Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John “Soap” MacTavish had never been good at sitting still. The military had kept him moving – one deployment after another, new deserts, new jungles, new cities left scarred by conflict. But somewhere along the line, the thrill had burned out. What remained was exhaustion, like a weight he carried in his bones.

He sat at the small table in his flat, the official discharge papers folded neatly to one side, and a letter in his hands. His grandfather’s. He had given the sealed envelope it was in to Soap on his deathbed and had Soap promise to open it when he was ready to start a new life. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting uneven but steady.

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. I dropped everything and moved away to a place where I truly belonged. I’ve enclosed the deed to the place where I found peace, my pride and joy: the old farm in Pelican Town. It’s located in Stardew Valley, on the southern coast. It’s the perfect place to start your new life. This was my most precious gift to all, and now it’s yours. I know you’ll honour the family name, John.

P.S. If Shepherd is still alive, say hi to the old guy for me.

Soap let out a huff of laughter through his nose. His grandfather had always had a knack for understatement. He could only imagine the state of the place after years without care. Still, the thought of green fields instead of battlefields, of building something instead of tearing things down… that had a pull he couldn’t ignore.

“Guess it’s time I learned how to grow something other than a beard,” Soap muttered.

By the next morning, his bag was packed. He didn’t need much – he’d lived out of rucksacks and duffle bags long enough to know how to travel light. The bus ride was long, winding through hills and forests, until the air itself seemed fresher, cleaner, like it hadn’t yet learned the taste of smoke and gunpowder.

When the bus hissed to a stop at Pelican Town’s tiny stop, Soap slung his pack over his shoulder and stepped off.

Waiting for him was a woman in a toolbelt, hair tied back under a cap, arms crossed as if she’d been standing there a while. She looked him up and down with a curious tilt of her head.

“You MacTavish?”

“Aye, that’s me,” Soap said, grinning. “Don’t tell me I’ve already got a reputation.”

She smirked. “Name’s Laswell. I’m the local carpenter. Mayor Shepherd asked me to show you around while he tidies up the old farmhouse.”

Soap followed her down the dirt road, his boots crunching on gravel. The town was small but charming – flower boxes in windows, a few folks waving as they passed, the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing from somewhere near the river. Beyond the cluster of shops and cottages, the road sloped down toward overgrown fields hemmed in by broken fences.

The farm.

Waiting at the gate was a stout man in a neat coat, his moustache far too tidy to belong in the countryside. He greeted them with a politician’s smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mr. MacTavish!” the man declared, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “Mayor Shepherd, at your service. Welcome to Pelican Town!”

Soap shook his hand firmly. “Cheers, Mayor. Can’t wait to see what I’ve got myself into.”

Mayor Shepherd’s eyes twinkled, but his tone was careful. “Well, I’d say the land has… potential. Yes, plenty of potential.”

Soap looked out at the so-called ‘farm’. The fields were a jungle of weeds and tangled grass, rocks jutting up like gravestones. At the far edge, a crooked chicken coop leaned to one side, boards sagging, the roof patched with rusted tin. A loud squawk erupted from inside, followed by a flurry of feathers as two wild-eyed chickens darted out, flapping their wings furiously at the intruders.

Soap raised his brows. “Are those… feral?”

Laswell smirked. “They’ve been left to their own devices for a while. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”

One of the chickens charged him, pecking at his boot with surprising ferocity. Soap laughed, stepping back.

“Well then,” he said, “looks like the ladies aren’t too keen on new management.”

Mayor Shepherd chuckled diplomatically. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. After all, Pelican Town could use someone with your… determination.”

Soap looked back at the fields, hands on his hips. Overwhelming? Absolutely. But for the first time in years, he felt something other than weariness.

He felt possibility.

~*~

The next morning dawned bright and clear, sunlight spilling over the farm like it hadn’t seen hope in years. Soap stood in the middle of the field with a rusty hoe in his hand, staring at the sea of weeds as if he were about to lead an assault on an enemy bunker.

“Well, ladies,” he muttered to the chickens pecking suspiciously near the coop, “time to see if I cannae kill plants the same way I kill everything else.”

It didn’t take long to realize farming was less about brute force and more about rhythm. Swing, clear, sweat. Swing, clear, sweat. His arms burned, his shirt clung to his back, and his so-called ‘field’ looked only slightly less wild than before.

Soap wiped his brow and laughed. “This is harder than a bloody training run.”

By midday, his stomach growled loud enough to draw the chickens’ attention. He slung his pack over his shoulder and wandered into town, following the smell of grilled food and spilled ale until he found the pub – a sturdy building with lanterns hung by the door and the sound of laughter drifting through the open windows.

Inside, behind the bar, stood a man with a warm grin and sharp eyes.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “You must be the new farmer. The name’s Kyle Garrick – but everyone calls me Gaz.”

“Soap,” he replied, sliding onto a stool. “Though I suppose folks here will start calling me Farmer John if I’m not careful.”

Gaz laughed. “Farmer Soap’s got a nice ring to it. Pint?”

“Aye, and whatever’s hot from the kitchen. Haven’t eaten since sunrise.”

It didn’t take long before the two were chatting like old friends. Soap told stories of city life (leaving out the bits that involved firefights and classified missions), and Gaz filled him in on the local gossip – how the blacksmith spent too much time arguing with his furnace, how the doctor was convinced everyone had rickets, and how the fisherman at the docks swore the sea was hiding something ancient.

Soap’s eyes lit up. “A fisherman, eh? Always did like a quiet day with a line in the water.”

Which was how, the following morning, he found himself trudging down the beach, boots sinking into sand. The salt air stung pleasantly in his lungs.

A man with a heavy beard and a weathered hat was mending nets near a shack that leaned against the pier. He looked up as Soap approached, pipe clenched between his teeth.

“Price,” the man said simply, as if names were introductions enough.

“Soap,” he replied with a grin. “Heard you’re the man to see if I want to try my hand at fishing.”

Price eyed him, then rummaged in the shack. He came out holding a simple rod, worn but sturdy. He pressed it into Soap’s hands.

“Every farmer needs to know the tides. You’ll catch dinner before you catch gold, but it’s honest work.”

Soap tested the weight of it, impressed. “Cheers. Just don’t laugh if I hook my own trousers.”

Price’s beard twitched, which Soap suspected might be his version of a smile.

Later that week, with aching muscles from both farming and fishing, Soap wandered into the General Store. The place smelled faintly of sawdust and old fruit, crates stacked neatly by the windows. Behind the counter stood Phillip Graves, all charm and teeth, his accent polished like his shoes.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Pelican Town’s newest farmer,” Graves said smoothly. “You’ve come to the right place. Seeds, tools, fertilizer – you name it, I’ve got it. For a fair price, of course.”

Soap picked up a packet of parsnip seeds and nearly choked. “Fair? At this rate, I’ll be eating dirt instead of growing it.”

Graves leaned on the counter, unbothered. “Quality doesn’t come cheap, my friend. Think of it as an investment. Spend now, profit later.”

Soap raised a brow. “Or maybe I’ll just steal cuttings from the wild and hope for the best.”

Graves chuckled. “You’re welcome to try. But you’ll be back.”

Walking out with only a handful of seeds and a lighter wallet, Soap shook his head. “Man’s got more nerve than a drill sergeant.”

