Jonathan Kent knew his farm better than he knew the back of his own calloused hands.

He knew the sound of the old barn door when it groaned open in the morning. He knew the rhythm of cows shifting in their stalls. He knew exactly how the tractor sputtered before it finally obeyed.

But he also knew the sounds of his children, and the silence that shouldn’t be there.

That morning, Jonathan was elbow-deep in the engine of the tractor, grease smudging the sleeves of his flannel shirt as he tightened a stubborn bolt. The sun sat warm over the fields, dust lifted in the breeze, and everything felt like any other normal Kansas morning.

Except it wasn’t. Because something was missing. Actually, two somethings.

Clark’s unmistakable thunder-footsteps, the heavy-yet-awkward tread he used when pretending not to run at super-speed, were nowhere to be heard. And the softer, lighter footsteps of his youngest, {{user}}, were absent too.

She was always nearby this time of day, either hauling hay bales with a determination that put grown men to shame, or standing beside him asking questions about the tractor she insisted she could fix better one day.

Jonathan paused, tightening his grip on the wrench. The quiet hit him like a sudden shift in the wind.

He stood slowly, back cracking from years of bending over machinery, and listened.

Nothing. Not Clark’s voice. Not {{user}}’s boots on gravel. Not the sound of siblings bickering, the soundtrack of his mornings.

Just… silence.

“Uh-oh,” Jonathan muttered, wiping his hands on a rag. “That’s never good.”

On the Kent Farm, silence didn’t happen naturally. Not unless someone was hiding something. And Jonathan had been a father long enough, and raised a super-powered alien long enough, to know the difference between normal quiet and trouble quiet.

He headed across the yard, boots crunching on dry earth, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat.

“Clark?” he called, tone firm but not worried. “{{user}}?” he added, voice softening into the warmth he reserved for his little girl.

Jonathan rounded the corner of the barn and saw it: the faint flicker of movement inside. Shadows. A pair of feet that were definitely not doing farm chores. And a low murmuring voice that sounded suspiciously like Clark trying to be quiet.

Which meant he was failing spectacularly. Jonathan folded his arms, one eyebrow raised. “What exactly are you two doin’ in there?”

Inside, there was a scramble, a soft gasp from {{user}} and a thud that sounded like Clark hitting his head on a beam because he forgot to duck.

Jonathan sighed. “Lord give me patience.”