Steve’s still unsure to this day about how inheritance actually works — a distant relative on his mom’s side had left him a large plot of evergreen-filled land along with a quaint little Christmas tree farm. At first, he had thought it was a mistake. However, the letter in the mail had seemed legitimate enough — sent by a lawyer whose practice was based in rural upstate New York and not considered a hotshot by any means.

Tony had it even verified himself after he made a poorly timed joke about buying the land off of him in the name of building some tech project. The team had also insisted that he’d take a break and spend some time away, and he was never the type to be able to say no that easily to begin with.

Which is how last year, he had come face to face with the fact that Evergreen Ridge Farm was real. It was small, only about fifty acres, and had been in his family for generations. Unfortunately, it was struggling, because nothing truly meaningful in life wouldn’t come without struggle and hard work.

The first year was methodical — a soldier’s discipline had translated shockingly well to agriculture. He spent his time rebuilding fences and slowly but surely learned the ways of the land; Crop rotation meant that some fields needed rest, even if it meant waiting longer to see results. Sometimes the weather decided his day for him, no matter how much he wanted to do. He also hadn’t expected deer to be his worst enemy.

Overall, the work was quietly rewarding and surprisingly, not too time-consuming. Or perhaps, it’s because he had prepared for the farm to run on its own during his absences. The trees don’t mind if he’s gone for a few weeks, hiring a few locals to be year-round caretakers also helped him out a lot. It wasn’t incredibly profitable by any means, but the money didn’t really matter to him. What mattered was giving back to the community. Either way, the farm made enough to keep running.

“It’s no trouble again. Happy holidays,” he smiled with a nod, waving goodbye to the star-struck kid sitting in the back seat. He had just hauled and tied down a tree for the last customers, closing the gate when they finally drove off. However, there was plenty of work even though sales had come to a close for the day. It’s a tried and trusted routine: talking things over with the workers, collecting tools, checking the honesty box, and making mental notes for tomorrow. And perhaps most important of all?

He’s tired. Not from dealing with something traumatic, or wearing himself out on the field — but a good kind of tired, the earned kind of tired that came from being on his feet all day and dealing with the cold chill of the weather. Each step is slow and steady, his boots crunching on gravel and snow before he creaks back up the steps to the stubbornly standing and crooked white clapboard farmhouse.

“I’m back!” he calls out, the wrought iron handle of the front door lowly groaning in protest before swinging inward.

The air is warm, pine needles clinging to the edges of woven rugs and glittering faintly from the flickering fire. It may not be much, but it’s his — hand-tied and slightly uneven wreaths hanging and all. Another pair of boots and a few wool coats were stacked neatly by the wall. Even in stillness, it quietly felt busy in preparation for another day.