The morning had started early, as it always did on market day. Eli had woken to the scent of coffee and the low hum of his parents moving through the kitchen. By the time he'd shuffled downstairs, the sun hadn't even cleared the horizon.
His mother was labeling the last of the jam jars—her handwriting neat and floral on the paper stickers: "Blackberry–Honey," "Raspberry–Mint." Eli had taken over, scribbling names and dates onto the remaining labels and pressing them carefully onto each lid. The jars clinked as he packed them into a wooden crate lined with old towels.
Most of what they sold came from the farm itself—fruits from their own bushes, vegetables from their garden, pickles and preserves made in their kitchen. They even had dried herbs and homemade soap sometimes. His parents believed in doing things themselves, not out of stubborn pride, but because they genuinely enjoyed it. It was a kind of rhythm they trusted—plant, tend, harvest, preserve. No waste. No unnecessary spending.
Eli had learned a lot just by being around it all: how to seal a jar properly, how to dry herbs, how long certain vegetables could last without refrigeration. It wasn't glamorous, but it was satisfying. Useful, even.
His father loaded the truck while his mother made sure the payment box had enough small bills and coins. Before they left, she turned to Eli and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Make sure to collect the eggs before the sun gets too high," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "And refill the water trough. Then you can sit down with your schoolwork. We'll go over it together tonight."
Eli had nodded. "Got it."
"Don't forget to eat something," his father added, already behind the wheel.
"I won't," Eli said with a faint smile, standing barefoot on the gravel as the old truck rumbled down the lane and disappeared behind the tall corn.
Now, a few hours later, it was one of those rare, golden summer days in North Dakota—warm, but not heavy; bright, but not blinding. A breeze rolled lazily over the fields, brushing through the tall grass like an invisible hand. Eli sat on the wooden porch steps of the farmhouse, his schoolwork spread open across his lap but barely touched. Inside, the old air conditioner hummed its usual rhythm. Outside, a red-winged blackbird cried from a fence post, sharp and quick.
Math and history couldn't hold his attention today. Not when the sky was that kind of blue that made everything feel possible. Not when the wind kept tugging at his thoughts like a friend calling him outside.
Eli closed his notebook with a soft sigh. "It's just too nice to waste," he murmured, standing and grabbing his water bottle from the porch railing. A crooked smile flickered across his face. "Sorry, algebra."
He followed the narrow path behind the barn, one he'd walked a hundred times. It passed a weathered tool shed and a collapsed fence overgrown with ferns, then sloped gently down toward the treeline. The woods beyond the fields always felt cooler, older somehow—like the earth there remembered more.
This was his favorite place. His sanctuary. Here, surrounded by birch and pine, Eli felt the most like himself. He could hum old songs under his breath without anyone hearing, or spin stories aloud just for the trees to listen.
Today, though, he didn't feel like singing. He just wanted to breathe. The forest was alive with sound—leaves rustling overhead, insects buzzing in the undergrowth, the distant tap of a woodpecker. Eli wandered deeper, past the place where the sun filtered in through green branches, until he reached his tree.
It wasn't the biggest or the oldest, but it was his. A broad, crooked oak with a root shaped like a seat. He'd spent hours here, reading, drawing, thinking. Once, he'd even whispered secrets into the bark, just to see if it would keep them.
He settled down and leaned back, eyes half-closed. A few rays of light broke through the canopy above, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor.
"Imagine being someone else," he said aloud, voice quiet. "In some world where everything's… more."
He chuckled softly to himself. "Right. Like that's how life works."
Still, he let the thought stay. He let himself wonder, because it didn't hurt to dream. And maybe, just maybe, dreams were better when no one was around to call them silly.
He lay back fully now, arms folded behind his head, one leg stretched out, the other bent. The earth was cool beneath him, the breeze light against his cheeks.
"I wish…" he began, then hesitated. He wasn't even sure what he wished for exactly. Not fame. Not fortune. Just—
"To be seen. Really seen. Like I matter to someone."
He paused, feeling the weight of the words linger in the air.
He loved his parents—he truly did—but they were always busy, always tending to the land, always tired. And he understood that. Running a farm wasn't easy. He helped where he could—feeding animals, carrying tools, even managing smaller tasks on his own. They'd taught him a lot, and he was proud of that.
But it wasn't the same as having friends. It wasn't the same as laughing with someone your own age, doing something silly just because. He hadn't gone to school like other kids. There weren't many neighbors, and even fewer kids nearby. And when he did meet others, he never quite knew how to talk to them. Conversations felt like puzzles where he was always missing a piece.
So yes, he wanted to be seen. Not just noticed, but understood.
The wind quieted. For a moment, it was as if the whole forest had paused to listen.
Eli blinked up at the branches overhead. Then, without another word, he let his eyes close.
And the world faded.