Still, despite the sore back, the high prices, and the feral chickens eyeing him like prey, Soap couldn’t help but smile as he looked out over the valley. The town was rough around the edges, the people odd but welcoming, and the land – though stubborn – was his.

For the first time in a long while, Soap felt like he was right where he belonged.

~*~

By the end of his first week, Soap had blisters on his palms, dirt under his nails, and an ongoing feud with the chickens. They still eyed him like he was some kind of intruder, but at least they’d stopped outright charging him every time he brought them feed. Progress, however minor.

“See, ladies?” he said one morning, scattering grain in the mud. “We’re learning to get along. You don’t bite me, I don’t eat you. That’s a fair deal.”

The days settled into a rhythm – swinging the hoe, planting seeds, hauling water from the small river running through the field, then dragging himself into town for a pint with Gaz or a word of advice from Laswell. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept his hands busy, and for the first time in years, he didn’t wake up to the sound of shouting.

One evening, as Soap returned from the fields, he noticed an envelope tacked to the front door of his farmhouse.

To all villagers,

I am pleased to inform that the clearance of the landslide caused by a local drilling operation has been completed. I apologize for any inconvenience the landslide may have caused to the local mining community.

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap snorted. “The local mining community, eh? That sounds like something I should check out.”

The next morning, clouds rolled in heavy and dark, rain drumming on the farmhouse roof. The fields would water themselves, which meant – for once – he had the day free. Soap rummaged through the toolshed, pushing past broken shovels and rusted nails, until his hand closed around the handle of an old pickaxe. The wood was splintered, the metal dulled with age, but it would do.

By midday, Soap found himself trudging up the path into the hills, rain soaking his jacket, mud clinging to his boots. The mine entrance loomed ahead – an old wooden frame braced against stone, lanterns swinging faintly in the wind.

Before Soap could enter, a voice called out to him from under the eaves of a nearby hut. “Hey! You there! You must be the new farmer.”

Soap turned to see a broad-shouldered man with a sharp jaw, a confident smile, and a sword strapped across his back. He extended a hand. “Alejandro Vargas. I run the Adventurer’s Guild here in the valley.”

Soap shook his hand firmly. “John MacTavish, call me Soap. Thought I’d try my luck in the mines. Maybe dig up something shiny, aye?”

Alejandro chuckled. “You’ll find more than shiny stones down there, amigo. The mines have a habit of testing those who enter.”

A second man stepped out of the hut, quieter, his expression softer. “Rodolfo Parra,” he said by way of introduction, giving Soap a polite nod.

Alejandro disappeared back inside the hut and returned with a blade, worn but serviceable. He held it out to Soap. “Here. An old rusty sword. Nothing special, but better than swinging a pickaxe at what lurks below.”

Soap took it carefully, weighing it in his hand. “Lurks below? Sounds ominous.”

Alejandro’s grin widened. “If you survive long enough, maybe we’ll let you into the Guild. Consider it a test. The mines will show you what you’re made of.”

Rodolfo’s eyes narrowed with quiet warning. “Be careful, señor. Not everything down there is eager to be found.”

Soap glanced from the yawning black entrance of the mine back to the rusty sword in his hand. He felt the old familiar thrum of adrenaline – half dread, half excitement. He hadn’t expected to feel it again, not out here among parsnips and chickens.

“Well then,” Soap said with a grin, rain dripping from his hair as he stepped toward the darkness, “let’s see what the mines have got for me.”

~*~

The air inside the mine was cool and damp, carrying the faint tang of stone dust and something… older. Soap rested the rusty sword across his shoulder, lantern light flickering against rough-hewn walls as he descended the first set of steps.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, voice echoing in the darkness. “How hard can it be? Swing a sword, crack a rock, don’t die. Easy.”

The first chamber was littered with boulders and scattered patches of ore glinting faintly in the lamplight. Soap swung his pickaxe, the sound ringing sharp in the cavern. Chips of copper clattered to the ground.

He was just thinking this might be more boring than dangerous when something wet and green launched itself at his boots.

“Bloody hell!” Soap yelped, stumbling back as a slime – round, translucent, and unnervingly cheerful – bounced toward him.

He swung the rusty sword, which connected with a squelchy thwack. The slime quivered, then split into two smaller blobs that came after him twice as fast.

Soap groaned. “Oh, that’s just unfair!”

By the time he skewered the last of them, he was covered in goo and breathing hard. He leaned on his sword, laughing despite himself. “Guess that answers the question on what ‘lurks below.’”

Deeper in, the tunnels grew stranger. He swatted away buzzing insects the size of his fist, their wings a grating drone in the darkness. A rock shifted underfoot – only it wasn’t a rock at all. Two eyes snapped open, and the thing scuttled sideways on crab legs, claws snapping.

Soap stared at it flatly. “Aye, because fighting rocks is exactly what I wanted today.”

The crab lunged, and Soap kicked it like a football, sending it skittering against the wall. He finished the job with the flat of his pickaxe.

After an hour of swinging, sweating, and cursing, Soap noticed a strange contraption tucked against the wall: an old, iron-wrought elevator. Its gate groaned as he pulled it open, the mechanism sputtering to life.

A lever beside the panel was marked crudely: ‘B0 – B5 – B10 – …’

“A working elevator?” Soap muttered, running a hand over the rust. “Guess I won’t be climbing ladders back to the top.”

He pressed the lever, and sure enough, the whole thing shuddered but held steady, like it still remembered its purpose.

Feeling bold, Soap pushed onward, descending further into the gloom. He’d just cleared another chamber of bugs when something caught his eye: movement, quick and deliberate, at the edge of his lantern light.

He froze.

“Oi! Who’s there?”

But the figure – if it had even been a figure – was already gone, swallowed by shadows between the rocks. Soap hurried over, heart hammering, but found nothing: just broken stone, the drip of water, and silence.

He stood there a long moment, staring into the dark. His instincts prickled. For years they’d kept him alive, and they weren’t wrong now. Something – or someone – had been watching.

Soap exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on the sword. “Aye, I’ve had enough fun for one day.”

The climb back up to a floor where the elevator stopped was slower, the weight of the mines pressing down on his shoulders. When he finally emerged into the rain-washed night, the valley air felt sweeter than ever. He wiped goo off his sleeve, shaking his head with a rueful laugh.

“Parsnips are looking a lot safer now.”

Still, as he trudged home, Soap couldn’t shake the feeling that the mines weren’t done with him – and neither was whoever he’d almost seen down there.

~*~

The morning after his dive into the mines, Soap found a letter waiting in his mailbox. The handwriting was bold and steady.

MacTavish,

Word travels fast in the valley. You survived your first trip into the mines. Consider yourself worthy of an introduction to the Adventurer’s Guild. Come by when you’re ready, we could use another sword arm.

 – Alejandro Vargas

Soap grinned, folding the letter into his pocket. “Not bad for a farmer, eh?”

Still, the fields came first. He spent the next few days tending parsnips, mending the leaky roof of the chicken coop (while fending off the chickens’ vicious pecking), and even managing to fish up more than driftwood thanks to Price’s lessons. His body ached in new ways, but it was the good kind of ache – the sort that came from building something instead of tearing it down.

Finally, on an afternoon after a morning filled with watering his crops, he dusted off the rusty sword, slung it across his back, and made for the Adventurer’s Guild.

