The rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, pulling Connie from sleep. He stretched, joints stiff from yesterday's hours at the dock, and pulled himself from bed. Snow was curled up on the rug, blinking lazily as if to say you're late.
When Connie opened the farmhouse door, he froze.
A small pouch sat on the porch railing, tied shut with twine. Curious, he loosened it and nearly dropped it when the weight hit his palm. Gold. He spilled the coins into his hand and counted slowly, his lips curling into a grin as the total sank in.
1,400 gold.
His parsnips, his fish, his sweat and soil—all of it had turned into a tidy sum overnight. For the first time since arriving, Connie felt proof that his effort meant something. His work had spoken, and the valley had answered.
He set the pouch down and leaned against the porch, letting the morning breeze brush against his face. "Guess I'm really doing this," he murmured.
The field still looked wild in places, weeds thick and stones jutting up from the soil. Connie grabbed his tools—worn, chipped, but steady—and set to work. The sun climbed as he hacked through undergrowth, pulled rocks loose from the dirt, and cleared another swath of land wide enough for new crops. Sweat dripped down his temples, his shoulders ached, but with each swing the farm looked less like a mess and more like potential.
Snow trailed him the whole time, pouncing on uprooted weeds and batting at stones, his meows punctuating Connie's work. By midday, the soil stretched bare and ready.
Connie wiped his brow, the pouch of gold heavy in his pocket. He knew where to go next.
The bell over the general store's door jingled as Connie stepped inside. Pierre looked up from the counter, smiling as soon as he recognized him.
"Back already? You must've had a good harvest."
Connie grinned faintly, setting his coins on the counter. "Better than I expected. I'd like to buy some seeds—enough to keep me busy."
Pierre counted out the gold with practiced hands, nodding in approval. "Smart choice. A farmer with gold in his pocket should always be thinking of the next season."
Connie scanned the shelves before pointing. "Potatoes. More parsnips. And… a handful of kale, I think."
"A fine spread," Pierre said, gathering the packets. "Parsnips are quick, potatoes hearty, kale's good for variety. You're learning fast."
Connie took the seeds, slipping them carefully into his satchel. "Just proud of what I've managed so far."
"You should be," Pierre said warmly. "First harvest is always the hardest. You've done well."
Connie nodded, the praise landing heavier than he expected.
He pushed open the shop door, sunlight washing over him as he stepped outside. Just as he turned down the path, he nearly collided with a flash of purple hair.
"Hey!" Abigail exclaimed, steadying herself. She blinked up at him, then broke into a teasing smile. "You're Connie, right? The new farmer who stole my old stomping grounds."
"Stomping grounds?" Connie asked, adjusting the seed packets in his satchel.
"Your farm," Abigail said, tilting her head toward the road that led to his land. "Before you showed up, I used to wander there all the time. Overgrown fields, old sheds, crumbling fences—it was like an adventure waiting to happen. And now…" She narrowed her eyes in mock irritation. "You've gone and cleared it all out. Boring."
Connie chuckled. "Sorry about that. Guess I ruined your playground."
She folded her arms, but the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. "Don't think I'll forgive you so easily. Exploring the ruins was half the fun. Now it's just… dirt."
Her tone was playful, but there was something deeper behind it—a restless energy, a longing that didn't quite fit within the walls of Pelican Town.
"You like adventure, huh?" Connie asked.
Abigail's eyes lit up. "Of course. Exploring, discovering things, maybe even a quest or two if life had more of them. The valley's quiet, but if you know where to look, there are secrets. Caves, forests, who knows what else." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Bet there's more to this place than people realize."
Connie raised a brow. "Sounds like you'd rather be wielding a sword than working a farm."
"Maybe I would," Abigail said with a smirk. "But someone's got to do the farming, I guess. And hey—at least you're making the place interesting again."
She brushed past him, her hair catching the light as she headed back toward the shop. "Don't make it too neat out there, farmer. Leave something for me to explore."
Connie watched her go, the packet of seeds heavy in his satchel. Abigail's words echoed in his mind, mingling with the weight of his gold and the ache in his arms.
The earth was cool beneath Connie's boots as he knelt in the freshly cleared field. One by one, he pressed the seeds into the soil, lining them up with quiet care. Rows of neat squares began to form, each packet of seed emptying into its own little section.
Fifteen parsnips. Twenty pieces of kale. Twenty potatoes.
He stood back once the last mound was covered, stretching his sore shoulders. Snow padded through the field, nose twitching. Connie couldn't help but smile—his land no longer looked abandoned. It looked alive.
As he wiped the dirt from his palms, something caught his eye: a slip of paper peeking from the mailbox by the road. Curious, he brushed it clean and tore it open.
Dear Connie,
I'd like to formally invite you to pay a visit to our Community Center. It's the heart of Pelican Town—or, at least, it once was. I think you may find it… interesting. Please stop by when you have a chance.
—Mayor Lewis
Connie folded the letter, a frown tugging at his brow. The way Lewis had written it didn't sound like a cheerful invitation—it sounded more like a challenge.
The Community Center sat at the north end of town, its roof sagging and paint peeling, windows covered in grime. Connie hesitated at the door, one hand resting against the weathered wood. The place looked worse than his farm had when he first arrived.
Inside, the air smelled of mold and dust. Broken floorboards creaked under his boots as he stepped into the main hall. Sunlight filtered through cracks, painting long shadows over the warped furniture and scattered papers.
And then—movement.
Connie froze. At the far end of the hall, a small green shape darted across the floor. Round, almost like a ball, it shimmered faintly before vanishing into the darkness of a corner.
He blinked, heart quickening. "What the…?"
Snow wasn't here. He was alone.
Cautiously, Connie crossed the hall. Near where the creature had been, a slip of paper lay on the ground. He bent to pick it up, squinting in the dim light.
Strange markings filled the page. Curved lines, loops, and symbols that meant nothing to him. Not English, not any language he'd ever seen.
He rubbed his thumb over the ink, but the writing didn't blur—it was sharp, deliberate, like it was meant to be understood by someone… just not him.
The silence pressed in, heavy and close. Connie's skin prickled as he glanced at the corner where the creature had disappeared. Nothing stirred, but he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on him.
He folded the paper, slipped it back to the floor, and backed away. His boots echoed too loudly against the wooden boards, each step a little faster than the last until he was outside, gulping down the fresh air.
The evening light had shifted to gold, the valley stretching calm and quiet before him. The Community Center loomed behind, still and empty.
Connie ran a hand through his half-wavy hair, exhaling slowly. "What was that place…?"
He turned down the road toward his farm. The neat rows of his new crops waited for him there, simple and honest. He decided not to think about green creatures or strange languages—not tonight.
For now, home was enough.