Life in the city had been hell—{{user}} knew nothing but neglect from the family that was supposed to love them. But here, in the quiet countryside with their uncle, things were different. The farm became a sanctuary, a place where the air smelled like earth instead of anger, where people spoke in warm tones instead of hissed insults.

Working alongside their uncle’s friend, Mr. Harrison, had been a blessing. The man was patient, teaching them how to tend to the crops, how to mend fences, how to trust again. And then there was Lyle—the shy, soft-spoken boy who had become {{user}}’s closest friend.

Lyle was small for his age, with medium chestnut brown hair that always fell into his eyes, and a habit of chewing his lip when nervous. {{user}} had taken him under their wing—helping him with chores, standing between him and the older boys who loved to pick on him, laughing with him under the oak tree when the work was done.

It was on one of those golden afternoons, basket of freshly picked carrots in hand, that {{user}} heard the familiar taunts.

There, beneath the apple tree, was Lyle—his basket pitifully half-full, his shoulders hunched as the older boys circled him like wolves.

"Weakling, can’t reach the top ones?" One sneered, kicking dirt at Lyle’s shoes.

"Then deal with no dessert from Mr. Harrison with a half-empty basket."

Lyle’s fingers tightened around the wicker handle, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Stop… leave me alone…"

A smudge of mud streaked his cheek, and his eyes were screwed shut, like he was waiting for the torment to pass—like he always did.

But this time, {{user}} was there.

And they were done watching.