Connie's hands were sore by the time the sun was high.
The hoe wasn't balanced right, the handle rough where the finish had worn away, and the soil underneath the weeds was harder than he expected. Every swing rattled up into his arms. After an hour he already had a blister forming on his palm. By noon, sweat ran down the back of his neck and his shoulders burned.
Still, row by row, he made progress. He dropped the parsnip seeds into the ground, covering them with dirt, then trudged back and forth with the watering can until each row was dark and wet. It wasn't much to look at—just a dozen little patches of mud in the middle of a wild, overgrown field—but it was something. His first start.
He sat down on the porch steps when it was done, breathing hard, his shirt sticking to him. The farm around him was quiet, only the sound of birds in the distance. For the first time in a while, he felt tired in a way that wasn't from stress or noise or work that didn't matter. It was just… tired. From doing something with his own hands.
By the time the sun started going down, he was too restless to sit in the house alone. He remembered someone in town mentioning the saloon. Maybe he could get a hot meal and see a few faces.
The Stardrop Saloon sat on the edge of the square, its sign creaking softly in the evening breeze. Warm light poured from the windows, and Connie could hear laughter and the low hum of voices before he even stepped inside.
It smelled good—meat cooking, bread baking, and a faint sweetness like cider. Behind the bar was a man with a broad smile and a tidy mustache, polishing a glass.
"You must be the new farmer," the man said as soon as Connie walked in. "Welcome, welcome! I'm Gus. First drink's on the house."
He slid a mug across the counter before Connie could argue. Connie took a cautious sip. It was cold, crisp, and surprisingly refreshing after the day he'd had.
Not far away, a big man with a bushy beard raised his glass. "Name's Willy. I run the fish shop down by the docks. Good to meet ya."
"Connie," he said back, lifting his mug a little.
At the counter a heavyset man nursed a drink, staring into it like it might give him answers. Gus nudged him, and the man gave a reluctant grunt. "Clint. Blacksmith. If you need tools fixed up, come by."
Connie gave a small nod. "I probably will." Clint nodded once in return, then went back to his drink.
A woman with bright blue hair came over carrying a tray of plates. She set one down near Connie and smiled. "You must be the new farmer. I'm Emily. I help Gus out here sometimes."
Connie felt his shoulders ease a little at her tone. "Yeah. Connie. I just planted my first patch today."
Emily tilted her head, still smiling. "That's great! What made you want to move out here?"
He hesitated, staring into his mug before answering. "I guess… I was tired of the city. Noise, long hours, work that never felt like it mattered. My grandfather left me the farm. I thought maybe I could make something real here. Something worth the effort."
"That sounds right," Emily said gently. "The valley's a good place for that. It gives back what you put in."
"Don't let her fool you," Willy called over. "The land'll fight you every step of the way."
"True," Emily laughed, "but it's worth it."
Connie ate stew and bread, listening to the voices around him—Gus chatting with regulars, Clint mumbling, Willy telling a story about some monster fish he almost caught. Nobody treated him like an outsider, just a newcomer.
When he finally walked back home, the night was quiet, stars stretching over the valley. The farmhouse waited, dark and still, the smell of wet earth hanging over the fields where his seeds slept.
It wasn't much yet. But it was a start.
POV CHANGE:
When the door to the Stardrop Saloon swung shut behind Connie, the room didn't quiet exactly, but there was a ripple — the kind of shift that comes when a new topic enters the air.
Gus wiped down the counter with slow circles, watching the farmhouse newcomer disappear down the cobblestones. "Seems like a good sort," he said, voice even, but his eyes stayed on the door a second longer than usual.
Willy let out a chuckle from his table, beard shifting as he leaned back in his chair. "Broad shoulders on that one. But soft still, you can tell. Fella's not used to the tools. Office hands. Ain't no shame in it — but the land'll harden him quick enough."
Emily, still balancing a tray, tilted her head thoughtfully. "He has kind eyes," she said. "Amber-colored. Not the kind you usually see. They looked… tired, though. Like he's been carrying too much for too long."
Clint snorted into his drink. "Handsome, too. Bet half the valley will notice soon enough." His tone was flat, but his eyes flicked up, lingering on the spot where Connie had stood.
Emily ignored the edge in Clint's voice. "His hair's interesting," she went on, as though cataloging the details for herself. "Not neat, not wild—just that half-curly, half-wavy mess that never quite sits down. It suits him."
"Messy or not, he looks like a man who's worked himself near to breaking," Gus said softly. "Slouched like he hasn't had reason to stand tall in a long time. Probably those city years. The kind that wear you down before you realize it."
Willy nodded, tugging at his beard. "Aye. Men like that come lookin' for peace. Sometimes they find it. Sometimes they don't know what to do with it once they've got it."
There was a silence then, filled only by the crackle of the fireplace.
Emily broke it with her usual lightness, though her eyes stayed distant. "I think he's here for something more than farming. You can tell, when someone talks about why they came. He wants roots. He just doesn't know where to put them yet."
Gus hummed, leaning on the counter. "The valley has a way of answering that question. Might not be the answer he expects, but it'll be an answer."
Willy grinned into his mug. "Let's just hope he sticks it out past the first season. Most don't."
And with that, the talk shifted back — to fish tales, to recipes, to the rhythm of the town's ordinary evening. But here and there, between laughter and chatter, the new farmer's name slipped into conversation again, like the first stone tossed into still water.
Connie hadn't been in the valley more than a few days, but already Pelican Town was watching, waiting, and wondering what kind of man he would turn out to be.