Chapter Text
The phone was pressed too tightly to her ear, and she realized she was biting the inside of her cheek again.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” her mother asked. The fifth time this morning.
Lilian exhaled through her nose, slow and irritated. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“You’ve said that already.” A sigh, static across the line. “I’m only worried about your wellbeing, that’s all.”
Her reply came out flat, dry. “And I’ve told you I’m fine.”
Before her mother could speak again, she ended the call. The silence in the farmhouse kitchen hit like a drop in barometric pressure. She slid her glasses off, set them on the table with care, then pressed the pads of her fingers against the bridge of her nose. A headache was waiting for her, inevitable as rain. First day back at the old farm, and she was already like this.
Thirty-two years old, freshly discharged from therapy. Her shrink — a beautiful, wise woman with russet-brown skin and gentle, steady eyes — had suggested she start weaning herself off the medication. “I think you’re ready,” she’d said, voice warm like coffee.
Lilian had smiled politely, said she’d be eager to try. Inside, terror coiled tight. She would never tell her shrink that. She wanted to be the kind of person who could do this, so she agreed.
The knock startled her. She blinked, pushed her glasses back on, and opened the door.
An older man stood there, mustache bristling under the shadow of a brown cap. Suspenders stretched over a faded green shirt. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of an old photograph.
“Miss Lilian?” he asked. “Mayor Lewis. We spoke on the phone.”
She nodded, let him inside. Papers were signed at the same table where her glasses had rested, the pen dragging sluggishly in her tired hand. He talked while she wrote: about her grandfather (Yoba bless his soul), about his contributions to the Valley’s economy, about how proud he’d be to see her here now.
Lilian almost rolled her eyes at the invocation of Yoba, but kept her face polite. Agnostic. Always politely agnostic.
She didn’t remember her grandfather as noble or good for the Valley. She remembered him coughing until his body shook apart, pneumonia stripping him down to skin and bone in his worn-out green pajamas. She remembered not being able to look away from the way his breath rattled like a machine that would never start again.
Lewis kept talking until he was satisfied, gathered up the paperwork, and stood. “Don’t you worry about the boring bureaucracy, Miss Lilian. You should go outside, meet the townsfolk. They’ll be glad to have you.”
She gave him a smile that felt more like a performance. “Of course. I’ll gladly do that.”
As soon as the door shut behind him, Lilian pulled out her phone and dialed her therapist.
☕︎
Dr. Grier’s voice lingered in her mind as she hung up. Go outside. Meet people. Touch grass.
Literally.
Lilian stepped outside, letting the fresh air hit her face. A few daffodils nodded in the breeze near the bus stop, golden and stubborn. She felt the sunlight on her skin and almost smiled at the sky—but that would have been too pathetic. She kept walking, boots crunching on the gravel path toward town.
She passed the medical clinic, its white siding gleaming in the sun. Something twisted in her chest. The life she might have had, if only she had pushed through med school, seemed to ripple through the air between the buildings.
She shook her head. Don’t. With that thought tucked away, she continued on to the general store, ready to pick out her seeds.
Inside the store, it smelled faintly of sawdust and soap. Lilian wandered the aisles, picking out spring seeds: parsnips, potatoes, jazz, kale, cauliflower. At the counter, a middle-aged man with ginger hair smiled at her. He chatted about farming, upcoming sales, and which crops were easiest for new gardeners. Lilian nodded along, absently tracing her fingers over the seed packets.
On her way out, something caught her eye: a woman with green hair, probably Lilian’s age, dressed in blue, carrying a pot cradled like a child. “How can I get one of those?” Lilian asked aloud, pointing to the seedling.
The woman’s smile was warm, unguarded. “Oh, that’s from my personal garden. I’m Caroline, by the way. Come back in a few weeks and I can show you other options.”
Lilian nodded. Caroline’s eyes twinkled.
“Oh, yeah. We also have aerobic dance classes every Tuesday from 1 to 4 in the adjacent room. And there’s a small room with a shrine for Sunday ceremonies, if you’re interested.”
Lilian thanked her and headed back to the farm, the sun soft on her shoulders.
She knelt by the freshly tilled soil, seeds in hand, and felt a flutter of something fragile: hope. She imagined the garden in full bloom, the bright green shoots stretching toward the sky, the gentle rustle of leaves. Parsnips for roasting, kale for salads, potatoes for soups. Maybe later she could focus on making jam, maybe even wine.
She could do this, she told herself. One step at a time. You can do this. You can get better.
The afternoon passed in quiet work: planting, patting soil, watering. By the time she finished, her hands were muddy, her shirt speckled, but her chest felt lighter. She rubbed her hands together, wiped them on her pants, and stepped into the farmhouse, breathing in the familiar, slightly dusty air.
Cooking took effort, but it grounded her. She scrubbed the stove until the dust vanished, boiled water for instant ramen, tossed a simple salad. As she reached for the silverware, a small thought surfaced, tentative but insistent: maybe tomorrow she could join the exercise class Caroline mentioned.
Lilian let herself imagine not just surviving, but living—slowly, carefully, one step at a time.
