Chapter Text
“Amores (VIII)” - e. e. cummings
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
It felt like sitting at that desk in that poorly-lit office, gazing at that headache-inducing monitor, was going to kill you. Listening to the dull tick of the analog clock that hung overhead felt like a countdown, not to the end of the workday, but to the end of existence. Each tick was a fresh reminder of how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years you wasted clacking keys and clicking mouses to pad the wallets of a corporation that didn’t know a damn thing about you, and certainly didn’t care to know.
So, it felt like getting on that train was your second chance at life — that you had been flailing in the monotony, struggling to breach the surface before your body gave up and sunk you down into soullessness. You were pronounced dead in that city only to be resuscitated back to a new life the moment it started chugging along its tracks to Stardew Valley — a new life that would no doubt be much more fruitful and more meaningful than the one that had almost ended you.
But, as you lie in bed, now, listening to the rooster’s ruthless crow, with daylight beginning to peek through the slots in your one-room home’s blinds, you realize that this new life is trying to kill you, too, and doing a much better job of it. You quickly realized why farmers wake up before dawn when you arose at a leisurely nine in the morning yesterday only to find the merciless sun beating down on you as you took your grandpa’s rusty old hoe from its cobwebbed corner to till the land. Your arms, soft and lackadaisical from years where the hardest labor they had to handle was carrying a bag of groceries inside, are now pulsating from the prior day’s toil. Your back and legs aren’t much better, and you groan audibly as you realize pressing snooze is only going to make it worse, as the sun will only continue to rise.
Staying in bed isn’t an option if you want to turn a profit on those seeds you bought from the general store and try to turn this second chance at life into an actual living. After paying for the train ticket, the supplies needed, and the fine for breaking your apartment’s lease, your wallet’s about to have cobwebs in it, too. Not to mention the state of the farm… it’s not exactly the idyllic rolling hills of corn that you’d been expecting to see from the Pelican Town postcards Grandpa used to send you and the few sepia-toned memories you still have of your visits here. And deep down, you know it’s not just about you and how many hours of sleep you want. It’s about the old man too, and doing something he’d be proud of with the land he loved.
As you empty the last bit of water from your watering can into the soil, you hear footsteps approaching on the cobblestone path that leads from your farm to the town. You look up to see Lewis, the mayor and your grandpa’s oldest friend, coming to check up on you. He’s still pretty sturdy for a man his age, and seemingly sweet. He took time to show you the ropes on your first day and has since then sent you letters of encouragement with well-intended tips and pointers that have mostly wound up crumpled into balls and thrown into the garbage bin.
“Well, it looks like you are making a good start, eh?” he says. You nod, hoping he doesn’t stay for long, so you can go inside and rest your throbbing everything. “Looks like you’ve already been to Pierre’s. Not quite ready for Marnie’s yet, since you don’t have a barn or a coop. Robin can fix you up with one of those once you get your footing.” Keep smiling and nodding, pretending you know who all of these people are so that he’ll leave faster. “Have you met everyone else yet?”
“Just a few people here and there,” you say, resting the watering can against the side of your deck and squatting down next to it to catch your breath. “I’ve had my work cut out for me here just getting the farm set up.”
“I’m sure,” Lewis says, pulling his newsboy style hat further down over his eyes to shade his eyes from the sun, which keeps shining relentlessly. Not a cloud in sight. “I wish I had upkept it a little more after your grandpa died, but truth be told, I had a lot on my plate running this town and unfortunately, I let it go to the wayside a little.” A little? You’ve considered asking if anyone in town has a machete to help you clear through the brush, but it doesn’t seem like that kind of rodeo.
“Don’t sweat it,” you say. “It’s not your responsibility. I wish I had come here sooner. It took me way too long….” Your voice trails off, as you think with a little guilt about what your grandpa would say if he saw the state of his property now. You shift into a full sitting position and look out over the overgrowth, dreading the hours of clean-up that await you when your body isn’t screaming at you, whatever distant day that is.
“I know it seems daunting, but this place has real potential. By the end of this year, you won’t even remember what it used to look like. And, the people in town will help you with the things you need to make it what you want it to be. Everyone in the town loved your grandpa. They are sure to love you, too. In fact, I wanted to encourage you to introduce yourself to the folks in town. Most of them have been asking about you. I told them it’d be best to give you a few days to get settled before bombarding you with visits and introductions, but, now that you’ve been here a few days, I think they’re growing impatient. Plus, you haven’t really explored the place, have you?” You look up at Lewis and shake your head. “It’s a beautiful town, with a little bit of everything. Take the backwoods and start at the mountains.” You try to hide your grimace at the thought of trekking uphill when you’re seriously doubting if you’ll even make it up the stairs to your bed. “You’ll be able to meet Robin and her family and see the caves in the back, then make your way downhill to the town. You can even go to the beach.” Your ears perk up at the mention of it; you had forgotten that there was a beach here. It’s been years since you visited Grandpa and saw the sea for the first time. It would be nice to revisit it and relive those memories of an easier time. “By then, it should be just about time to turn in, and you can stop at my place for supper. It’ll be a well-earned reward for your hard work.”
Considering you only have 20 gold in your pocket and you’ve been living off of the food you’ve been able to forage from around your farm, a home-cooked meal, even from a chef as dubious as Lewis, doesn’t sound too bad. So what if your legs are adamantly protesting? You’ll survive. “I guess it’s only a matter of time before people start knocking at my door anyway,” you say and push yourself up off the ground to begin your quest.
Bombarding was probably the most apt description of Lewis’s task, as the next few hours are filled with more names and faces than one person could possibly be expected to remember. Not only that, but some of the townspeople are downright rude and unwelcoming, or wildly strange, a motley crew, to be sure. It’s not quite dinner time, and you can see that the stone bridge over the river turns sandy and further out are the blue waves. A bit of marine serenity before dinner sounds like what the doctor ordered. Well, not literally. The doctor actually seemed a little scatterbrained and mentioned something about how he wasn’t making enough money at his clinic. Mark him down as one of the strange ones.
