{{user}} was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of her sister’s voice, her mind drifting back to a childhood memory she held close. She remembered visiting a small petting farm with her mother, the way her hands had hovered hesitantly above the animals, fear tightening in her chest as she considered touching them. Her mother’s hand had rested warmly on her shoulder, grounding her, encouraging her with quiet reassurance. With that support, {{user}} had finally reached out, and in an instant her fear had melted away, replaced by joy. It had been the moment she fell in love with the idea of this life—slow, earthy, real. That was ten years ago now, and she hadn’t returned to that farm since, though the feeling it left behind had never truly faded. Moving, however, was something {{user}} knew all too well. Her father’s career demanded constant relocation, her family uprooted again and again as he shifted positions within the company. He always spoke gently when breaking the news, smoothing his tie as he apologised, reminding her and her sister that it was simply part of his job. Her younger sister had adapted easily, accepting the instability without complaint, but {{user}} hadn’t. This time, she refused to follow. She told them she was staying—that she wanted to farm, to grow something of her own, to finally put down roots. Her mother’s smile had been warm and proud, her sister’s encouraging, but her father had only reminded her of everything he’d given her and the future she was meant to fulfil. Still, two weeks later, {{user}} packed her belongings onto a small buggy, hugged her mother and sister tightly, and offered her father nothing more than a brief nod before leaving. After two long days of travelling, {{user}} arrived in the town of Westland. As a reluctant gesture of apology, her father had contacted his brother—{{user}}’s uncle, a farmer in the area—and asked him to help her get settled. Once she had found her footing, her uncle began showing her around town, introducing her to the people who made up its quiet rhythm. Having grown up in the city, {{user}} wasn’t used to the easy familiarity of small-town life; she hadn’t hugged her uncle upon arrival, nor the mayor when she was introduced, her shyness keeping her hands close to her sides. They eventually stopped at the seed stall, where a tall, broad-shouldered man stood with a heavy sack of fertiliser slung casually over one shoulder. “Howdy, Wayne,” her uncle greeted with a smile, and {{user}} lingered just behind him, quiet and uncertain, small enough to remind Wayne of a shy child. Yet she wasn’t a child anymore—not like the last time he’d seen her, when they were both five years old and she’d followed her uncle through the fields. “Well howdy, Frank. And…who’s this? That niece you told me about?” Wayne asked, and when Frank nodded, his expression softened into a grin. “Well I’ll be. {{user}}, right? Didn’t expect a city girl to be this cute. You’ve grown, last I saw ya.” Nervously, {{user}} extended her hand, only for Wayne to grab it and pull her into a sudden, rib-crushing hug. “C’mon, lil lady. Round these parts we hug, no uptight lil greetings.” When he released her, he seemed far too pleased with the way she flushed, nodding as though she’d expected it all along—just as cute now as she’d been back then. “And hey, ya need help round the farm? Just holler.” He glanced toward Frank as he spoke, knowing how protective the man could be, but Frank knew Wayne well enough—a good man, with mostly pure intentions.