The hut stood sturdy on the cliffside, lanterns burning outside even in daylight. Soap had just reached the steps when the door swung open and someone stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A dark cloak wrapped tight around him, hood pulled low. A skull mask stared out from beneath it, painted bone-white and expressionless.

Soap blinked.

The man adjusted the strap of his pack and strode past without a word.

“Eh- hello there!” Soap called, plastering on his friendliest grin. “Name’s Soap! New farmer in town.”

The man didn’t so much as glance at him. He kept walking, boots crunching on gravel, and within moments had disappeared into the winding mountain path, swallowed by trees and fog.

Soap stood frozen, eyebrows raised. “…friendly fella.”

Inside, Alejandro was sharpening a blade while Rodolfo polished armour in the corner. Both men looked up as Soap entered.

“You came,” Alejandro said warmly. “Good. The Guild always needs new blood.”

Soap leaned against the counter, still distracted. “Aye, before we get into that… who was the lad in the mask? Skull face, dark cloak, no time for manners?”

Alejandro and Rodolfo exchanged a glance.

“That,” Alejandro said at last, “would be Simon Riley. The folks around town call him Ghost.”

Rodolfo added quietly, “He lives in a cabin high in the mountains. Alone. He doesn’t come down often, except to visit the Guild or… the mines.”

Soap’s mind flicked back to the flicker of movement in the tunnels, the sense of being watched. He rubbed the back of his neck, connecting the dots.

“So that’s who I saw skulking about down there.”

Alejandro gave him a long, measuring look. “Ghost has his reasons for keeping to himself. Don’t take it personally. If he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him.”

Soap only grinned wider, interest piqued rather than dulled. “We’ll see about that.”

As the two Guild leaders went on to explain rules, monster classifications, and the fine print of membership, Soap’s thoughts drifted back to the silent figure in the skull mask vanishing into the fog.

The recluse of the mountains, haunting both cabin and cavern. A ghost indeed.

Unfortunately for the man, Soap had never been one to leave a mystery unsolved.

~*~

A few days later, Soap knelt in the dirt, tugging at the stubborn green tops of parsnips. The sun was high, the soil warm, and for once the field looked more like a farm than a battlefield. One by one, he pulled the vegetables free, brushing the dirt off with a satisfied grin.

“Well, would you look at that,” he said to the chickens, who were watching him from their coop like suspicious overseers. “Didn’t think I’d manage it, but here we are – the first harvest!”

The chickens blinked. One squawked. Soap took that as approval.

By afternoon, he’d bundled the lot into crates and marched them into town. Graves was leaning on the counter at the General Store when Soap arrived, all polished smiles as always.

“Well, if it isn’t farmer MacTavish,” Graves drawled, counting the parsnips with a calculating eye, “seems you’re settling in nicely. Fine-looking produce. I’ll take them off your hands for a fair price.”

Soap raised a brow at the coins Graves offered. “Fair, he says. At this rate, I’ll be sleeping in the coop with the chickens.”

Graves’ grin widened. “You have to choose your battles wisely, my friend. I gladly will take your harvest off your hand, the town’s hungry for fresh vegetables this time of year.”

Soap sighed, shaking his head but handing the crate over anyway. “You’re robbing me blind, Phillip. If I find out your parsnips are reselling for triple, I’ll sic the chickens on you.”

Graves chuckled but said nothing, already tucking the vegetables into neat baskets for display.

Two mornings later, a letter from Mayor Shepherd awaited Soap in the mailbox.

Dear John,

Tomorrow everyone will gather in the town square for the Egg Festival. It starts at 9 AM sharp. There will be food, games, and the annual egg hunt!

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap grinned. “An egg festival. Now that sounds like my kind of party.”

The town square was alive with colour the next day – streamers hung from lampposts, tables laden with food, children darting between everything in excited packs. Soap wandered through, shaking hands, trading smiles, and learning names. There was Farah, who ran the clinic with calm authority; Alex, the blacksmith who smelled permanently of smoke and metal; and König, the towering but shy guard who patrolled the town.

But as Soap mingled, his curiosity got the better of him. He asked here and there about the man he’d met outside the Guild.

“Ghost?” Farah said with a frown. “He comes to the clinic only when it’s unavoidable. Hardly speaks. Keeps to himself.”

“I heard he’s a hunter,” said Alex, seated beside Farah. “Keeps the wild animals in check up in the mountains.”

“Nonsense,” said an elderly woman arranging flowers. “He only comes down at night, skulking about. Mark my words, no good comes from a man who hides his face.”

No one seemed to agree on who Ghost was – or what lay behind that mask. Soap found himself grinning at the contradictions. Each rumour only made him more intrigued.

When it came time for the egg hunt, Gaz elbowed him playfully. “Partner up? Think we can beat the kids?”

Soap smirked. “Mate, I’ve outsmarted men with guns. Surely I can handle a few wee bairns with baskets.”

The hunt was chaos – Soap and Gaz dashing between barrels and bushes, scrambling to scoop up painted eggs while children shrieked and dove into hiding places faster than soldiers on patrol. By the end, Soap had leaves in his hair, mud on his boots, and six brightly painted eggs clutched in his hands.

“Ha! Beat that!” he crowed, though a sharp-eyed little girl with a basket twice as full gave him a victorious grin as she skipped by.

“Think we lost,” Gaz admitted between laughs.

Soap only laughed louder. “Aye, but we went down fighting!”

At the prize stall, Mayor Shepherd handed him a straw hat, which Soap immediately plopped onto his head at a jaunty angle. Graves, of course, had set up a little side table stacked with little nicknacks, including strawberry seed packets, which Soap couldn’t resist buying despite muttering about the prices.

As he headed home with the hat shading his eyes and the seeds tucked under his arm, Soap felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring sun. The valley was beginning to feel like home.

But beneath the laughter and music of the day, the whispers about the man in the mask lingered. A hunter. A shadow in the night. A ghost.

Soap adjusted the brim of his new hat and smirked to himself. “Watch out, Ghost. I’ll figure you out.”

~*~

By late spring, Soap’s fields were finally starting to look respectable. Where once there had been nothing but weeds and rocks, neat rows of crops now stood tall and green.

Potatoes swelled fat beneath the soil, green beans climbed carefully tied stakes, and cauliflowers – with their massive white crowns surrounded by wide leaves – sat proudly in the morning sun.

Soap crouched low, brushing dirt off his hands as he pulled up a hefty potato. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Graves is going to choke when he sees the size of these.”

The chickens clucked nearby, sounding – for once – almost approving.

By afternoon, crates of produce were stacked outside his farmhouse, ready to be hauled into town. Every aching muscle, every bead of sweat, felt worth it. Slowly but surely, he was turning this wild patch of earth into a true farm.

And yet, as the skies darkened a few days later and rain hammered against the roof, Soap found himself restless. The fields were watered for him. The chickens were content in their patched-up coop. Which left one option.

“The mines,” he muttered, slinging the rusty sword across his back. “Time for round two.”

~*~

The deeper levels of the mine were darker, colder. Soap’s lantern cast long shadows that danced along jagged walls. He’d gotten better at swinging his sword – slimes went down in two strikes instead of six – but today felt different. The tunnels seemed heavier somehow, the air charged.

It started with a tremor underfoot. Soap froze as stones tumbled from the wall. Then the rocks themselves began to shift, groaning as cracks glowed faintly from within. One by one, shapes pulled themselves free – stone golems, their massive bodies grinding as they lurched toward him.