The beach is small, with some intact shells scattered in the sand and a couple of simple wooden docks for fishing. You walk to the end of one and take off your work boots and socks, plopping down on the damp planks to dangle your feet over the edge into the water. It’s still springtime, so the water is cold. Definitely not swimming weather, but the chill feels good on your aching feet, which are even more worn out from your walking tour of Pelican Town. You look out onto the waves, listen to their gentle breaking and watch the white foam build up in rhythmic repetition. It’s slightly entrancing, especially since your energy levels are low, and your mind can’t help but wander to the first time you were here, chasing the tide back and forth with Grandpa and giggling as the waves licked your ankles with spray when you were too slow.
You’re not sure how much time has passed since you started sitting on the dock — no ticking clock of doom here — when you hear a voice behind you over the waves. “Pretty, isn’t it?” You jump a little, not expecting anyone else to be around, although you did notice a few small, plain structures as you walked to your spot. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the voice says. You wave your hand dismissively to show that no apology is needed. “May I?” the man asks, gesturing to the place next to you on the dock.
“Please,” you say, although you secretly want him to leave you alone with the sounds of the sea and your memories. He sits down next to you, slipping his feet out of his boat shoes and putting them into the water next to you. He audibly reacts to the coldness of the water, but quickly recovers and turns to you. “I’m Elliott,” he says, smiling and sticking out a hand. You shake it and introduce yourself. You try to muster up a smile, though you fear any sign of genuine pleasure at human contact has been lost twelve introductions ago. “Everyone has been talking about you,” he says matter-of-factly, facing the sea with a slight smile on his face.
“Yeah?” you ask, politely feigning interest as you turn towards him. He nods, kicking his feet back and forth in the water gently, careful not to splash. You study him briefly without staring. He looks much more solid but less agrarian than most of the men you met earlier, and he’s not as young; his jaw is pronounced, but in a handsome way, and around his mouth are faint smile lines. You also notice he has impressively long, copper hair that tangles just a bit at the ends, probably from the sea breeze; you wonder how long it took him to grow it out. It’s nicer than yours, you realize, thick and voluminous, streaked with gold. Likely, it’s natural, highlighted by the sunshine, since you didn’t see a salon in town. “Do people come to this beach often?” He frowns slightly for a second and shakes his head no.
“Not really. It’s mostly just me and Willy. He runs the tackle shop over there,” he moves his head towards the shack on the edge of the neighboring dock and the now-setting sun casts a ray over him, making his hair shine. “I live up there,” he says, tossing his head again in the direction of another small structure further up the beach. It didn’t make an impression on you when you passed earlier. “I’m a writer,” he explains. “I spend most of my time scribbling away in there, but I come out here quite often to clear my head, get inspiration, stuff like that.“
“Do you like it here?” you ask. He frowns again a little before nodding.
“Yes,” he says in a way as if there were more to say. After a breath, he continues, “I’m from the city and I definitely like it here better than there. But, it takes some getting used to. I’m guessing they didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for you?” His eyes meet yours for the first time since he introduced himself. Green, you notice.
“Not exactly.” He smiles with a look of recognition.
“The townies, they’re a little strange at first. They don’t know anything outside of the life they’ve always lived here, and sometimes it’s like you’re speaking a different language. You’re from the city too.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but you nod anyway. His gaze is back out at the ocean. “I could tell from your ’accent.’ They say I have one, too.” He leans back, resting his hands on the dock and smiling contentedly out into the sunset. He seems to be truly delighted by the warmth and glow of the sun, and you realize that you probably interrupted him; he was more than likely heading out to watch the solitary sunset, and not looking for an excuse to introduce himself to the new neighbor. “You’ll get used to the townies. Don’t take it personally if they’re a bit gruff with you at times. They’re remarkably simple and yet remarkably complex at the same time.” It seems like what he said made no sense, but maybe it’s just a paradox or oxymoron, or whatever the fancy term is. This guy would probably know. He’s a writer. “There are a few of us transplants around if you ever need to seek refuge. Now you know where to find me, and Leah lives near you, in the cottage under Marnie’s shop. Have you met her yet?”
“No, I don’t think I have,” you say, silently dreading another introduction.
“You should stop by tomorrow and say hello. She lives just outside of town, south of your farm. She’s an artist.” You set your hands on your thighs, watching the sun sink farther down towards the horizon. It’s about time for you to leave for that dinner reservation at Lewis’s. You get ready to make an excuse for an exit when Elliott asks, “And what are you?” turning back towards you.
You let out a short hah of disbelief, but when you study his face, you realize he’s not joking, but looking at you head-on with intent curiosity. “Well, I’m a farmer of course,” you say, not sure if you quite believe it yourself, but somehow, saying it out loud makes it more of a reality.
He laughs lightly and claps a hand on your shoulder, friendly and reassuring. ”Good,” he says. “Just making sure.” His hand pulls away, and he sets it down gently on his lap. “Looks like it’s time for you to go.”
“Yeah,” you say, attempting to pull your thick socks back on your wet feet, a challenge that makes you look less than graceful. You try to make peace with looking like an idiot in front of the one townsperson you seem to have struck a chord with. “I have a hot date with my grandpa’s best friend,” you say and Elliott laughs, a real, robust laugh.
“That sounds marvelous.” By now, you’ve managed to lace up your shoes without completely embarrassing yourself. “See you around, farmer,” he calls after you as you make your way back up the dock. You turn around and deliver a weak wave to him as a goodbye before scurrying up the sand and back into the town.