The letter had sat unopened for three days.
It rested on the kitchen table of Connie's cramped city apartment, half-buried beneath unpaid bills and a glossy takeout menu he had looked at more often than he had used. The envelope was worn, its edges softened by time, the handwriting on the front in a careful, deliberate script: to my dearest grandchild.
Connie had noticed it the morning it arrived, tucked awkwardly among the usual clutter, but he had not been able to bring himself to break the seal. Not out of forgetfulness, but because he already knew what it would mean. Something about the paper, about the weight of it in his hand, made his chest ache with a nervous anticipation.
Life in the city was grinding him down, but at least it was familiar. The cubicle walls, the droning hum of fluorescent lights, the endless spreadsheets—all lifeless, repetitive, and unremarkable. Yet predictable. Change, in contrast, was a shadow waiting just beyond the edge of his vision. And change was frightening.
On the third night, when the city outside his window had finally dulled to a restless silence—traffic a far-off murmur, neon signs flickering in the drizzle—he lit the single lamp on his desk and opened the envelope.
"If you're reading this," the letter began in his grandfather's hand, "then you must be in need of a change."
The words struck something deep inside him.
"I have left you my farm, in Stardew Valley."
Connie read the lines twice, then a third time, as if the meaning might shift. Images crowded his mind all at once—long-forgotten summers chasing fireflies, the sharp smell of fresh hay carried by warm breezes, the rough comfort of his grandfather's hands guiding his own as a child. He remembered the porch light at dusk, and how the valley always seemed to hum with life, even in its quietest moments.
By the time his eyes reached the end of the letter—Love, Grandpa—he felt the sting of tears he had not expected.
The decision came not with triumph, but with surrender. His apartment seemed to shrink around him, its walls heavy with dust and stale air. He packed a bag, left the keys on the counter, and bought a bus ticket heading east.
The journey to Stardew Valley stretched over a day and a night, the bus rattling along narrow country roads that curled through hills and fields. With every mile, the landscape shifted. The gray slabs of the city gave way to rolling meadows, streams glinting like ribbons of glass, and trees that rose tall and unbroken, their leaves whispering secrets Connie had forgotten how to hear.
He pressed his forehead against the window, breathing in air that smelled faintly of pine, earth, and wildflowers carried in through the open vent. His eyelids grew heavy, but whenever he closed them, the words of the letter returned. In need of a change.
When the bus finally slowed to a stop at a sunlit roadside station, Connie stepped out with his satchel slung across his shoulder. Waiting for him was a man in a neat vest, a broad smile warming his mustached face.
"Ah, you must be Connie," the man said, his voice booming with friendly authority. "I'm Mayor Lewis. Welcome to Pelican Town!"
He clapped Connie on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow. Together they walked the dirt road leading out of town, Lewis talking as they went. He pointed out a fork that led to the carpenter's shop, a trail toward the general store, and a narrow turn that sloped down to the sea. Connie tried to take it all in, but found his attention drifting to the details: the dappled sunlight breaking through tall pines, the crunch of gravel under his boots, and the sound of birds calling from somewhere far overhead.
Eventually they reached the farm.
Connie stopped in his tracks, staring. The farmhouse stood small and weary, its porch boards warped with age, its roof patched with mismatched shingles. The land stretched wide and generous, but it was wild—covered in waist-high weeds, jagged rocks, and stubborn stumps rooted deep in the soil. The place did not look like a farm. It looked like a battlefield nature had long since claimed.
"Well," Lewis said after a moment, scratching his head, "it's not much right now. But with a little dedication, you'll have it cleaned up in no time."
Connie clutched the strap of his satchel and breathed slowly. The sheer weight of the work pressed against him. He had never used an axe, never grown more than a bean sprout in a school project. Was he really supposed to tame all of this?
And yet, the letter whispered to him again: If you're in need of a change…
Later that afternoon, after unpacking what little he had brought and forcing down a quick meal, Connie decided to explore the town.
Pelican Town was small, perhaps only a handful of streets, but alive in a way the city had never been. Gardens bloomed in front of neat wooden houses. Cobblestones wound between tidy shops and homely fences. He passed a fountain where children played, an old woman tending a window box, and a pair of fishermen laughing as they carried their gear back toward the docks.
Connie was so absorbed in his surroundings that he hardly noticed when someone came around the corner at the same time he did.
The collision was sudden, and his satchel slipped from his shoulder. A pocket notebook, a folded bus ticket, and a small bundle of parsnip seeds scattered onto the cobblestones.
"Oh, for Yoba's sake—watch where you're going!"
The voice was sharp, young, and distinctly feminine. Connie looked up from his knees to see a blonde girl in a pale cardigan brushing off her sleeve with an exaggerated sigh. Her expression was one of irritation, but her eyes—bright and calculating—studied him more closely than her tone suggested.
"I—I'm sorry," Connie said quickly, gathering his belongings. "I wasn't paying attention. Still getting used to the place."
The girl tilted her head, folding her arms across her chest. "Clearly. You're not from around here."
"No," Connie admitted, his cheeks warming. "Just arrived today, actually. I'm Connie." He managed a smile, though it felt clumsy.
She didn't return it. Instead, she adjusted the strap of her purse and gave a small shrug. "Well, Connie, maybe try not to run into people next time." With a practiced flip of her hair, she stepped past him, the faint scent of perfume trailing behind.
Connie watched her walk away, half relieved and half embarrassed. But just before she turned the corner, she glanced back over her shoulder. It was quick, almost too quick to catch, but her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than expected.
Not dismissal. Not entirely. Curiosity.
Connie tightened his grip on his satchel and exhaled. He was still a stranger in Pelican Town, still an outsider, but the first threads of something new were already being spun around him.
As the sun sank lower and lanterns flickered to life along the streets, he turned back toward the farm, his steps slow but steady. The land awaited him. The town awaited him. Change had already begun.