Connie woke with stiff arms and a sore back.
The bed in the farmhouse was simple—worn mattress, patched quilt, and a pillow that had long since lost its shape—but it had held him through the night. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his neck, listening to the gentle murmur of the valley outside. Birds sang in the orchard trees. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed. The world felt alive in a way the city never had.
When he glanced out the window, his eyes settled on the small patch of earth he had cleared the day before. It wasn't much, just a square of soil carved out from the wild mess of weeds and rocks, but it was the start of something. His grandfather's letter had promised a farm, but a farm meant more than land. It meant planting. Growing. Creating something worth tending.
He opened the envelope on the kitchen table—the five hundred gold his grandfather had left him—and thumbed through the notes. It wasn't much. But it was all he had, and it had to be enough.
Seeds. He needed seeds.
The road to town was lined with wild grass and stone walls dotted with moss. The air was fresh, touched with the scent of dew and earth. As Connie walked, he tried to imagine what Pelican Town would be like in full swing. Yesterday he had only glimpsed it, distracted and overwhelmed. Today he would step properly into its heart.
The plaza was alive with small sounds and quiet motion. A cart creaked as a baker delivered fresh loaves to the Stardrop Saloon. A fisherman in a patched cap carried a bucket of wriggling fish toward the river. Children dashed past with wooden swords, their laughter echoing between the shop walls. Life here moved at its own pace—slower, softer, but no less full.
At the center stood a wooden building with a hanging sign carved with neat letters: General Store. Its wide porch and tidy windows made it the most inviting building on the square. Connie hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open.
The air inside smelled faintly of dried herbs and grain. Crates lined the walls, filled with flour, sugar, rice, and neatly wrapped preserves. At the counter stood a man with neatly combed dark hair and a sharp vest, his ledger open before him.
"Ah!" the man exclaimed, setting down his pen. "You must be the new farmer. We've been expecting you." He stepped forward, extending his hand with a practiced smile. "I'm Mr. Pierre, the shopkeeper here. Welcome to Pelican Town."
Connie shook his hand. "Connie. I've just moved in. I was hoping to get some seeds… but nothing too expensive. Just whatever will get me started."
Pierre chuckled knowingly and gestured toward the rows of seed packets displayed neatly on the counter. "Parsnips. Cheap, hardy, and fast-growing. Five days to maturity, give or take. They're a beginner's friend, though you'll find yourself drowning in the things if you plant too many."
Connie picked up a packet, reading the simple instructions stamped across the front. He counted quickly in his head. Five hundred gold wouldn't go far, but he needed to stretch it as much as possible.
Pierre seemed to read his thoughts. "Don't worry, young man. Everyone starts with parsnips. You'll have plenty of time to try more adventurous crops once you've found your footing. And if you ever need advice, well… I've been running this store for years. Farming is in the lifeblood of this valley."
His voice carried a certain pride, but there was also a sharpness beneath it, something Connie noticed when Pierre's gaze flicked toward the window as if searching for something outside.
"You should know," Pierre added after a pause, lowering his voice, "there's a JojaMart not far from here. They've been trying to run small shops like mine out of business for years now. Cheap prices, endless shelves of processed nonsense. They're good at luring folks in with convenience, but it kills places like this—kills communities, too. Don't let them fool you."
Connie nodded slowly, tucking the thought away. He hadn't come here for big-box stores or slick aisles. He had come for something real. "I'll keep that in mind."
Pierre's expression softened into a smile again. "Good man. Let me ring you up."
As Pierre tallied the purchase, another figure appeared from the back room. A woman with soft green hair, tied neatly with a ribbon, carried a basket of folded linens. She moved with quiet grace, her eyes warm and kind.
"This must be the new farmer," she said, smiling. "Caroline. My husband has told me all about you. Welcome to Pelican Town."
Connie returned the smile, offering a small nod. "Thank you. It's… a lot to take in, but I'm glad to be here."
"You'll find your rhythm soon enough," Caroline said. "And if you ever need a break from farm work, don't be shy about visiting. Sometimes a cup of tea and a bit of conversation is just as important as planting seeds."
Connie found himself relaxing in her presence, surprised by the openness of these strangers who seemed already invested in his success. He collected his seed packets carefully, tucking them into his satchel, and thanked both Caroline and her husband before stepping back into the sunlight.
The square outside had grown busier. Villagers moved between shops, voices carrying on the warm air. Connie adjusted the strap of his satchel and turned toward the road home, but he stopped short.
Someone was leaning against the notice board near the shop door—a girl with long violet hair, her boots scuffed from use, a wrapped piece of candy rolling idly between her fingers. She was watching a sparrow hop along the cobblestones as though it held the key to the universe.
When she noticed Connie, she grinned.
"You're new," she said without preamble. "I don't forget faces, and yours is definitely new."
Connie shifted the weight of his satchel. "Just moved into the farm. Connie."
"Abigail," she replied, popping the candy into her mouth. "So you're the one trying to tame that jungle of weeds, huh? I've seen it. Looks like the forest is trying to swallow your house whole."
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Connie chuckled softly. "That's… not far from the truth."
Abigail pushed herself off the board and circled him once, as if sizing him up. "Well, good luck. The land either makes you tougher, or it chews you up. Guess we'll see which happens." She leaned close for a moment, lowering her voice. "Word of advice? Don't let my dad talk you into buying anything fancy yet. He's always trying to convince new folks to grow kale."
Connie smiled faintly, lifting the packets of parsnips from his satchel. "I stuck with the basics."
"Smart. Parsnips are boring, but safe. Maybe once you've survived your first harvest, I'll show you where the wild stuff grows. The valley has secrets you won't find on any shop shelf."
Before Connie could reply, Abigail gave him a playful salute and strolled down the street, humming a tune under her breath.
He watched her go, half amused, half unsettled. She was unlike anyone he'd met in the city—sharp, unpredictable, alive in a way that didn't fit neatly into any category.
Connie glanced at the seed packets in his hand and turned toward the road home. The land was waiting, but so was the town. And already, he could feel its people pulling him into their lives.