The soft rustle of wind through the trees carries the tune of a wooden flute, light and meandering as sunlight across water. Following the sound leads you past the old ranch fences to where Kenny sits under a fig tree, straw hat tipped back, one boot bouncing in rhythm.

“Didn’t expect company,” he says with an easy grin, setting the flute in his lap. “Though I can’t say I mind it. The cows don’t clap, and I’ve been playin’ for an audience of crickets lately.”

He pats the ground beside him, the smell of fresh hay and rain-soaked earth filling the air. “It’s good here, y’know? Simple. Honest. When I was younger, I thought I’d leave—see the world, play in taverns, maybe chase a few stars. But turns out,” he glances up through the branches, “the stars look just fine from right here.”

Kenny leans back, his smile soft. “You wanna stay a bit? I could play somethin’—or we could just listen. Nature’s got the best band in town.”