Chapter Text
Dear Neil,
If you’re reading this, you must be in dire need of a change.
The same thing happened to me, long ago. I’d lost sight of what mattered most in life… real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belonged.
I’ve enclosed the deed to that place… my pride and joy: Hatford Farm. It’s located in Foxhole Valley, on the southern coast. It’s the perfect place to start your new life.
This was my most precious gift of all, and now it’s yours. I know you’ll honor the family name, my boy. Good luck.
Love, Uncle Stuart
Neil held the letter in his hands, dressed in the familiar scrawl of his uncle’s handwriting. He read it over dozens of times, though he guaranteed this one to be the last.
Uncle Stuart was dead, he guessed. It was the only reason he could have fathomed he would abandon Hatford Farm to anyone, Neil of all. He adored the place. And yet there Neil was, adopting into his care a farm with which he had no experience, and frankly, no real desire. Neil Josten was no farmer. It sounded ridiculous to even say. Neil Josten was no anything. If he’d received it a year ago, he would have tossed the letter in a fireplace and watched the remnants of his old life burn to ashes.
But he was…bored, he guessed. Stuck? Certainly not lonely. He did not get lonely. He lived dozens of places and changed his name more times than he cared to recall in his eighteen years; he hadn’t had a friend in—well. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a friend at all. And he was fine that way. He preferred it. And so he had no clue at all what he was doing. Why he opened the letter to begin with, let alone decide to travel cross-country to Foxhole Valley. Maybe it was because it was a place to stay that wasn’t an abandoned house, emptied of everything but ghosts and numbing cold. Maybe it was something to do that wasn’t traveling aimlessly to collect past debts just to survive. Maybe he wanted to get to stay in one place for once, a place that belonged to him.
The otherwise empty bus rumbled underneath his feet, and he could hear the lone duffel bag rattling overhead. It was growing dark outside, and from his poor sense of time, they must have been at it for a few hours at least. He rested his head against the bus window, bouncing rhythmically, uncomfortably with every pothole and crevice.
He let his eyes close, at last accepting the notable vacancy of the vehicle aside from the driver, and they did not open again until the driver’s voice echoed back to him: “Arriving at Palmetto Town, Foxhole Valley.”
Neil rocked to his feet, still groggy from sleep but ever-decent at grounding himself into alertness, and slipped his duffel from the compartment before stumbling off the bus. It roared to life again behind him, and Neil was left alone in consuming darkness. It was a small dirt clearing, speckled by trees and flowers he did not recognize. He followed a cobblestone road down to a small abandoned cabin, which by all deduction must have been Hatford Farm.
He was surprised by the state of it. The vast area was littered with stones and weeds, shaded further in the moonlight by towering oak trees. In front of him was a wooden cabin, smaller than the foreclosed two-bedroom he’d been staying in for the past two months, but he was not one to complain about free accommodations, especially when there was no need to sneak in and out for fear of snitching neighbors.
There were no crops on the land, to his surprise. No coops or barns, nothing really to indicate it had at any point been a functional farm despite the vast acreage. Across the pathway where he’d come, streetlamps twinkled in the moonlight. For a moment he had a mind to explore the town, account for the layout and any hidden areas he could use to his advantage. Instead, he turned and climbed the steps into the cabin. He would have preferred it, he guessed, if his introduction to the neighbors wasn’t him wandering, aimless and tired, around town at midnight. If he had any desire to know them, that would certainly not be it.
Inside the cabin was as simple as Neil had deduced by the state of the land. It was small—a single bed and TV in respective corners and a dining table and chest cozied up by an idle fireplace. It smelled old if he had to describe it—like accumulated mildew and dust. It had the same aura of the countless vacated houses he’d lived in over the years. If Uncle Stuart loved this place as much as he claimed, Neil couldn’t fathom why it all seemed so abandoned.
He slung his duffel bag onto the white sheets and set to work coaxing a blaze into the fireplace. With expert fingers and the help of flint, the old logs sparked to life. Warmth radiated around the single-room home, and Neil found his way a short few steps back to the bed. He unzipped the duffel briefly, only to account that the binder full of money remained where he’d left it, and he slid the bag under the bed.
