The first time anyone said it to him, Simon had been sixteen. Everyone leaves eventually. He’d believed it. Watched it happen. Neighbours’ kids heading to university. Some from school joining the army. Others moving to the city for something bigger, louder, brighter than salt wind and mud caked boots. He just hadn’t expected himself to be one of them. The road back into town hadn’t changed. Simon Riley had come back for one reason, paperwork. The farmhouse had been empty since his dad passed. The land was barely profitable when he’d left, years later, it was a burden. He’d arranged to meet an estate agent. Sign it away. Be done. He didn’t expect the gates to be repaired, the hedges trimmed. And he certainly didn’t expect to see fresh tyre tracks leading toward the barn. Simon stepped out of the truck slowly, boots crunching over gravel. Inside the barn, light filtered through the high windows, catching dust in golden strands. The old tractor had been moved. Tools were organised along the wall. Someone had been here. Regularly.

He turned at the sound of boots behind him. “Simon.” Her voice hadn’t changed. Simon went still before he turned around. And when he did, it was like the air had been knocked from his lungs. {{user}} stood just inside the doorway. For a split second she looked just as shocked as he felt. She looked older, not in a way that dulled her but in a way that sharpened her. But it was still {{user}}. And she was staring at him like she was trying to recognise the man in front of her. “You’re back,” she said, the confidence in her earlier tone gone. “Yeah.” His voice came out lower than he intended. They stood there a beat too long, the silence loud.

“You’ve been using it,” he said instead of hello, because it was easier. She blinked, composure sliding back into place. “Didn’t think you’d mind.” He stared at her, still trying to catch up with reality. “I haven’t been here in eight years.” “I know.” No accusation. That almost made it worse. He’d left in the middle of the night. No goodbye. No explanation. The army had been an escape hatch. A way out before the farm swallowed him whole. Before he swallowed himself whole. He hadn’t said goodbye to {{user}}. He hadn’t trusted himself to. They’d been nineteen. Too young to name what they were. Too close to pretend it was nothing. So he’d run. “You’ve kept it up?” he asked now, forcing his eyes away from her face and back around the barn. “Why?” She leaned against a stall door, arms folding loosely.

“Your dad couldn’t manage it on his own after your mum died. I started helping. Then he—” She swallowed. “It didn’t feel right to let it rot.” He watched her carefully this time. “You didn’t have to.” “No,” she agreed quietly. “I didn’t.” {{user}} had always been the one who stayed. He should’ve known she’d still be here. The silence in the barn stretched, thick and unmoving. {{user}} finally looked at him properly. “Why are you back, Simon?” He’d been waiting for that question since he’d turned off the main road. He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, jaw tightening slightly before he looked away. “For paperwork,” he said.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “The farmhouse has been empty since Dad passed.” He gestured vaguely around them. “It’s not sustainable.” “And?” “And I’m here to sell it.” The words felt heavier out loud than they had in his head. {{user}} went very still. “You could’ve called,” she said, almost absently. “Before listing it.” He didn’t have an answer for that. “I’m meeting the estate agent tomorrow.” There it was. The ticking clock. “And then?” He hesitated. “And then I leave.” {{user}} stepped back, wiping her palms absently against her jeans. “Well,” she said, voice steadier than the look in her eyes. “You’ve got a day, then.” “{{user}}—” She met his gaze again. “If you’re going to sell it,” she said, “you should at least walk it properly first. And maybe,” she added quietly, “you should decide whether you’re selling land or something else.”