⋆˙𓍊₊ ⊹˚
The morning light crept across the kitchen counter, pale and slow. Lilian leaned against the cabinets, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand. She opened the cupboard above the sink and began rummaging through it—boxes of instant noodles, a jar of peanut butter, a tin of loose tea. No coffee.
Her shoulders slumped. She checked the lower cabinet anyway, as if hope might be hiding there with the cleaning supplies. Nothing.
And then she remembered: she hadn’t brought her coffee maker from her mother’s house.
The ghost of last night’s headache stirred behind her eyes. For a moment she stood there, pressing her fingertips into her temple, willing it to fade. “Not today,” she muttered under her breath. This was not going to ruin her day.
She stepped outside, the air cool against her skin, and filled the watering can at the old well. The first stream hit the soil with a satisfying hiss, darkening the dirt. Somewhere, she’d once read that plants grew better if you talked to them. It felt silly, but she tried anyway.
“Good morning, parsnips,” she murmured to one patch.
“Hang in there, kale.”
She crouched over the potatoes, touching the rim of the soil with her fingers. “You’re going to do great.”
It was ridiculous. It was also strangely comforting.
By the time the last row was watered, the back of her neck was damp with sweat. She set the can down and lowered herself onto the porch steps. For a while she just sat there, feeling the quiet pulse of the Valley. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled.
Back inside, she stripped off her dusty shirt and took a quick shower. The hot water loosened the knot between her shoulders. She pulled on a black tank top, grey shorts, and sneakers, tying her auburn hair into a ponytail. A granola bar stood in for breakfast.
By half past noon, the sun was warm on her back as she made her way down the path toward town. She passed the clinic again, its white siding gleaming. A movement inside caught her eye—someone at the counter, head bent over paperwork—but she kept walking.
Inside the general store, Lilian scanned the counter for Caroline.
No sign of her.
Her palms felt suddenly damp. She didn’t want to wander into the other rooms alone—she didn’t even know which one held the aerobics class, and barging in uninvited felt… wrong.
“Oh, hello. You here for the aerobics class?”
She turned toward the voice.
The woman standing there had long, reddish-brown hair swept into a thick side braid that draped over her shoulder, her bangs soft and a little messy. Her round face carried the kind of smile that made strangers feel safe.
“Mm… yes,” Lilian said. “I’m Lilian. I just moved here.”
“Oh, the new farmer! Lewis told me about you. I’m Marnie—swing by my ranch sometime.”
Marnie’s long green dress brushed the tops of her shoes, a red blouse peeking out beneath, its wide sleeves flaring gently when she moved. Everything about her made Lilian want a hug.
“Follow me,” Marnie said, as if she could read Lilian’s hesitation. She opened the door to the north of the store and led her into a side room.
Caroline stood at the front, chatting with three other women Lilian hadn’t met yet.
One had light brown hair in a simple braid, her light skin and gentle features framed by a long-sleeved purple top and dark pants.
Did everyone in this town braid their hair? Lilian wondered.
Beside her was a woman with bright, fiery-orange hair tied into a high ponytail. Her posture was sharp, confident. She wore a golden-yellow shirt under a brown vest, forest green pants completing the look.
The third woman clearly rejected earthy tones—her short, messy blue hair bounced as she turned, eyes bright and playful under dark brows. Red lipstick, red polo shirt, matching skirt, bracelets stacked up one wrist in a clinking rainbow.
Marnie made the introductions—Jodi, Robin, Emily—and almost immediately the questions began.
“It’s a quiet little town, so it’s exciting when someone new moves in!” Jodi said warmly.
“You’re going to love it here. I can read it in your face,” Emily grinned.
“Met everyone yet? That sounds exhausting,” Robin said.
“Have you met my daughter Abigail? Purple hair—hard to miss,” Caroline asked.
“And if you’re ever looking for something to do in the evening, stop by the saloon. I work there,” Emily added.
Lilian tried to keep up—yes, she was sure she’d love Pelican Town; no, she hadn’t met everyone; no, she hadn’t met Abigail; yes, she’d drop by the saloon sometime—but the chatter felt like standing in a warm tide she couldn’t quite catch her breath in.
Before the next question could come, the door opened again.
A man stepped in—mid-thirties, light skin flushed from the cold air or maybe exercise. His medium-brown hair was tousled, a few strands escaping the blue headband holding it back.
“Afternoon, ladies! Sorry I’m late—changing seasons always bring in a wave of patients,” he said, voice warm.
“Doc, come meet the new farmer!” Emily called.
He set a bag in the corner and crossed the room, his soft blue eyes framed by rectangular glasses. The thick brows gave him a look both kind and a little weary. A neatly groomed mustache—new, perhaps—moved with his small, polite smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the local doc—” His gaze met hers. “ Oh.”
Lilian couldn’t believe her eyes. It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense—it was just that she couldn’t believe how unlucky she was.
There was no doubt. He had grown a mustache now, but that was him.
She took in the dark green jacket, the blue wristbands, the familiar curve of his mouth.
Of course.
“Harvey,” Lilian said, her sigh curling around the name like an old habit. She smiled, but it was the brittle kind. “Of course.”