It was homely, to say the least. And despite the mess, secluded areas were far preferable to bustling neighborhoods. He wondered what he would do tomorrow. If he would forage for food, stay here until he died from old age. It sounded like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. He knew Foxhole Valley and the neighboring village, Palmetto Town, were scarcely populated, and he wondered if the residents would even know he’d moved in. If he could live under the radar here and live a life of solitude.
He sighed. Content, maybe. Relieved. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids until he was under the thin sheets, warmed by the crackling fireplace, and he let slumber coax him into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was met with soft sunlight dripping through the singular window and the smell of ashes. A thin plume of smoke wafted up from the fireplace through the chimney. Neil lay in bed for a moment but rose before he could reflect on what had become of his life in the past day.
He trudged across the room and unclasped the chest sat next to the fireplace, wondered if Uncle Stuart had truly left him with nothing but the rundown ghost of a farm, like some kind of cosmic joke from the grave. He was relieved to find it was not completely useless. There were a few tools scattered around the chest, among them an ax and a scythe. So he was not completely unaided, and not completely undefended either. He collected the tools in his arms and made his way into the world.
It couldn’t have been more than seven in the morning. The sun cast shadows through the small collection of scattered trees, and despite the mess, even Neil had to admit it was sort of beautiful here. He was more of a suburb kind of person: enough people that he could easily blend in, but not so many that he couldn’t account for imminent threats. Nature and seclusion were never quite his forte, though looking at it all now he wasn’t entirely sure why.
He set the heap of tools next to the door on the front patio, and for a brief moment of dread wondered where he would start. If he would start. He descended the few steps down onto the grass and scanned the immediate area.
He nearly jumped when he noticed a figure meandering down the cobblestone path leading to town. He had half a mind to scurry back inside, hope he had not been seen, but before he could, the figure raised a hand in greeting.
The man was a bit intimidating if Neil was to admit it. Not that he didn’t suspect he could easily hold his own, but the man was much larger than Neil. He had tattoos spidering up his arms, likely hiding underneath his white tank top. He stopped a few feet short of Neil and put his hands on his hips. He didn’t quite smile, but he also didn’t look specifically malevolent.
“Stuart’s nephew, I assume,” the man said. “He told us he left the deed. Sorry for your loss, by the by.”
Neil did not move or speak, but he accounted for all the exits in the vicinity. There was the path to town, of course, though he hadn’t bothered to explore last night and did not know its layout or even how many people would be around. There were countless paths he could take through the mess of the farm, which he also had not explored, and therefore didn’t know what lead to where. He supposed he could easily lose someone among the trees or boulders, though. He squared his posture nonetheless.
“He was a great guy, Stuart. Real shame. Everyone was pretty fond of the guy.” The man stepped closer to Neil, and Neil mirrored his movement in the opposite direction. “Hey, I don’t bite, kid. I’m Wymack. David Wymack. Or… Mayor Wymack, I guess. Most people forego the title.”
He stuck out a hand, which Neil studiously ignored. He kept his eyes trained on the man. After an uncomfortable moment, Wymack withdrew it. “I get it. You’re new, this is a weird situation. You ever worked a farm before?”
Neil shook his head.
“Alright, then. I’m sure you’ll get your bearings. Take a trip to Foxden Forest to see Betsy, just south of here. Can’t miss it. She’ll tell you everything you need to know about getting started.” He paused and crossed his arms. “This is a close community, kid. I’m just warning you. Around here, everyone’s family more or less, and sometimes they’re a little wary of strangers who might upset the balance. If I was you, I’d introduce myself around. And try not to cause trouble.”
When Neil didn’t respond, Wymack gave him a solemn nod and turned back toward town. As he reached the cobblestone path again, Neil called out. “I’m Neil. Josten.”
Wymack turned back towards him, continuing backward down the path. “Nice to finally meet you, Neil. Good luck. You can find me in town if you need anything.”
And Neil was alone. He stood motionless for more time than he cared to count and finally slumped down on the steps, looking out at the land before him.