Morning light spilled through the thin curtains, painting stripes across the farmhouse floor. Snow stretched on the rug, yawning wide before curling back into a ball. Connie rolled out of bed with the kind of heaviness that came after a long week of labor, but the sight outside his window chased away the sleep.
Neat rows of soil waited in the field, dotted with tiny green shoots pushing their way into the world. His work was taking root. Connie pulled on his boots, grabbed the watering can, and stepped out into the cool air. The morning dew clung to the leaves as he made his way down each row, pouring careful streams over the parsnips, kale, and potatoes.
When he finished, he set the can by the porch. That was when he noticed something unusual.
A small, weathered notebook rested inside his mailbox, tied shut with string. No letter, no name. Curious, Connie untied it and flipped through the pages. The writing was neat but hurried, diagrams sketched alongside notes.
Scarecrows to keep the crows from stealing crops.
Chests for storage, using wood.
Fences to shape and protect fields.
Connie's brow furrowed. It wasn't a letter—it was a guide. A manual for living off the land, as if someone wanted him to succeed.
He glanced at his half-wild farm and then back to the notebook. "Guess it's time to try my hand at building."
He fetched his axe and began chopping wood from the scattered stumps near the farmhouse. Each strike echoed through the valley, the wood splitting into neat chunks. The air smelled of sap and fresh bark, earthy and alive. From the weeds growing tall around the property, he pulled long strands of tough fiber, stuffing them into a bundle.
As he broke open one of the larger rocks near the field, his pickaxe struck something harder. The stone crumbled away to reveal a small, blackened lump—coal. He turned it over in his hand, the weight solid and promising.
"Looks like this'll do," Connie muttered.
Back at the farmhouse, he laid out his materials: stacks of wood, bundles of fiber, and the coal. With slow, careful hands, he shaped and tied the pieces together. By midday, two squat scarecrows stood watch over the field, their arms stretched wide and straw-stuffed heads tilted toward the rows of sprouts.
Snow pawed at one of them curiously, then leapt back when it swayed in the wind. Connie chuckled. "Relax. They're here to help us."
Deciding to clear out the farm more Connie can be seen swining his pickaxe, the rhythm of breaking stones carried on, steady and sharp. Dust clung to his hands, sweat beaded on his brow. Every so often, a lump of coal rolled free, which he tucked carefully into his satchel.
Then his pick struck something different. The sound was sharper, less hollow, and the stone fractured unevenly. As Connie pried it apart, a strange object clattered into the dirt.
It was round, heavy, and dark on the outside—like a lump of cooled lava. But as he turned it in his hands, he saw something flickering beneath the rough surface. Light glimmered faintly through hairline cracks, hints of color shifting deep inside. It wasn't glass, and it wasn't ordinary stone.
Connie held it closer, the sunlight catching on its hidden core. There was definitely something trapped inside.
He frowned, brushing dirt off the exterior. "What are you?"
Snow padded up and sniffed at the object, tail twitching. When Connie rolled it in his palm, it gave a faint hollow echo, as though it was waiting to be opened.
Too unusual to ignore, too mysterious to toss aside. Connie slipped it carefully into his satchel, alongside the lumps of coal. "I'll bring this to Clint," he muttered. "If anyone knows how to open it, it'll be him."
By late afternoon, Connie made his way into town with the strange, dark geode tucked carefully in his satchel. The blacksmith's shop sat near the river, its chimney puffing a steady line of smoke into the sky. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with the smell of metal.
Clint looked up from his forge as Connie stepped in, wiping his hands on a soot-stained cloth. "You're the new farmer, right? What've you got there?"
Connie placed the geode on the counter. "Found this while clearing rocks on my land. Looks… different."
Clint turned it over, brows lifting. "Huh. Haven't seen one this nice in a while. These geodes form deep underground—always holdin' something inside. Want me to crack it open?"
At Connie's nod, Clint set the stone on an anvil and brought down his hammer in a single sharp strike. The shell split with a clean crack, pieces scattering across the counter. From the hollow center slid a polished, gleaming mineral—iridescent blues and greens flashing like lightning trapped in stone.
Clint whistled low. "Well, would ya look at that. Thunder egg." He nudged it toward Connie with a finger. "Rare find. According to legend, thunder spirits used to throw these at one another in fits of anger. Course, that's just old talk, but folks believe it."
Connie picked up the mineral, the surface cool and smooth, colors shifting as he turned it.
Clint crossed his arms, gesturing out the window. "Museum's just down the road, next to here. Gunther runs the place—he'll want to see this. Tell you what, he's been desperate for someone to donate new pieces. Place is near empty. You give that to him, he'll make it worth your while."
At the museum, Gunther greeted Connie with a polite smile, his spectacles sliding down his nose. The building behind him was quiet, rows of display cases sitting mostly bare.
"Well now, what have we here?" Gunther asked as Connie set the thunder egg on the counter. His eyes widened, and he carefully lifted the stone, turning it in the light. "Marvelous… truly marvelous. Do you know what this is?"
"Clint called it a thunder egg," Connie said.
"Correct," Gunther said with excitement. "They say the skies themselves forged these, thrown down by angry spirits during storms. Of course, whether that's true or not hardly matters. What matters is that this—this belongs in the museum."
He set the thunder egg gently into an empty display case, the glass reflecting its inner glow. Turning back, Gunther's expression softened. "Listen, farmer. If you ever come across anything unusual—stones, gems, artifacts of any kind—bring them here. This museum has been too quiet for too long, and I aim to change that. I'll see you rewarded properly for your efforts."
Connie nodded, glancing at the bare shelves stretching around him. The thunder egg stood alone, vibrant against the emptiness, almost daring him to find more.
"I'll keep that in mind," Connie said
The glass door of the museum closed behind Connie with a soft click, the late sunlight spilling across the steps as he made his way back into town. His satchel felt strangely lighter now, though the memory of the thunder egg's shifting colors still lingered in his mind.
As he passed by the blacksmith's again, Clint's voice called from the doorway.
"Hey, farmer—hold up."
Connie turned. Clint stood in the frame, arms crossed, his usual stoic expression softened by a hint of thoughtfulness.
"Gunther told me what you dropped off," Clint said, stepping closer. "That thunder egg? Not a bad start at all." He scratched at his beard, then added, "Figured I'd give you something to help with what you'll find next."
Connie raised a brow. "Something?"
"A furnace," Clint said simply. "I'll bring it by your farm tomorrow morning. With it, you can smelt the ores you dig up into bars—copper, iron, maybe even gold down the line. Trust me, it'll make your life easier if you plan on building more than scarecrows."
Connie blinked. "You're just… giving me one?"
Clint shrugged. "Call it a welcome gift. And maybe a little encouragement. The valley could use someone willing to dig deeper than the surface. Who knows what else you'll pull up out there?"
For a moment, the clang of the forge filled the silence between them. Then Clint nodded once, firm and final. "I'll see you in the morning."
Connie offered a small smile. "Thanks. I'll make good use of it."
As he headed back toward his farm, the sky painted itself in hues of orange and violet. Behind him, the museum had gained its first treasure, and ahead, the promise of fire and metal waited.