The sun beat down with a steady blaze over the golden spread of farmland in Ossyra Village, tucked quietly into the southern valleys of Nuvion. Cicadas sang from the treetops like a living metronome, and the breeze barely stirred the heat-heavy air. Out in the field, bent over rows of vegetables, Daigo Vernhart worked with quiet precision—his calloused fingers turning the soil as if each inch deserved his full attention.
He wore a loose, sun-faded shirt rolled at the sleeves, damp with sweat, and a wide straw hat to shield his dark hair from the blaze. Stray strands clung to his forehead, soaked and wind-tossed, a few already streaked with soil from wiping his brow. His skin was bronzed from years of fieldwork, his movements practiced—not lazy, not rushed, just deliberate.
His eyes, a steady brown, carried a depth in them—quiet, mature, and far too knowing for someone who might've once been called a prodigy.
He didn't have to be here, not really.
The clean, orderly rows of eggplants and tomatoes he was tending weren't just the mark of a farmer—they were the mark of a man who understood systems, structure, the fine balances of chemistry and soil biology. He'd always been like that. Analytical. Sharp. Back in school, his teachers had whispered with pride, "This boy is meant for more than this village."
And the city had called to him once.
He'd been offered positions—well-paying ones, with suits and air-conditioned offices, and polite conversations over sleek desks instead of early mornings spent elbow-deep in the earth.
But he'd stayed.
He stayed for the sake of his aging parents, whose joints ached too much in the cold and whose strength had long since faded with the seasons. He stayed because leaving this place—the soil, the hills, the warm hum of wind chimes on his porch—felt like abandoning a piece of himself. Even if it meant giving up something big, something distant, something that might've let him live differently.
With a small trowel, he loosened the earth around the base of a plant and examined its roots with a practiced eye. A line of sweat slid down his jaw, catching at his chin before falling to the ground. Daigo shifted, exhaling through his nose, and leaned back on his heels.
From somewhere up the hill, a wind chime rang softly.
He straightened, glancing at the old wristwatch strapped to his arm, its leather worn thin.
"Lunch already?" he murmured, brushing off his knees.
Tucking the trowel into his belt, he turned toward the house beyond the field. The farmhouse stood like an old sentinel—its wooden frame sun-bleached and its red-tiled roof cracked at the edges, but still holding. He could already smell the faint scent of grilled fish and miso from here. His mother must have started cooking early.
As he made his way up the path, the warmth of the midday sun poured over him. The same hills he'd run across as a boy now felt heavier under his boots. Yet, the silence here was different. Too still, almost...
He paused for a moment, sensing a strange shift in the wind. It carried no coolness, no relief—just heat and a peculiar stillness, as if the world was waiting for something.
Daigo looked over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Only the endless rows of green, the creak of trees in the distance, and the shimmer of sun on soil. He shook it off and continued walking, his shadow trailing behind him like a long echo.
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The wooden floor creaked softly under his feet as Daigo slid open the front door of the farmhouse. The air inside was cooler, shaded, and filled with the familiar scent of cedarwood and fresh-cooked rice.
Before he could call out, a small pair of arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
Startled, he blinked down to see a mop of black hair pressed into his work shirt, the strands dancing lightly as she buried her face into him. Her arms, though small, held with surprising determination.
"Selia…" he murmured, blinking, a slow smile forming on his lips. He bent slightly, his palm landing gently on her head.
Then, as if remembering something, he pulled back a little. "You'll get dirt on you," he said, voice softer than before—gentle, but guarded.
The little girl looked up with a bright, innocent grin, her cheeks slightly flushed. She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her eyes said enough.
"She's been waiting for you since morning," his mother called out from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her expression held a mixture of fondness and something unspoken—an emotion Daigo had grown used to deciphering in fragments.
He nodded silently. He knew.
She always waited.
The moments she was here—those brief spans of days when school let out in the city—Kyo would count the hours until she could see him come in from the fields. Her tiny shoes always left footprints just beyond the edge of the dirt path, where she sat swinging her legs and waiting to catch sight of him through the haze.
Selia… she was the only string left that tied him to what once was.
She giggled and skipped off into the other room, already chattering about the lunch she'd helped Grandma prepare. Daigo followed slowly, his smile fading to a quieter thing once she was out of sight.
