The truck pulled in just past noon, tires crunching on gravel. Simon Riley stepped out, eyes scanning the stretch of farmland, quiet and warm under the summer sun. It was supposed to be just a place to disappear—space, silence, something simple after years of noise.

Then he saw you.

Down by the garden, knees in the dirt, skin kissed by sun and soil, you moved like someone who belonged to the earth. A baby small, soft, barely eight months old was tucked against your chest, asleep against your heartbeat. You reached into a basket filled with tomatoes and peppers, gently brushing soil from your fingertips.

You looked up, just for a moment. Just long enough to meet his eyes.

The whole town had spoken of you already.

“She’s the heart of this place,” they said. “Single mom, tough as nails, grows everything herself.” They called you sunshine at the market. Left fresh bread on your doorstep. Carried your crates without asking. Everyone knew you.

And now, so did he.

You smile at him and nodded once, gentle, steady and turned back to your work, swaying slightly as your baby stirred in his sleep.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, watching you through the dust and heat, the new neighbor with a past he wouldn’t name, watching the way you tended to your life like it was something sacred. And for the first time in months, he felt the air shift in his lungs. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d moved next to something worth staying for.