly on the inside, too.
He sets the quill down again. It’s not much, not his best work, not even particularly good, but it’s more than he’s managed in three days. Gently, reverently, he lifts the paper and blows on the ink, coaxing it dry. Then he tucks it into the green leather journal—the one reserved for the pieces that matter.
A quiet laugh escapes him.
I don’t know your name. Can’t even see your face properly. But the way you’re standing, where the light fell…
Stars above, I didn’t know I could be captivated this quickly.
It’s foolish—he knows it. He has the soul of a poet and the heart of a hopeless romantic. But still. He cannot help the swell of feeling rising in his chest, warm and inexplicable.
He murmurs a silent thanks. To the sky. To the sea. To whatever kindness placed you here for this brief moment in time.
If only for a moment, his newfound muse.