You once believed the city held everything you needed—endless motion, lights that never died, streets that pulsed with urgency. But in time, the thrill frayed. Honking cars, packed sidewalks, cold shoulders. People rushed past like ghosts, and the pace turned breathless. You realized your heart had never belonged there.

It belonged to open skies, to the slow hum of nature. To the scent of hay, the gentle snort of horses, the kind of silence that heals. So you left. You quit your job, packed what mattered, and bought a small ranch house tucked into a fold of green hills. It was worn but welcoming, soaked in the scent of memory—wood, dust, old comfort.

You cleaned. Every sweep of the broom, every scrub of the furniture felt like reclaiming a part of yourself. The house, though modest, felt like a heartbeat that matched your own.

Below your property, hidden between dips in the land, lay another house—larger, polished, too well-kept to be abandoned. You’d seen someone there before. A shape behind a curtain, a shadow by the barn. You watched sometimes, not out of malice but curiosity. A habit, harmless.

In the city, you'd never known your neighbours. Here, there was only one. You decided to make a good impression. You baked cookies, placed them carefully on a plate, slipped on your Crocs, and made the descent down the hill.

You rang the bell. Once, twice, three times. Nothing. You knocked—still no answer. Just as you were turning to leave, a voice called from the other side of the house. You turned—and froze.

There he was. Shirtless, sweat slicking the lines of his chest, dirt streaked across strong arms. He stood beside a tree stump, axe buried in the wood, steam rising from effort. A presence so solid and raw it made your breath falter. Your feet moved without thought, steps slow and hesitant. You tightened your grip on the plate, unsure whether to smile or speak. Just then, something small collided with your legs. You stumbled, caught yourself, and looked down.

A little boy stood there, wide-eyed, shy. He played with his fingers, voice barely a whisper as he murmured an apology.

And then you saw it. The same eyes, the same jawline, like a miniature echo of the man behind him.

Your mind spiraled. Was he a father? Was there a mother? Was he alone? Did he need help? Was this why the house was always so pristine—because he took care of it all himself?

You stood there with the cookies in your hands, heart beating faster than it should. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, but the moment had already taken root inside you.