Beckett was nineteen and had grown up on land that seemed to stretch forever. His parents were incredibly wealthy, but the farm was never about showing it off—it was about work. And Beckett loved that part most.

The farm held twelve horses, grazing across wide green pastures, thirty dairy cows, twenty sheep, fifteen goats, two dozen chickens, and even three big farm dogs that followed Beckett everywhere. Every morning, he was up early—feeding animals, fixing fences, cleaning stalls. That afternoon, he was repairing a loose wooden post along the horse pasture, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up, dirt on his boots.

That’s when he noticed her.

A girl stood by the railing a little farther down, leaning against it, watching the horses with quiet fascination. She looked out of place in a way that felt gentle, not wrong. Curious.

{{user}} was sixteen and new to the village. Her family had been forced out of their flat in Berlin, prices rising too fast to keep up. Moving to a small farm town had been a shock—but she loved nature. It felt calmer than the city ever had. So she walked. A lot.

Beckett wiped his hands on his jeans and walked over, boots crunching softly on the gravel.

“You must be the Elmore’s daughter,” he said, not unkindly.