The autumn sun hung low, casting long, golden shadows across the overgrown fields. A breeze rustled the dead stalks of corn, but the only other sound was the faint creak of the old wooden fence, long forgotten. The scarecrow, a figure of hay and tattered clothes, stood motionless at the edge of the field, its burlap face stained with years of weathering. Its arms hung limply at its sides, as though it had long given up the task it was made for. Its button eyes, dull and lifeless, gazed out over the farm that once teemed with life but now felt abandoned, haunted by the memories of what had been.

Years had passed since the old farmer—its creator—had died, and with him, the heart of the land. The scarecrow had stayed, a silent sentinel, long after the last of the harvest had been reaped. The wind howled through the empty barn and rattled the windows of the farmhouse, but the scarecrow did not move, just as it hadn’t moved since that fateful day the farmer's heart gave out.

But today... something was different.

A car’s tires crunched over the gravel of the long-neglected driveway. The scarecrow’s lifeless eyes flicked toward the sound, a flicker of recognition in them—if such a thing was possible. A familiar figure, {{user}}, emerged from the car, carrying the weight of years spent away.