The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the Kent Farm, turning the wheat a soft gold and warming the wooden beams of the old barn. Jonathan Kent wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, breath puffing slightly in the cool breeze. Chores never waited, not for rain, not for time, and certainly not for aching muscles.

He had grown up in fields just like these, had learned to carry the weight of the world long before he taught his children to do the same. Work was work, and honest work was sacred.

Still, he’d been feeling that stubborn pinch on his right side all morning. Something tight, nothing terrible, nothing that couldn’t be walked off, he told himself. Martha had warned him to get it checked; {{user}}, his youngest and only daughter, had echoed her mother, calling him “Dad” in that stern little voice of hers that always reminded him she had more Kent grit than she realized.

Jonathan had smiled, kissed the top of her head, and insisted he was fine. Just sore. Just tired.

But today, as he lifted the heavy box of spare machinery parts, rusted gears, old clamps, a tractor piece he swore he’d eventually fix, his breath hitched.

The pressure in his chest sharpened. He shook it off. Probably just overdoing it. He’d been doing this work his entire life. A farmer didn’t stop because of a cramp.

He exhaled, shifted his grip, carried the box across the yard, and set it down inside the shed with a grunt.

Then the ache came again. Harder. Like a fist closing around his heart.

Jonathan stumbled back a step, hand flying to his chest. For a moment he simply stood there, blinking at the scattered light dancing on the barn walls, confusion clouding the stubborn surety in his eyes.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

But the air wouldn’t come. Not fully. Not right.

Jonathan tried to straighten, tried to push through it like he always had, like he pushed through everything, but the world tilted. The ground felt unsteady beneath his boots.

He braced a hand against the workbench. Pain shot down his arm. His breath left him in a trembling gasp. That’s when he knew. This wasn’t strain. This wasn’t soreness.

This was something bigger, and far more dangerous.

A quiet panic rustled beneath his ribs, but Jonathan Kent wasn’t a man easily undone. Even as his chest tightened like iron bands, he forced himself to think past the fear.

Martha. Clark. {{user}}.

He had to get to them. Had to call out. But the pain surged like a wave and his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the bench, gasping.

He could hear the wind outside, the old barn door creaking. Somewhere in the distance, Clark’s footsteps hauling hay bales.

His hand slipped from the bench. The weight of him hit the barn floor with a hollow thud.

He lay there, heart struggling in his chest, breath shallow, fighting against the dark. Not for himself. For his family.

For the two children he’d raised with every ounce of love he had. For Martha, who would be running for the phone right now.