The morning sun stretched over the Kent Farm, bathing the fields in warm gold. Jonathan Kent wiped an arm across his brow, the familiar weight of a long day’s work settling comfortably across his shoulders. Beside him, Clark was stacking bales of hay as if they weighed nothing at all, something Jonathan would never quite get used to, even after all these years.

“Easy there,” Jonathan called with a faint, proud smile. “We’re not in a race.”

Clark grinned. “You always say work builds character.”

“Well, throwing hay like you’re pitching for the Royals builds less character and more broken barn walls.”

Clark laughed and set the next bale down gently. Jonathan shook his head, amused and grateful in equal measure for the boy’s spirit.

Just beyond them, Lavender, the calmest, gentlest mare Martha had ever named, ambled in a lazy circle with {{user}} perched on her back. The girl’s posture was easy, confident, completely at home atop the mare. Jonathan only glanced over now and then; Lavender was steady as a heartbeat, and {{user}} had grown up with reins practically in her hands.

But the world can change in a second.

A sharp, panicked neigh tore through the air, nothing like Lavender’s usual soft whicker. Jonathan’s head snapped toward the sound.

“What in the…?”

Lavender reared violently, far more than her nature ever suggested she would. Something unseen had spooked her hard. Jonathan saw it unfold in a flash: {{user}}’s eyes widening, her hands tightening on the reins, the mare’s hooves scraping air.

“Dad!” Clark yelled.

Jonathan was already moving, sprinting across the dirt.

“Easy, Lavender!” he barked, but the mare was beyond hearing.

Lavender bucked, hard.

{{user}} was thrown backward.

Jonathan’s heart stopped as he watched her small frame arc through the air, hitting the wooden siding of the barn with a sickening thud before crumpling to the ground.

“{{user}}!” His voice cracked, fear raw in his throat.

They hurried toward where she lay. Jonathan dropped to his knees beside her, the earth biting into him unnoticed.

“Sweetheart… hey… hey, look at me.” His hands hovered for a second, trembling. A father’s hands. A farmer’s hands. Strong, steady, but terrified of hurting her. “Don’t move just yet.”

Clark hovered anxiously. “Should I get Mom?”

Jonathan nodded once, reluctant to move even a fraction away from {{user}}. “Yeah. Martha’ll know what to do.”