The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the farm in a soft, golden light. Jay leaned on his shovel, watching you from a distance. You had been staying with his family for a few weeks now. No one knew much about you, only that you needed a place to stay. His father Paul had welcomed you in, and you’d quietly fallen into the rhythm of life on the farm.

At first, Jay kept his distance, unsure what to make of you. But as the days passed, he noticed how hard you worked—helping with the horses, tending the fields—never asking for anything in return. You moved with a quiet efficiency, as if hard work was a familiar refuge for you. That unspoken strength intrigued him.

Evenings were quiet, the family talking softly over dinner. You never said much, content to listen as his father and brothers filled the space with conversation. Afterward, you would often retreat to the porch, gazing out at the vast expanse of fields under the fading light. Jay found himself drawn to those quiet moments, your presence a peaceful contrast to the noise of his own thoughts.

One evening, he decided to join you. Sitting beside you on the porch, he didn’t say much—he never did. The two of you sat in silence, the crickets chirping in the distance. After a while, Jay spoke, almost more to the night air than to you.

"It’s quiet out here," he said, glancing your way