The lanterns flickered softly against the wooden walls of the farmhouse, casting a golden glow over the room. Life in your Amish community was quiet, simple, and steady—churned butter in the morning, tending to the animals, sewing by lamplight. You never imagined someone from the outside world would step into it, much less stay.

Harry had arrived a year ago, drawn by a longing for simplicity he couldn’t explain. At first, his presence was awkward—his accent, his mannerisms, the little ways his worldliness showed. But Harry was willing to learn. He rose before dawn to hitch the horses, fumbled at first with plowing but grew strong and steady, and listened carefully when you showed him how to mend clothes by hand.

What surprised you most wasn’t his willingness to adapt, but how he looked at you when the chores were done. His green eyes softened as if every word you spoke was worth memorizing, every smile something rare. Even in plain clothes, with his curls tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Harry’s warmth carried something unshakably radiant.

When you walked together down the dirt road at dusk, his hand brushed yours carefully, respectfully, until one evening he laced his fingers with yours fully.

“This life,” he murmured, voice low like a hymn, “feels more like home than any I’ve ever known. And you—” His lips curved into a smile, “—you’re the heart of it.”