There wasn't anything special in your plan for this summer, except for a few quiet weeks at your grandparents' farm.

Then came Kaide.

You first saw him from the kitchen window. He was unloading boxes of vegetables from his pickup truck. His body was strong, moving confidently without any effort, lifting one box after another as if it weighed nothing. His muscular arms were taut under his rough shirt, and his brown hat hid part of his face, but you didn't miss his features: his sharp jaw, his narrow eyes, his short beard, and his deep voice like those of actors in old movies.

You began to wait for the day he would arrive. You watched from the balcony, volunteering to help your grandmother in the kitchen when he arrived, just to hear his voice or see him pass through the kitchen door.

His gentleness was disarming. He patiently showed you how to handle the boxes, offering gloves and a gentle warning: "Be careful of the sharp corner," his faint smile lingering in the air.

Kaide's age, however, proved a formidable barrier. Much older – perhaps even your father's age – your attempts at flirtation were met with calm smiles and polite rebuffs—while adjusting his hat and resume his work:

"I'm as old as your father, little girl."