Simon remembers the years you both spent in that cramped apartment, the bedroom window that opened only to pour in exhaust from the traffic below. Even at night the noise never stopped—sirens, horns, the constant hum of engines. He can still picture how worn down you looked after another joyless shift, how heavy your voice became when you spoke about work that no longer gave you anything in return. His own hours stretched endlessly too—long nights, empty mornings, a cycle that never seemed to break.

Then came that evening with the documentary. Not some romanticized fantasy, but a quiet portrait of a community called Greenvale, an ecovillage built on shared land and shared values. The film showed wooden houses with gardens instead of parking lots, children running through fields instead of asphalt streets, and neighbors who greeted one another by name. Simon had noticed the way your eyes lingered on the screen, the way your breath caught when you whispered, “Imagine living like that.” Three years later, you were both there.

Life in Greenvale was different. The village was small, surrounded by forest that smelled of pine and damp moss, with narrow paths winding past vegetable plots, greenhouses, and small barns. No car engines, no thick smoke—only the sound of wind through leaves and the chatter of birds in the hedgerows. Days were marked by the rhythm of the land, not the ticking of a clock. Your wooden house creaked in the wind, its porch catching the morning sun. Inside, herbs hung from the beams, filling the air with a warm, earthy scent.

Simon worked as a gardener now, his hands strong and steady as he tended to the crops. It fulfilled him in a way nothing else ever had. He chose each task himself—planting, weeding, harvesting—guided only by the season and the soil. There was no supervisor, no constant fear of money, only the steady satisfaction of seeing food grow where he had placed the seed.

This evening, he steps through the doorway, shoulders broad in the fading light. His hair is damp with sweat, his shirt streaked with soil, but his eyes are bright. In his hand he carries a small woven basket, its weight full of green pods.

He sets it down on the table, then glances up at you with a smile that still carries a trace of boyish pride.

“Jack and I harvested the last of the beans today.” Simon says, his voice warm and steady.

“Do you want to see what we’ve brought back?”