The house held the memory of another voice—soft but resolute. A woman who once stood where his mother did now, whose dreams extended far beyond this village, far beyond these hills.
She had wanted more. More for their daughter. A better education. A better life.
He hadn't disagreed with the need, only the path.
The city, she had said, was filled with opportunities Kyo would never find here. But he—he couldn't bring himself to leave Ossyra's soil behind. His parents, aging and ailing, needed him. The village was in his blood, its seasons etched into his bones. It was all he had ever known, and he didn't want to uproot Kyo into a life he couldn't promise would be better, only busier.
So they had separated—quietly, without shouting, without drama. Like everything else in his life, it had simply unraveled with time. She took Kyo to the city of Vehlira, where lights outshone the stars and days moved faster than breaths.
But during school breaks, Selia returned. A few weeks in the slow lull of Ossyra's fields, among cicadas and wind chimes, barefoot mornings and dusty roads.
And in those few weeks, Daigo tried to be the version of a father he wished he could be full-time.
He stepped into the dining room and set his hat on the hook by the wall. His mother was already dishing up rice, Selia humming beside her. The scent of miso and pickled vegetables warmed the air, carrying something almost too tender to hold.
He washed his hands at the basin and glanced out the window—just for a moment—toward the fields.
The sunlight outside gleamed a little too white. The sky, though still clear, felt… off. Like the air was holding its breath.
Something sat at the edge of his thoughts, a pressure that hadn't been there before.
But he let it go for now.
He turned back toward his daughter, who was already sitting at the low table, kicking her legs and patting the cushion beside her with bright eyes.
Daigo gave her a small nod and sat down.
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They had just finished eating when his mother returned from the kitchen, moving with a strange quietness that made Daigo glance up.
She approached him with something clasped in her hands—an folder. Her eyes didn't meet his. Instead, they remained fixed on the paper as she placed it on the low table beside his cup.
"What's this?" he asked, frowning slightly.
"Just look," she said gently, brushing her hands on her apron. She stepped back, arms folding as though bracing for the weight of something she'd carried too long.
He opened the folder with a cautious hand, his brow furrowing at the formal stamp across the top. It took him a few seconds to process the contents. Then his eyes widened—a job opportunity. A position in Vehlira, the same city where his daughter lived. It wasn't just any job—it was a position tied to agricultural innovation, a high-paying role that matched his experience, his knowledge, everything he'd sacrificed for.
"I don't need this," he muttered, voice tightening as he pushed the paper away. "You know that."
His mother stepped forward again, her voice firmer now. "No, you do."
"Mom," he sighed, "We've talked about this. I'm not leaving."
"No," she snapped, louder this time. "You talk. I listen. Always listening to your 'I can't leave, I won't leave.' And I let you. I let you waste years of your life out there in those fields because you said it was for us." Her voice shook. "But enough."
His hands curled into fists beside the folder. "It's not wasting anything. I'm not—"
"You're rotting here, Daigo!" she cried. "You don't go out, you don't look ahead. You send your daughter back to a city you refuse to step into, and you tell yourself this sacrifice means something. But the world's not going to wait around for you to feel ready."
He stood up then, tense. "I'm not abandoning this place just because a salary looks better."
"I'm not asking you to abandon us," she said sharply. "I'm asking you to stop abandoning yourself."
A heavy pause sat between them. Selia, sensing the change in the air, had disappeared into the hallway.
Then his father spoke. He'd been sitting quietly near the far corner, pretending to read the paper like he always did when things got uncomfortable. But now, he folded the page slowly and placed it on the table.
"Take the job," he said without looking at him.
Daigo turned, surprised. "You too?"
"I'm old, boy. Not stupid," his father muttered. "Your mother's right. You've done enough here."
"But the land—"
"We'll manage," he cut in firmly. "We're not helpless, and you're not our keeper."
Daigo swallowed hard, heart thudding against his ribs. He looked between them, from his mother's clenched jaw to the stubborn calm in his father's eyes. They weren't asking anymore.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of cicadas outside.
He sat back down slowly, eyes on the folder. His fingers brushed over the edge again, tracing the seal, the printed name, the number he could call. Something bitter and weightless churned in his chest.
"I don't know how to leave," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
His mother sat beside him then, her hand finding his. "You've known how all along. You just needed a reason."
He glanced toward the hallway where Selia had disappeared.
Maybe that reason had been there the whole time.