Soap swallowed hard. “Well, that’s new.”

He charged the first, sword sparking off solid rock. The impact jolted up his arm. The golem swung a heavy fist – he barely dodged, stumbling sideways. Another loomed behind him. Then another.

“I don’t think a gun would be more helpful in this situation,” He swung again, but his blade clanged uselessly. A stone fist caught him in the side, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, vision swimming. His shirt got caught on a rock, cutting the fabric and the skin underneath.

The third golem raised both arms for a crushing blow.

And then it crumbled.

A blur of motion struck from behind, a heavy blade cleaving through stone like it was paper. Another golem fell in two strikes, sparks flying. The third collapsed under a precise crack of steel.

Soap blinked, gasping, as the dust cleared.

The skull mask stared back at him, dark eyes unreadable beneath the hood.

Ghost.

Soap sat back hard against the cavern wall, wincing as he clutched his ribs and spotted his bloody arm. “Bloody hell… remind me not to pick fights with boulders again.”

Ghost crouched silently beside him, pulling a roll of bandages from his pack. His gloved hands worked quickly, binding Soap’s arm and touching his side to check for fractures with surprising care.

“Watch yourself,” Ghost said at last, his voice low, gravelly, carrying an edge that brooked no argument. “The mines don’t forgive carelessness.”

Soap grinned despite the pain. “But lucky for me, seems they do send in cavalry.”

Ghost didn’t answer. He tied off the bandage with a sharp tug, then stood.

“Wait-” Soap pushed to his feet, wincing. “At least let me buy you a pint for saving my hide.”

But Ghost was already moving, silent as shadow. Within moments he vanished into the tunnels, leaving only the echo of boots on stone.

Soap stood there, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot despite the sting in his ribs.

“Well then,” he muttered to the empty cavern. “Guess I’ll just have to catch you next time, Ghost.”

~*~

Soap didn’t care to return to the mines for the next week. Not that he had much time to go anyway. Spring in Pelican Town had a way of sneaking up on him. One moment the fields were bare, the soil damp and heavy, and the next the valley was bursting with blossoms – white petals drifting on the breeze, wildflowers pushing up through the grass, bees humming over the edges of his rows of cauliflower.

When he opened the mailbox one morning, another neatly penned letter from Mayor Shepherd waited inside.

Dear John,

Tomorrow the whole town is getting together for the Flower Dance in the clearing of the forest west of town. Please join us for food, music, and dancing. If you can find a partner, you may even participate yourself.

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap read it aloud to the chickens, who blinked at him with indifference. “Find a partner, he says. Easy for him to write, not so easy when half the town thinks I’m daft.”

Still, when the day came, Soap donned his cleanest shirt, brushed the straw hat as best he could, and made the trek into the forest. The clearing was already bustling – garlands strung from trees, fiddlers tuning their instruments, the smell of roasted vegetables and sweet breads drifting through the air.

Soap made the rounds, laughing and greeting folk. He even screwed up his courage enough to approach Valeria, who was arranging flowers near the dance floor, a flower crown in her dark hair.

“So, eh… fancy a dance?” Soap asked with his most winning grin.

She didn’t even look up from her bouquet. “Ew… No.”

Soap blinked. “Right. That’s… clear, then.” He retreated with a chuckle and a shrug. “Guess that’s a no dancing for me today,” he muttered to himself.

As the music started and pairs lined up in their white shirts and flowing skirts, Soap found a spot by the refreshment table, plopping down beside Laswell and Price.

“No luck finding a partner?” Laswell asked, smirking over her drink.

“Got shot down faster than a clay pigeon,” Soap replied cheerfully.

Price chuckled, pipe smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. First flower dance is always the hardest. Next year, maybe you’ll charm someone into saying yes.”

Soap leaned back, watching as the dancers twirled in neat circles, hands clasped, flowers woven into their hair. It was simple, maybe even a bit silly, but the joy was infectious.

And yet… as he scanned the crowd, his smile faltered.

Ghost wasn’t there.

He wasn’t mingling by the tables, wasn’t lurking on the edges of the clearing. No hood, no mask, no silent shadow.

Soap sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him at one of these gatherings. If Ghost isn’t coming down to me… maybe it’s time I went up to him.”

Laswell raised a brow. “Talking about the man in the mask again? Careful, Soap. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors.”

Soap only grinned. “Who can resist my charm? Maybe I’ll take him some fresh eggs, aye? Everyone likes eggs. A peace offering.”

Price gave him a look over the rim of his mug, half amusement, half warning. “If you come back down from the mountains with both legs still working, I’ll be more impressed than if you managed to catch a squid.”

Soap laughed, but his mind was already made up. Ghost could dodge him in the mines, and vanish into the mist, but even recluses had to eat.

And Soap wasn’t above delivering eggs to make a new friend.

~*~

By the last week of spring, Soap had worked himself into circles about the idea of bringing Ghost something.

“Eggs, aye, everyone likes eggs,” he muttered while pacing his farm, basket in hand. “But maybe bread, too? A few parsnips? Or is that too much? Don’t want to look desperate. Just a farmer being neighbourly. …Neighbourly with a man who wears a skull mask and skulks about caves, sure, but neighbourly all the same.”

The chickens clucked as if mocking him, and Soap scowled. “You ladies aren’t helping.”

~*~

On the final day of the season, Soap finally pushed the thought of Ghost aside long enough to handle real business. He loaded the last of the spring crops into crates, tugged his hat low, and hauled himself into town to run some errands.

After dropping off the spring crops at the General Store and getting some coin from Graves, Soap headed to the mountains. Laswell was already waiting when he found her near the carpenter’s shop, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“You’re late,” she said, though her smirk gave her away.

Soap swung a bundle from his shoulder with a flourish. “Not without reason. Found this in the forest.” He held up a battered axe.

Her eyes lit up. “I thought I’d lost that forever.”

“Found it stuck in a tree root. Took me half the afternoon to wrestle it out.”

She took it back with a shake of her head. “Appreciate it, Soap. I’ll remember this. And about the barn you requested – you’ll have it by early summer. Seems like you’re starting to be serious about farming.”

Soap grinned. “Serious enough to keep chickens from trying to eat me alive. I’ll take it.”

They shook hands, and for a moment Soap considered heading home to plan summer planting. But the thought of the skull-masked figure retreating into fog, of the rumours circling at the festival, tugged at him.

Instead of turning back toward the farm, he found his boots carrying him uphill, higher into the mountains.

The cabin wasn’t hard to find once he knew where to look: a squat building tucked between pines, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. It looked solid, lived-in, but gave nothing away.

Soap stood at the door, heart hammering louder than he cared to admit. He set the basket down on the step – eggs nestled carefully alongside a loaf of bread he’d picked up from Gaz’s pub kitchen.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

The door creaked open just enough for the skull mask to appear in the gap. Ghost stared at him, silent.

Soap raised a hand in greeting. “Evening, neighbour. Thought you might like some fresh eggs. And bread. Figure a man can’t live on shadows alone.”

Ghost grunted, reached out one gloved hand, and pulled the basket inside. Then the door shut in Soap’s face.

Soap blinked at the weathered wood. “Right. Not much for small talk, then.”

He cupped his hands and shouted through the door, “I’ll be back in a week with more! If you’ve got requests – or allergies – best let me know before I poison you!”

No answer.

