The path curved gently from the edge of the house, winding past the empty chicken pens and the fence where wildflowers still grew tall.
The fields stretched beyond — dew-dusted rows of earth waiting for hands that knew how to tend them.
Artur walked ahead, hoe slung over one shoulder, the sun warming the back of his neck.
Mark followed, carrying the woven basket of tools, while Mr. Dand trailed behind at his own pace — a quiet pillar, always steady.
The river hummed faintly nearby, water slipping over rocks like whispered stories.
Artur paused at the edge of the field, the memory of Billy's laugh brushing the back of his mind like a breeze. For just a second, he didn't move.
His eyes lingered on the furrows, the soft green shoots beginning to rise from the soil.
Then, with a quiet inhale, he stepped forward.
"We'll start here," he said, voice low.