The early morning fog curled gently around the fence posts, blurring the edges of the pasture like a dream not quite ready to fade. Sunlight filtered through the tree line, gold-streaked and soft, casting long shadows across the dew-kissed earth.

You stood barefoot in the warm dust just outside the coop, apron smudged with flour and alfalfa. A quiet hum left your lips as you scattered seed for the chickens pecking eagerly at your feet. It was an old lullaby—one your grandmother used to sing under her breath while shelling peas on the porch—and now it belonged to you. The chickens, familiar with your melody, clucked contentedly, brushing their feathers against your legs like cats seeking comfort.

A breeze rolled through the fields, bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle and hay. You closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the stillness. Out here, nestled deep in the valley far from any paved road or bustling town, you felt time slow. Here, the world whispered instead of roared.

Behind you, you heard the wooden gate creak open.

“Still serenading the flock, my little songbird?”

You turned to find your husband standing there, boots caked in mud, straw in his curls. He leaned on the handle of a shovel, a boyish grin tucked into his beard. His shirt was damp at the collar, proof of the work already done before breakfast.