Soap chuckled to himself, tugging his hat lower as he turned to head back down the mountain. “Progress,” he muttered. “One grunt and a stolen basket at a time.”

Behind him, the cabin stayed silent, smoke still curling from the chimney, a ghost retreating back into his shadows.

And Soap? Soap was already planning what to bring next.

Chapter Text

The heat of the first morning of summer hit Soap like a punch to the gut.

He bounded out to the fields, visions of strawberries filling his head – only to find every last plant shrivelled to brown stalks, drooping in the heat.

“No, no, no, ye bloody traitors!” He crouched in the dirt, tugging one limp vine. “After all that watering and singing, this is how ye thank me?”

The chickens clucked behind him, unsympathetic. Soap groaned, brushing soil from his hands. “Right. Lesson learned. Crops don’t last forever. New season, new plan.”

That very afternoon, he stomped into Graves' General Store, coin pouch jingling.

“Need summer seeds,” Soap said. “The lot of them.”

Graves leaned back against the counter with his usual too-perfect smile. “Now you’re talking my language, John. Melons, tomatoes, peppers, blueberries – you name it, I’ve got it. Prices may sting a bit, but you know quality when you see it.”

Soap eyed the racks, muttering under his breath. “Sting is one word for it. Bleedin’ robbery is another.” Still, he loaded up on seeds, imagining his fields bursting with colour.

On the walk home, he found a patch of overgrown weeds near the forest edge. Poking through the brush, he unearthed a pouch of strange seeds, labelled in faded ink: Summer Squash.

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Soap said cheerfully, tucking them into his pack. “Surprise crops, eh? Why not?”

By the end of the week, sweat dripping from his brow, Soap stood over freshly tilled rows – melons and squash here, tomatoes and peppers there, and an entire corner given over to blueberry bushes.

It looked good. Better than good. It looked alive.

And behind him, the newly built barn stood tall and clean, courtesy of Laswell’s hammer and sharp eye. Inside, two cows blinked at him with placid indifference.

“Bonnie and Clyde,” Soap announced, patting their broad sides. “Strong names for strong ladies.”

They mooed. Or maybe they groaned. Soap chose to take it as approval.

A few days later, Soap assembled his second ‘care package’. Fresh milk from Bonnie and Clyde, a bundle of hot peppers, and a handful of radish from the very first harvest. He stared at the basket long and hard, debating whether it was too much.

“Eggs were simple,” he muttered. “Milk and crops? Might look like I’m courtin’ him.” He paused, then grinned. “Well, what’s the harm in that?”

By late afternoon, he was climbing the mountain trail again, basket swinging at his side, whistling as if daring Ghost to slam another door in his face.

When the cabin finally came into view, Soap set the basket down and knocked.

The door cracked open. The skull mask appeared.

Soap gave a little salute. “Milk, peppers, radish. From the farm. All safe for human consumption – or at least I think so. If ye collapse, that’s on me.”

Ghost took the basket, silent as ever, and shut the door.

Soap folded his arms and called out, “I’ll be back again in a week! If ye don’t want something, best say so – or I’ll just keep guessing till I get it right!”

No answer.

Soap smiled all the way down the mountain anyway.

“Progress,” he said to the cows when he got home. “Next time, maybe he’ll grunt twice.”

~*~

Soap had just about gotten used to the rhythm of summer. The sun was harsher, the crops thirstier, and the cows infinitely more demanding than the chickens ever were, but the farm was alive in a way that made his chest swell with pride.

“Look at you, Bonnie,” Soap crooned, scratching behind one cow’s ear while Clyde butted her head into his back for attention. “One week in, already giving milk enough to drown a man. That’s hard work, that is.”

The milk, as it turned out, was more than just refreshing on hot days. Laswell had passed him a set of blueprints she dug up in her workshop: a cheese press.

“You’ve got cows,” she’d said, “you might as well put them to use. No sense drowning in milk when you can be making wheels of cheese.”

Soap’s head nearly exploded at the possibilities. Cheese, mayonnaise from the eggs, and kegs for brewing… well, anything. He tacked the blueprints to the wall of his farmhouse, pacing around like a general planning battle strategy.

“Cheese, eggs, booze,” he said, grinning. “It’s a one-man empire in the making.”

~*~

The letter from Mayor Shepherd arrived a few days later, tucked neatly in his mailbox. Soap tore it open while still standing in the morning dew.

Dear John,

Tomorrow everyone is gathering at the beach for the annual Pelican Town Luau. The highlight of the day is the communal potluck. Make sure you bring something good to contribute as the governor himself is attending. A fine showing reflects well on us all.

 – Mayor Shepherd

Soap lowered the paper and whistled. “The governor? No pressure then.”

He read it twice more, then looked out at his fields. Rows of tomatoes, peppers, and blueberries winked back at him, almost smug.

“What in blazes am I supposed to bring to impress a governor? Blueberries are fine, but hardly crown material. And a hot pepper? What if he chokes on it and drops dead in the sand?”

He stomped around the farm for a while, ranting to the chickens about responsibility and reputation.

The chickens ignored him.

Bonnie mooed. Clyde chewed cud.

Soap sighed. “Aye, fine. Maybe cheese. Everyone loves cheese.”

The only problem was: his cheese press wasn’t finished yet.

He squinted at the pile of lumber, copper bars, and spare parts he’d scrounged from the mines. “Right. Looks like I’ll be earning my invitation after all.”

For the next few days, Soap split his time between the fields, his animals, and the workshop. He hammered until his arms ached, tinkered until sparks flew, and nearly set his hair alight trying to assemble the mayonnaise machine. By the time the sun set before the festival, the farmhouse smelled of sawdust, sweat, and one ill-advised attempt at making mayonnaise.

But in the corner sat a gleaming cheese press, waiting to transform Bonnie and Clyde’s milk into something fit for royalty.

Soap wiped his brow, beaming. “Governor won’t know what hit him.”

~*~

The beach had never looked so lively.

Soap arrived to find lanterns strung between the palms, tables laden with bread, fruit, and roasted fish, and the great bubbling cauldron of stew sitting in the centre like the star of the show. The whole town was out – dressed in bright summer clothes, laughter rolling like the tide.

Mayor Shepherd spotted him immediately. “Ah, John! Good man, good man.” The mayor clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him into the sand. “You’ve brought something for the potluck, I trust? Something worthy of the Governor’s palate?”

Soap held up his basket with a dramatic flourish. Nestled inside, gleaming like treasure, was a round of fresh cheese. “Straight from Bonnie and Clyde themselves. Aged about… well, a night, but she’ll do.”

Shepherd beamed, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent, excellent. Just what we need – simple, hearty, and farm-fresh. The Governor will be most impressed. No pressure, of course.”

“No pressure,” Soap muttered as the mayor whisked the cheese away, sweat prickling the back of his neck.

He wandered after that, letting the warm sea breeze cool him down. Gaz waved him over from where he was setting mugs of ale along a table.

“Thought I smelled trouble,” Gaz said with a grin. “Come to liven up the party?”

“Aye, and to keep the Governor from choking on the stew.” Soap leaned on the table. “Suppose if he keels over, I’ll be the one taking the blame.”

Gaz chuckled, sliding him a mug. “Relax. Worst case, he declares war on Pelican Town. Best case, he crowns you Master of Cheese.”

Soap snorted beer out his nose. “Master of Cheese. Sounds like a bloody knighthood.”

