Alex's POV
The cemetery always feels colder than the rest of town. Maybe it's the shade from the pines or maybe it's just the way silence hangs heavier here—like the air knows not to speak too loud. I walk the path I've memorized since I was fifteen, scuffed boots kicking at loose gravel, hands jammed deep in my jacket pockets.
I pass headstones I've seen a hundred times and ignore the tug in my chest when I read the names of people who came and went without much noise. Then I reach hers.
Clara
Beloved Daughter. Cherished Mother.
I stare at the words like they're still wrong.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxfYiQGi4r7
"Beloved" and "cherished" feel too clean. Too polished for a woman who left the world drowning in her own pain. She passed in the summer, a few days after my birthday. My birthday is tomorrow, yet it never feels worth celebrating.
"Hey, Mom," I mutter, crouching beside the stone. The grass here's a little too long. I make a mental note to come back and clean it up, though I probably won't. I always mean to.
I sit down, the cool dirt grounding me. I rest my elbows on my knees and exhale through my nose. It burns a little.
"I brought you some wildflowers," I say, pulling a few crumpled blossoms from my coat pocket. "Picked them on the way. Probably full of bugs but... it's the thought, right?"
I lay them down anyway, brushing some dirt off her name.
I stare at it too long. Like it's gonna talk back.
"You know, George still won't say your name out loud. He talks about you like a weather event. Like, 'She was fine one day and then...'" I mimic his gruff voice. "'Boom. Storm hit.' Like you were a natural disaster that just... happened. Nothing he could do."
I laugh under my breath, then press my thumb and forefinger to my eyes. "He won't say it, but I can feel it. Every time he looks at me. It's like he sees you in my face and it just—it pisses him off."
I lean back, arms resting behind me in the dirt.
"He acts like I'm the reason you weren't okay. Like I made you sad. Like I didn't do enough to fix it." My voice cracks. "I was a kid, Mom. I was just a kid."
The wind picks up and for a second, I swear I can smell your shampoo. That floral kind you always wore on Sundays.
"I dropped out of school, did you know that?" I scoff. "Didn't really tell anyone. Just kind of... stopped going. George couldn't take care of himself. Evelyn tried, but she's not young anymore, and I couldn't sit there while everything fell apart. So I quit. Took care of them. Of him." I look at the headstone. "And for what? He still hates me."
I pause. Rub the dirt off my palms.
"Football's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm good at anything. I put on the uniform, and I don't have to think about anything else. People cheer. I matter. Even if it's just for a few minutes."
I fall quiet.
Then:
"I act like I've got it all together. The charm, the flirting, the whole confident thing." I shake my head. "It's fake. It's all fake. I don't feel cool, Mom. I feel broken. Like there's this crack inside me that I just keep painting over."
I close my eyes.
"I miss you. Every day. I still remember the way you'd braid my hair when I was little. You always said I had 'movie star hair.' Guess I've still got that, huh?" I chuckle once, soft and bitter.
I stand up and brush off my pants, lingering for just another second.
"I'm trying, okay? I don't know if I'm doing it right, but I'm trying. Maybe someday I'll leave this place. Go pro. Get out of here before I rot in that old house."
I run a hand through my hair and look at the headstone one last time.
"Love you. I hope you're... better now. Wherever you are."
I turn to go, walking the gravel path with my hands stuffed deep into my pockets again. But this time, they feel a little heavier—like I'm carrying something with me. Not the grief exactly. But the love underneath it.
Sam invited me to the Saloon tonight to celebrate my birthday. I do not want to go, but I'm going to.
Hannah's POV
Alex's birthday is tomorrow, and of course Sam has roped me into helping throw a surprise party at the saloon. Penny's the real mastermind behind it, bless her sweet type-A soul. Sebastian didn't lift a finger—shocker—and Abigail's been dealing with her own soap opera at home, but she promised she'd come. Honestly, I think she needs it.
She dropped by the farm last night, looking like she hadn't slept in days. Caroline's apparently deep in denial, walking around the house pretending everything's fine while radiating the emotional stability of a broken egg. Pierre's catching on—how could he not?—but Abigail's holding firm on keeping the wizard secret under wraps. I can't blame her. If I found out my dad wasn't my dad and my real one was a magical hermit in a tower? Yeah. Same.
After my morning chores, I showered and towel-dried my hair, letting it fall long and damp to my hips. I threw on a light coat of mascara and slipped into a dusty blue sundress—long-sleeved, cinched at the waist, and flowy enough to feel romantic without being impractical. Paired it with my burlap wedge sandals. Cute, casual, farmer chic.
I grabbed a dozen fresh eggs to bring to Gus—kindness is currency in Stardew, and the townsfolk are generous, for the most part. Well... except Shane. I'm still not sure what that guy's deal is. He growls more than my chickens before breakfast.
The sun's just starting to mellow as I head into town. Warm light spills over the cobblestones, and I spot Harvey posted up by the old fence near the fountain, coffee in hand like always. Stardew's resident doctor, part-time philosopher, full-time caffeine addict.
"Evening, Hannah," he says, raising his mug in greeting, mustache twitching into a smile.
"Evening, Doc," I reply, tilting my head. "Isn't it a little late for coffee?"
Harvey chuckles. "Not when I've got patients like you passing out face-first in their parsnips at 2 AM."
"Okay, that was one time." I narrow my eyes. "And I'm still salty you charged me a thousand gold for dragging me into your weird little hospital bed."
"Hazard pay." He sips smugly.
Before I can fire back, I notice Mayor Lewis hammering a notice to the bulletin board like he's trying to win a gold medal in passive-aggressive event planning.
"In need of a hot pepper," I read aloud. "For... bad knees?"
Lewis doesn't even blink. "I don't get paid to ask questions, Miss Hannah. I just post the posters."
"That's deeply comforting," I deadpan.
He turns toward me with one of his politician smiles. "How's the community center coming along?"
I pause. Smile. Lie. "Oh, you know. Steady progress."
What I don't say is that I'm still trying to decipher those cryptic scrolls the wizard gave me that only I seem to be able to see. Magic forest language isn't exactly something I picked up in city school. But sure. Steady progress.
"Excellent. The townspeople will be thrilled," Lewis beams, then strolls into Pierre's like he didn't just hand me another existential to-do list.
I exhale, shifting the carton of eggs in my arms. The community center, the scrolls, Abigail's family drama, whatever magical scavenger hunt I'll eventually get dragged into next... it's a lot. And I'm just trying to farm. Maybe flirt a little. Keep my chickens alive.
But no pressure, right?
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