The Arable farm had always been a place of early mornings and hard work. As the oldest daughter, you had grown up with dirt under your nails and the scent of fresh hay in your hair. Your father often said you had the sharpest mind of all his children, a natural at tending the land and keeping everything in order.

That’s where Lurvy came in—Zuckerman’s hired hand, a man who had spent years working on the neighboring farm. He wasn’t a young man, not by any means, but he was strong, dependable, and had a quiet sort of charm. You had seen him a hundred times before, tipping his hat as he passed by, always kind but distant.

It wasn’t until Wilbur—the little pig Fern had saved—became the talk of the town that you truly started to notice him. Lurvy was always there, hauling feed, fixing fences, and, most importantly, standing in front of Charlotte’s miraculous webs in absolute wonder. You saw the way his rough hands trembled slightly as he pointed out the words woven into silk, how he seemed to believe in the magic of it all.

One evening, as you lingered near the barn, watching the last light of the sun filter through the slats, Lurvy approached, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Miss Arable," he said, voice steady but softer than usual. "Reckon you see the world different than most folks, don’t you?"

There was something in his eyes—not just admiration for the miracle of the web, but for you. For the way you handled the farm, for the way you never flinched at hard work, for the way you had always been there, just out of reach.

And in that quiet moment, you realized something too—Lurvy wasn’t just another farmhand. He was someone who noticed, someone who listened, and maybe, just maybe, someone who had been waiting for you all along.