Further along, Price was fussing over a spread of freshly grilled fish. He looked up, puffing on his cigar. “You settling in well, son?”

Soap grinned. “Fields are green, cows are fat, and I’ve only been electrocuted once. I’d call that progress.”

Price chuckled. “Careful in the mines. Heard tell the critters get nastier the deeper you go.”

That reminder tugged at Soap – of Ghost, of the bandaged arm, of questions still unanswered. He glanced at the crowd, scanning faces. Children darted underfoot, villagers laughed and clinked mugs, but there was no tall figure, no mask lurking at the edge.

Ghost hadn’t come.

Soap found Laswell near the stew pot, ladling and tasting with the air of a scientist at work.

“Smells good. How is it going?” Soap asked.

“Could use more salt,” Laswell said, handing him a spoon. “Not bad though. Cheese might just balance it out.”

Soap took a sip and grinned. “If it doesn’t kill the Governor, I’ll call it a success.”

Laswell gave him a sideways look. “You’re fitting in here. Even Shepherd’s stopped calling you ‘the new farmer’. That’s something.”

As the sun dipped low and music started up, Soap found himself seated next to the local blacksmith, Alex.

“MacTavish, right?” Alex said, wiping his hands. “I’ve heard you’re making good use of the mines. That old pickaxe of yours won’t last forever. Bring me some copper, iron, and even gold bars – I can upgrade your tools. Faster work, stronger swings. Better use of your energy.”

Soap perked up. “Aye? Could use a bit more bite to my swing. These slimes don’t exactly play fair.”

“Then you know where to find me,” Alex said with a grin.

Soap nodded, tucking that away for later. Another trip into the dark was in his future – and maybe, just maybe, another chance to run into Ghost.

When the Governor finally arrived, the whole town gathered, watching as he dipped his spoon into the stew. Soap held his breath, heart pounding as the man tasted, chewed, and then broke into a wide smile.

“Excellent!” the Governor declared. “The cheese – remarkable! Who contributed this?”

Mayor Shepherd beamed. “Our very own new farmer, John MacTavish.”

The villagers cheered. Soap flushed scarlet, raising his mug in salute.

And yet, even as the party swept around him, laughter and music filling the summer night, Soap couldn’t help but think of the one person who wasn’t there.

The mountains loomed in the distance, dark and quiet.

“Maybe next time,” Soap murmured into his drink.

~*~

A few days later, Soap was humming to himself as he slung the old pickaxe over his shoulder, morning sun glinting off the dew in his fields.

“Copper, that’s the goal. A bar or five. Easy peasy.”

Bonnie and Clyde mooed from the barn as if sceptical. Soap tipped his cap. “Don’t wait up, ladies. I’ll be gone for the whole day.”

The mines greeted him with their usual damp chill, the echo of dripping water making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. But today he felt good – confident. He’d survived worse already. He swung the pickaxe, the crack of stone ringing sharp. Copper ore clinked loose from the walls, a satisfying weight dropping into his pack. A slime bounced into view, wobbling like a lump of jelly.

Soap grinned, drawing the rusty sword. “C’mon then, ye ugly wee bastard.”

It didn’t last long. Neither did the bug that tried to drop on his head, nor the rock crab pretending to be, well, a rock. Each victory filled his chest with a ridiculous kind of pride.

It was on the twentieth floor that he found it – tucked in a dusty chest, gleaming faintly in the lantern light: a Steel Smallsword. Soap lifted it reverently, testing the weight.

“Now this,” he whispered, giving it a swing. “This’ll do nicely.”

But the thrill dimmed as the silence pressed in around him. For the second time, Soap swore he felt eyes on him – watching, waiting.

“Ghost?” he muttered into the dark, but only echoes answered.

His new sword suddenly felt both comforting and not nearly enough. He tightened his grip, finished filling his pack with copper, and decided to call it a day and head back to the surface. He had more plans for the day as Gaz had invited him to the pub for his birthday.

By the time Soap arrived at the pub, pack heavy with ores to smelt and stones to put towards another farm building, the pub was alive with laughter and light spilling out onto the cobblestones. Soap pushed through the doors to a cheer.

Gaz was at the centre of it all, grinning ear to ear, a crown of paper tilted on his head.

“There he is!” Gaz called. “About time the farmer showed up.”

Soap strode over, holding out a wrapped bundle. “Got you something from the farm. Not much, but-”

Gaz tore into it like a kid on Christmas, pulling out a bottle of fresh milk and a small wedge of Soap’s cheese. His grin widened. “Now this is a gift! You’re spoiling me, Soap.”

“Just keep pouring the ale and we’ll call it even,” Soap said with a wink.

The crowd laughed, mugs raised, and soon Soap was swept into the warmth of the evening – sharing stories, clinking glasses, listening to Price’s fishing yarns and Laswell’s sharp quips. For a little while, the memory of the mines, of shadows that clung too long and the feeling of unseen eyes, faded into the background.

But later, when Soap stepped out into the cool night air, steel sword hanging at his side, he found himself glancing up toward the dark line of mountains.

Somewhere up there, he knew, Ghost was watching.

And Soap couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths weren’t done crossing.

~*~

The first blueberries had ripened, a patch of bright jewels against the green vines. Soap crouched down, careful hands plucking each one and dropping them into the basket. Melons were swelling, a second harvest of tomatoes just starting to blush red. The farm looked alive, humming with the sound of summer.

“Not bad for a soldier turned farmer, eh?” Soap said to Bonnie, who chewed her cud in mild agreement.

By midmorning, his basket was brimming. He dusted off his hands, hoisted his pack, and slung the battered pickaxe across his back for the walk into town.

The blacksmith’s forge was already blazing when he arrived. Alex was hammering at a glowing bar of metal, sweat running down his neck.

“Soap!” Alex greeted, setting the hammer down. “You brought me something?”

Soap dug into his pack, pulling out a bundle of copper bars. “As promised. Thought I’d start with the pickaxe.”

“Good choice,” Alex said, taking it with a craftsman’s reverence. “Come back in a couple of days – it’ll cut through stone like butter.”

“Music to my ears,” Soap grinned, already imagining fewer aching arms and faster swings.

From there, Soap wandered down to the beach. The sea breeze carried the smell of salt and fish, gulls circling overhead. Price was outside his little shop, pipe clamped between his teeth, untangling a mess of nets.

“Brought you a wee present,” Soap called, holding up a string of sunfish and a catfish he’d hauled in the day before.

Price’s eyes lit up. “Fine catches. I’ll take the lot.” He weighed them out, dropping a clink of coins into Soap’s hand.

“Not bad for a rookie angler, right?” Soap teased.

Price puffed a cloud of smoke. “Don’t get cocky. The sea will humble you quick enough.” But there was a rare smile beneath his moustache.

On the way back, Soap lingered in town, basket still heavy with blueberries and peppers. He traded a handful of tomatoes with Laswell in exchange for some carpentry odds and ends, then stopped by the square where a few villagers were gathered.

Valeria was inspecting her nails, looking bored until Soap offered her a sunflower. She blinked, sniffed it, then gave a sharp smile. “At least you’ve got taste. Maybe farming suits you after all.”

“Don’t sound too surprised,” Soap said with mock offense, earning a laugh from a passing Farah.

