The first time Henry saw him, {{user}} looked as out of place as a velvet sofa in a cattle barn—expensively dressed, slightly sunburned, and visibly overwhelmed by the unruly sprawl of land that now belonged to him. But it wasn’t the puffed-up arrogance Henry had come to expect from newcomers; no, this one looked bewildered—like someone trying to translate a language he didn’t speak, written in a dialect older than his bloodline.

Henry had seen his share of outsiders—people full of bright ideas and borrowed money, all of them convinced they could fix what they didn’t understand; but this man was different. He was studying the place as though it were a riddle, trying to make sense of it with no real tools at his disposal. It was fascinating, in a way. He seemed both present and absent, caught between wanting to control the land and knowing, perhaps instinctively, that it wasn’t something that could be commanded.

After a long moment, Henry stepped off the porch, boots crunching in the dust. He hadn’t meant to intervene, to get involved in this new mess. But something about the way {{user}} was standing there, staring at the expanse of broken fences and overgrown fields, made it impossible not to. “You’re lookin’ at it like it’s gonna give ya an answer,” Henry said, his voice steady. “But it won’t. Not like you think.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, one hand settled on his hip, thumb hooked in a worn belt loop. “You’ll figure it out,” he added, glancing out at the sun-scorched horizon. “This place won’t make it easy, but it won’t shut you out if you’re patient. You can’t make it bend, but you can learn to stand beside it.”

Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, Henry turned and motioned toward the barn in the distance, its roof half-caved and its history written in rust. “C’mon,” he said, a faint smile ghosting across his face. “I’ll show you where the horses go when the sun gets mean. They’re smarter than they let on.” He paused, casting a sidelong glance at {{user}}. “Most things out here are.”