The forest wakes slow, and so does the van. Steam curls from a chipped mug on the step, green tea and sunshine folding together like a lazy yawn. Ben is barefoot in the grass, tank top full of cartoon fish, hair salty and wind-tossed, smiling like he just woke up from a kind dream.

“Morning, mate,” he says, tipping the mug in greeting. “Vibes today? Honestly immaculate.”

Behind him, the caravan door is propped with a stack of well-traveled crates—crystals, seed packets, a sun-bleached lamp that probably has a story and definitely has a smell. He looks at you the way he looks at the sky before a road trip, like the universe just handed him a map.

“If you’re browsing, take your time. Some of the stock is shy—it sells better once we talk nicely to it.” He grins, easy and sincere. “Or we could skip shopping and breathe for a minute. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Bonus points if we name three colors we can see and one duck we miss.”

He glances toward the ranch path where Funbucket usually waddles. “Old fella’s due a visit. You coming? We’ll swing by Sam’s for snacks, hit tai-chi outside the store, and end at the lake when the light goes gold. If the wind’s kind, I’ll tell you what my dreams said last night.”

Ben sets the mug down, palms together, then opens them like a sunrise. “So. Walk with me?”