Morning light spilled across the fields, the air crisp and cool. Connie stepped outside with Snow at his heels, the cat weaving between his legs as though urging him to hurry. The rows of green shoots shimmered with dew, each leaf reaching toward the sun.
He filled his watering can from the well and moved along the crops, one row at a time. Parsnips, potatoes, kale—he worked carefully, making sure every patch of soil was damp but not drowned. The routine was already grounding him, the rhythm of watering as steady as the rise of the sun.
Just as he finished, the crunch of boots on gravel made him glance toward the road. Clint approached, a bulky object strapped awkwardly to his back.
"Morning," the blacksmith called, shifting the weight off his shoulders. He set it down with a heavy thud near the farmhouse steps—a squat, stone furnace, blackened from use but solid and dependable.
"Thought I'd bring this by, like I said. You'll need it if you're planning to do more with what you find underground."
Connie ran a hand along the furnace's rough surface. "Again so you're just giving this to me?"
Clint shrugged. "Think of it as an investment. The valley needs someone making use of the land again, and you've got the drive. Besides…" He dug a folded paper from his pocket and set it on top of the furnace. "That's a blueprint. Details on how to build more of these yourself. Can't have you relying on me for every last thing."
Connie unfolded the paper, scanning the neat diagrams. Wood, stone, copper ore—simple enough, at least in theory. The gesture hit him harder than he expected. Clint hadn't just handed over a tool; he'd handed him a way forward.
"Thanks," Connie said, his voice quieter than he meant.
Clint nodded once, adjusting his gloves. "Good luck with it. I'll let you get to work." And with that, he turned back down the road, his broad frame soon lost in the trees.
Connie wasted no time. From his satchel, he pulled a handful of copper ore he'd dug up the day before. He loaded the furnace carefully, watching as the flames caught and the ore began to glow.
The process was slow, but the crackle of fire and the faint metallic scent rising into the air filled him with a strange satisfaction. When he pulled the first shining copper bar free, he couldn't help but smile. Solid, tangible proof of progress.
The day stretched on as he fed more ore into the flames, working steadily until he had five gleaming copper bars stacked neatly on the workbench. Each one caught the light like a promise, and for the first time in years, Connie felt not just useful—but capable.
By afternoon, his arms itched for a change of pace. He grabbed his fishing rod and decided to explore the mountains above town. The climb was steep but refreshing, the air cooler as pine trees thickened around him.
At the edge of a quiet lake, he found a flat rock and cast his line. The water rippled, and before long, the bobber dipped. He reeled in with effort, grinning as a sunfish broke the surface, scales flashing in the light.
A while later, a heavier tug nearly pulled the rod from his hands. After a tense struggle, he hauled in a slick catfish, its whiskers twitching in protest. By the time he pulled in a smallmouth bass, his arms ached, but his spirits soared.
He strung the fish through their gills on a branch, slinging it over his shoulder like a makeshift trophy.
On the path back down, the fading light caught on something unusual. Across a narrow bridge, half-hidden by trees, stood a cottage-like building beside the mouth of a yawning cave. The wood was old but sturdy, its windows dark. A prickle of curiosity stirred in Connie's chest, but exhaustion weighed heavier.
"Another day," he murmured, adjusting the branch of fish and turning back toward home.
Near the fork in the road, voices drifted from ahead. Connie rounded the bend to find two figures: a woman with auburn hair tied back in a practical bun, and a younger woman with short auburn hair, bronze skin, and glasses that caught the last of the sun.
The older woman spotted him first and waved. "Hey there! You must be the new farmer everyone's been talking about. I'm Robin—the local carpenter. And this here's my daughter, Maru."
Maru smiled warmly, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Nice to meet you. Mom mentioned you'd taken over the old farm. How's it going?"
Connie adjusted the branch of fish on his shoulder, offering a tired but genuine smile. "Better every day. Hard work, but it's starting to feel like mine."
Robin chuckled. "That's good to hear. If you ever need buildings repaired or new ones put up—barns, coops, you name it—I'm your gal."
Maru pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a spark of excitement in her voice. "And if you ever need gadgets or tools, well… I tinker a bit. Been doing it since I was a kid. When I'm not at the clinic, anyway."
Friendly, ambitious, and already speaking with purpose—Connie could see the difference between mother and daughter clearly. He nodded, filing their names away. "I'll remember that."
Snow meowed from his perch in Connie's satchel, drawing both women's attention.
Robin laughed. "Looks like you've already got good company."
They parted ways with waves and smiles, their voices fading down the road. Connie trudged the rest of the way home, the branch of fish heavy on his shoulder, the copper bars waiting on the workbench, and the furnace still glowing faintly in the fading light.