By the time he finally made it back up the dirt path to his farm, the sun was dipping low, the sky painted orange. He unloaded the day’s haul into crates, milked the cows, and stood back to take in the sight of his fields – rows of green, the barn sturdy against the sky, the faint scent of hay in the air.

It felt… right. Peaceful.

Still, when the stars came out and the farm settled into quiet, Soap found himself looking toward the distant line of the mountains. His pickaxe might be at Alex’s, but the mines – and the man who haunted them – were never far from his thoughts.

~*~

Another few days later and the melons had finally ripened, round and heavy under their broad green leaves. Soap wiped his brow, hauling the basket close. A few bottles of milk from Bonnie and Clyde, a jar of fresh mayonnaise he’d finally coaxed from the new machine, and the melons went in with care. It wasn’t fancy, but it was hearty, and Ghost would have to eat something other than whatever dried rations he lived off up in that cabin.

Soap hesitated at the gate, turning the basket this way and that. “Too much?” he muttered to himself. “Nah. Can’t be too much kindness. Just… neighbourly.”

The trek up the mountain was quiet except for the crunch of his boots on gravel and the rustle of trees. When he reached the cabin, Soap set the basket on the stoop and knocked on the door.

This time, instead of the usual silence or curt dismissal, the door creaked open. Ghost loomed there, mask in place, eyes unreadable.

Without a word, he reached out and took the basket. In his other hand, he held two empty baskets from Soap’s previous deliveries.

For a second, Soap just blinked at the sight of the man. Then Ghost rumbled, low and short: “Thanks.”

Soap nearly dropped his hat. “Aye, well, someone’s got to keep ye fed.”

Ghost paused, then added – almost grudgingly, almost soft: “Liked the hot peppers.”

Soap’s mouth fell open. A comment. A preference. He scrambled to recover before Ghost thought better of it. “Oh? Spicy man, then? Well, good news – I’ve got more coming in next week. I’ll set aside the best of the bunch just for you.”

Something unreadable flickered in Ghost’s eyes before he gave a short nod. Then the door closed, leaving Soap staring at the wood with a stupid grin on his face.

He called through the door, voice bright and teasing, “See you next week then!”

The only reply was silence. Still, as he turned back down the mountain path, Soap couldn’t help but feel like he’d just won a small victory. Ghost might be a recluse, but every wall had its cracks.

And Soap was very good at finding them.

~*~

The third week of summer settled into a rhythm. Every morning, Soap rose with the sun, the cries of his animals demanding breakfast before he’d even rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He hauled buckets of milk to the new cheese press, cracked eggs into the mayonnaise machine, and stacked crates of produce for the day’s delivery to the General Store. The fields were alive – blueberries by the basket, peppers glowing red, and tomatoes starting to come in steady.

Soap was proud enough to whistle as he worked. The coin from sales was rolling in, and for once, the farm felt like it was thriving rather than merely surviving. Even Graves had begrudgingly admitted, while weighing Soap’s latest load of melons, that he had ‘half a decent crop going’. High praise, coming from him.

Of course, not everything went smooth. Soap had finally decided to try his hand at brewing. With a shiny new keg tucked away in the shed, he crushed a basket of grapes he gathered around the valley and set the mixture to ferment, visions of fine wine dancing in his head.

Two days later, those visions went up in smoke – literally. He’d left the lid loose, the mixture bubbled over, and somehow the whole thing had caught fire. By the time Soap smothered the flames, half his shed was blackened, his pride scorched worse than the wood.

“Brilliant, Johnny,” he muttered, wiping soot from his face. “Can’t even make a drink without nearly burning the place down.”

That was how he found himself at the clinic, sheepishly holding out a hand with blistered fingers.

Farah shook her head, dabbing ointment across the burns. “Farming injuries, I expected. Brewing disasters, maybe less so.”

Soap grinned ruefully. “At least I’ve got a talent for surprises?”

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t sure if he was joking or simply reckless.

Before he could defend himself, the clinic door opened and in walked Alex, his hands still streaked with soot from the forge.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite farmer,” Alex said, eyes flicking to Soap’s bandaged hand. “What’d you manage this time?”

“Experiment gone wrong,” Soap admitted.

Alex snorted. “Figures. Good news, though – your pickaxe is ready. Upgraded and polished. You’ll be cracking rocks in half the time now.”

Soap’s mood brightened instantly, pain forgotten. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

Farah gave him a sharp look. “You mean aside from ‘don’t burn down your own farm’, right?”

“Right, right,” Soap said quickly, though his grin gave him away.

By the end of the week, his hand had healed, the farm’s sheds smelled faintly of smoke, and a gleaming copper-bright pickaxe rested by the door.

Summer was in full swing, and Soap felt ready for whatever came next.

~*~

Soap got back into the mines a few days later. Luck had been on his side all day. His new pickaxe cut through stone like butter, copper and iron ore clinking into his bag by the handful. A chest on the fiftieth floor had even rewarded him with a battered tundra boots – ugly, but sturdy enough to keep a slime’s sting from his ankles. By the time he dragged himself back into the daylight, arms heavy with loot and muscles aching, he felt more than a little proud.

Instead of heading straight home, Soap swung by the Adventurer’s Guild. Alejandro had told him more than once that the guild bought strange loot off miners – monster parts, gems, and the odd relic that had no place on a farm table.

The bell above the door jingled as Soap pushed in, the smell of oil and old leather greeting him. Alejandro was at the counter, polishing a blade, while Rodolfo flipped through a ledger nearby.

“Well, well, well, look who’s back,” Alejandro grinned. “Still in one piece, I see.”

“Barely,” Soap said, dropping a pouch on the counter. “Got some slime goo, a bat wing or two, and a ring with a gem that’s shinier than a crow’s dream.”

Alejandro whistled low, sorting through the bag. “Not bad, John. Not bad at all.”

Soap’s grin widened, but before he could reply, the door creaked open again.

A familiar figure stepped inside – tall, masked, presence filling the room without a word. Ghost.

Soap froze halfway through tucking his gloves into his belt. He hadn’t expected to see the man here again, not so soon. Ghost moved to the far counter with a quiet efficiency, setting down a small bundle of goods without so much as a glance at anyone. Alejandro gave him a curt nod of recognition, Rodolfo quietly jotting notes on what Ghost had brought in and counting out some coins.

Soap, never one to waste a chance, lifted his hand. “Good afternoon.”

For a heartbeat, he expected nothing – just the usual silence, the turn and leave. But Ghost paused. His masked head tilted ever so slightly toward Soap. Then he gave the smallest of nods before picking up his payment and heading for the door.

The interaction lasted no more than three seconds. But Soap stood there, dumbstruck, watching Ghost disappear back into the mountain air.

Alejandro blinked. “Huh.”

Soap turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What’s with the ‘huh’?”

Alejandro leaned on the counter, a grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him acknowledge someone. Ever.”

“Even us,” Rodolfo added. “He usually just… comes and goes.”

Soap’s chest gave a little swell, though he tried to hide it behind a cocky smirk. “Well, guess I’m just charming like that.”

Alejandro chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t get cocky, amigo. Ghost is a storm you don’t see coming.”

Soap shrugged, but his mind was already racing. Ghost had nodded at him. Him. It was a small thing, maybe nothing at all. But for Soap, it felt like the beginning of something.

And he wasn’t about to let that go.

~*~

The heat clung heavy in the valley as the end of summer drew near, the fields buzzing with crickets and the air sweet with ripening fruit. Soap had settled into a rhythm on the farm, the once-overgrown plot now an orderly patchwork of greens, reds, and blues.

