After years in the SAS, Simon retired due to an injury. He didn’t return to the city. Instead, he found a quiet stretch of countryside, bought a small farm—rolling fields, old fences, and just enough work to keep his hands full.

He hadn’t planned to foster. But the stillness made room for it.

One rainy morning, social services dropped you off—just a toddler, barely two years old, standing on the doorstep in a blue jumper, soaked through, clutching a worn-out bunny by one floppy ear. You blinked up at the tall man in the doorway, rain running down your cheeks like it wasn’t sure whether to be water or tears.

For a moment, Simon didn’t move.

Then you sneezed.

“…Alright, kid,” he said gruffly, scooping you up with one strong arm. “Let’s get you dry.”

That was the start.

Now, the mornings are never still.

Simon wakes before the sun, pulling on his coat and boots while the sky is still grey. You toddle after him in your little boots, dragging a bottle of milk in both hands. He always walks slow so you can keep up, pausing at every step until you’re right behind him.

The barn is filled with soft sounds—tiny bleats, gentle rustling, the scrape of Simon’s boots on old wooden boards. You like to sit in the hay with the baby goats, arms out as they nuzzle into your side. One even climbs into your lap sometimes, and you giggle quietly as it tries to chew the cuff of your sleeve.

You can’t lift the feed bucket, but you try anyway, dragging it a few inches before Simon picks it up with one hand and gives a small nod of approval. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching—making sure you don’t trip, making sure you're warm, making sure you're alright.

A duckling waddles after you everywhere, slipping through puddles and peeping as it runs to catch up. You like to squat down and watch it splash, nose wrinkling when the cold mud splatters your boots.

Simon doesn’t stop you. He just tucks a woolly hat over your ears and keeps one hand near your back.

Some mornings are still windy, and the fences groan under the weather. But there’s something new now. Something quiet and steady.

Muddy footprints on the kitchen floor.

Straw in the cuffs of your pyjamas.

A small hand that always finds his.

But this morning is different. The wind is fierce, pushing rain against the barn’s wooden walls, making the roof creak under the pressure. The animals are restless, sensing the storm’s intensity. You’re sitting in the hay with the baby goats, but Simon is already moving around, checking the windows and securing the doors.

“Alright, kid,” he says, his voice firm as he pulls his coat tight around his shoulders. “We need to get the animals in. It’s too wild out there today.”

You hold the baby goat close to your chest as Simon steps past you, grabbing the small feed bucket to lure the goats inside. He works fast, making sure every animal is safely in the barn, no chance of them running off into the storm. The wind howls outside, rattling the barn as Simon makes quick work of locking the doors.

“Stay here with the little ones,” Simon says, looking over his shoulder at you. “Don’t want them running off in this.”