The road to the docks was quiet, the kind of quiet that carried only birdsong and the occasional rustle of wind through the reeds. By the time Connie reached the edge of town, the air had thickened with salt, and the cries of gulls echoed from above. The smell of brine and seaweed hung in the air, strong but clean.
The pier stretched out ahead, sun-warmed planks creaking under his boots as he stepped onto it. Waves lapped against the wooden posts, the water glittering as though the storm had scrubbed the entire ocean fresh.
Willy was there, same as the last time Connie had seen him. Bent over a net, pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth, his beard caught the breeze as he worked with the calm patience of a man who'd done this every day of his life. When Connie's shadow stretched across the boards, the fisherman looked up.
"Ahh," Willy said, his eyes bright beneath the brim of his weathered hat. "The new farmer. Just who I was hopin' to see."
Connie gave a small nod, shifting the strap of his satchel. "Didn't expect anyone to be waiting on me."
"Not waitin'—just ready," Willy said with a grin. He set the net aside and rummaged in a crate at his side. When his hands emerged, they carried a fishing rod—long, steady, the wood darkened and smoothed by years of use. The reel was old, but well-cared for.
"She's an old one," Willy said, holding it out, "but she's reliable. Treated me well, and I reckon she'll do the same for you. Consider it a welcome gift."
Connie blinked. "For me? I don't know the first thing about fishing."
"Then you'll learn," Willy said simply. "Free of charge. Can't have you workin' yourself to the bone with crops alone. Fishin'… fishin's good for the soul. Slows the mind, sharpens the patience. Besides, there's plenty out there just waitin' to be caught." He tilted his head toward the ocean. "The sea provides, if you know how to listen."
The rod felt solid in Connie's hands, heavier than he expected, the grip worn smooth by calloused palms before his own. It wasn't shiny or new, but it radiated a quiet kind of reliability.
"I… guess I could try," Connie said.
"That's the spirit." Willy clapped him on the shoulder, firm but friendly. "Give her a cast. You've got the look of a man who could use some peace."
Connie stepped closer to the water's edge, the rod awkward in his grip. He watched the gulls wheel overhead, the waves rolling beneath the pier, and for a moment doubted himself. Farming he could at least picture, but fishing felt like something entirely different.
Still, he set his feet, lifted the rod the way Willy showed him, and cast. The line arced out clumsily, splashing into the water with more force than grace. Connie winced.
"Not bad," Willy called, squinting. "Just let the bobber settle. When she dips, reel in quick."
Connie waited, the sun warm on his neck, the salt air sharp in his lungs. Then—tug. The line pulled, jerking against his grip.
He reeled too fast, nearly losing the rod over the edge, but when the line came up, a small silver body flopped against the dock.
"A sardine," Willy said with a grin. "Not bad for your first catch."
Connie stared at the fish glistening in the sunlight, then back at the rod in his hands. A real catch. His first. He couldn't help but smile.
He cast again. This time the pull came quicker, harder. He wrestled with the reel, his arms straining, but eventually dragged up a flat, broad fish that slapped against the boards with surprising force.
"Now that's a flounder," Willy said approvingly. "Worth keepin'."
By the time Connie pulled up an anchovy and another sardine, sweat clung to his shirt, and his arms burned from the effort. Each tug had been different—some light and teasing, others heavy enough to nearly pull him forward—but each ended the same, with another shimmering piece of the sea at his feet.
When the last one landed, Connie let out a laugh he hadn't expected. The sound startled him, carried away by the wind.
"Not bad, farmer," Willy said, gathering his net again. "You've got a knack for it. The sea must like ya."
Connie wiped his brow, chest heaving. The fish wriggled in a small pail at his side, their scales flashing like coins in the sun. He hadn't realized how quickly the hours had passed, how the sun had shifted westward.
He packed the rod carefully under his arm, the weight of it already familiar. His body was tired, his skin warm from the sun, but his chest carried a quiet contentment he hadn't felt in years.
"I'll be back," Connie said.
Willy gave a knowing nod. "I'll be here."
The road home was long and slow, his boots heavy on the dirt path. By the time his farmhouse came into view, the sun had dropped low, painting the valley in orange light. Snow was waiting at the porch, tail flicking as if to scold him for being gone so long.
Connie dropped the pail of fish beside the shipping crate, then leaned against the porch railing. His muscles ached, his skin smelled of salt, but his mind was calm. Between the soil, the people, and now the sea, Stardew Valley was beginning to feel less like a stopover and more like a life.