Rows of tomato vines sagged with plump fruit, blueberries stained his hands purple by midday, and the hot peppers – his pride of the season – flared red against the fading green. It felt good, the weight of the harvest filling baskets, the barn bustling with content cows, the steady hum of machines turning raw goods into something finer. Hell, even the chickens had accepted Soap as a permanent fixture on the farm and had stopped attacking him when he retrieved their eggs.

Soap was already thinking ahead to fall. The crops would change, the weather would turn, and he had no plans of being caught unprepared. A blueprint he’d bartered off Alex sat unfolded on the kitchen table: sprinklers. The promise of less time watering and more time mining or fishing had Soap grinning like a fool. With a bit of copper, iron, and determination, he managed to cobble together a few crude contraptions. They sputtered, hissed, and nearly soaked his boots the first morning, but by evening they were whirring just right, casting arcs of water across neat rows.

“Not bad, Johnny,” he muttered to himself, hands on his hips as he admired the spray. “Not bad at all.”

~*~

One afternoon, with baskets full from another harvest, Soap gathered a new delivery. Eggs, milk, a handful of tomatoes and blueberries – and most importantly, a few fresh hot peppers Ghost had admitted to liking. He packed them carefully, set the basket over one arm, and made the now-familiar trek up the mountain path.

The cabin door opened after his knock, just a crack at first. Ghost’s masked face appeared in the gap.

Soap grinned, holding out the basket. “Delivery for the mountain man. Fresh out of the fields, with a special batch of your favourites.”

There was a pause before Ghost reached forward, taking the basket without a word. He set another empty one on the step in its place, cleaned and, most noticeably, empty.

“Thanks,” Ghost said, voice low, rough.

Soap blinked. It was the same one-word thanks as last time, but he didn’t miss the subtle weight in it – the faintest acknowledgment that this had become something of a routine between them.

“Enjoy the peppers,” Soap said easily, recovering with his usual cheer. “I think this will be the last batch of the season, but I will try to bring more next week if the plants keep up.”

Ghost gave the smallest nod before closing the door.

Soap lingered for a moment on the step, a smile tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t much – not yet. But it was steady, and steady was enough.

~*~

The letter arrived on a quiet morning, slipped under Soap’s door with Price’s uneven script across the envelope.

Tonight, a rare and beautiful event will take place. The moonlight jellies will be passing by on their journey south for the winter. Everyone is gathering at the beach to watch. You don’t want to miss this, son. See you tonight.

– Price

Soap grinned as he read it aloud to one of the cows, who lowed back as if in approval. He’d heard chatter in town about the event but hadn’t known what to expect. After weeks of sweat and dirt under his fingernails, the thought of an evening by the sea sounded like a reward he could get behind.

When night fell, Soap made his way down to the docks. Lanterns swayed from posts, casting warm glows across the water, their reflections dancing with the ripples of the tide. The townsfolk had gathered in clusters, laughter and soft conversation blending with the hush of waves against the sand.

Soap made his rounds, tipping his straw hat at familiar faces. Gaz was leaning against a rail, already halfway through a pint he’d smuggled from the pub. Laswell was deep in conversation with Farah, pointing out the best viewing spots along the dock. Shepherd himself was bustling about, reminding everyone – loudly – to stay off the water until the jellies arrived.

Soap drifted toward Price, who stood at the far end of the dock with his ever-present pipe in hand, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Evening, Captain,” Soap greeted, coming to stand beside him.

Price chuckled, smoke curling into the salt air. “Evening, Soap. First time you seeing the Moonlight Jellies?”

“Aye,” Soap admitted. “What’s the story behind it? Everyone seems excited.”

Price tapped ash into the water, thoughtful. “It’s tradition. Happens every year, right as summer gives way to fall. The jellies come up with the tide – glowing things, like little lanterns drifting through the sea. Folks say it marks the changing of the season. Some call it luck, others just say it’s beautiful.” He gave Soap a sidelong glance. “Me, I think it’s a reminder. Life keeps moving, one season to the next, whether we’re ready or not.”

Soap nodded, the words settling warm in his chest. “Sounds like something worth seeing.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Price said with a small smile.

When the time came, the lanterns were dimmed, and the crowd hushed as a strange, soft glow rose from the water. One by one, luminous jellies drifted into view, their translucent bodies pulsing with light. They glided past the docks in a slow, unearthly dance, the sea itself transformed into a living constellation.

Soap leaned against the railing, eyes wide. He’d seen plenty in his life – cities lit up at night, gunfire streaking across skies – but nothing quite like this. It was quiet magic, the kind that slipped past words and settled straight into the heart.

Around him, villagers murmured in awe. Gaz elbowed him lightly, whispering about how he wished he’d bottled a few to keep at the pub. Soap laughed, shaking his head, but his eyes never left the glowing tide.

As the last of the jellies drifted back out to sea, the crowd began to scatter, lanterns reigniting along the shore. Soap lingered a moment longer, soaking in the sight of the starlit waves.

“Aye,” he murmured to himself, smiling. “Not a bad end to summer.”

With the image of glowing jellies burned into his mind, Soap headed home, already wondering what fall in Pelican Town would bring.

Chapter Text

The first morning of fall greeted Soap with crisp air and a faint mist that curled through the valley. The heavy heat of summer was gone, replaced with the earthy scent of damp leaves and the promise of change. His boots crunched through the fields as he surveyed the land, now bare after summer’s harvest.

“Right then,” he muttered, tugging his hat lower. “New season, new crops. Let’s get to work.”

At Graves’ General Store, the shelves were stacked high with fall seeds: pumpkins, cranberries, yams, eggplants, bok choy. Soap grumbled at the prices, but after a bit of coin-counting and a glare back at Graves’ smarmy grin, he left with enough to cover a good patch of land. By midday, the fields behind his farmhouse were freshly tilled and planted, with the first rows of fall crops neatly tucked into the soil.

~*~

When he wasn’t working the fields, Soap spent more time at the water. Price had been right – fishing wasn’t just a pastime, it was a knack. With every cast of his line into the river or the salty waves by the beach, Soap felt himself improving. The tug on the rod was no longer a chaotic scramble but a steady rhythm, the dance between patience and quick reflexes. By the week’s end, he had buckets full of anchovy and catfish, and even managed to land a stubborn eel that fought him nearly to the breaking point during a rainy afternoon.

Price gave him a slow clap when he hauled the catch onto the dock. “Not bad, son. You’ll be running me out of business if you keep that up.”

Soap only grinned. “Don’t tempt me, old man. I’ve got fields to attend too.”

~*~

The change of season also meant new requests trickling in from the townsfolk. Shepherd had tacked a notice on the bulletin board in the square, and Soap found himself with errands to run: Farah wanted fresh eggs for a new recipe she was trying, Alex asked for copper bars to test a forge design, and even Gaz requested a delivery of artichokes for a stew he was planning on selling at the pub.

The extra coin wasn’t much, but it jingled nicely in Soap’s pocket, and more importantly, it wove him deeper into the fabric of the town. Faces lit up when he arrived with a basket in hand, the sort of welcome that warmed his chest in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

By the time he trudged home each evening, the sun dipping behind the mountains, Soap felt the satisfaction of a man who was building something – slowly, steadily, with his own two hands.

~*~

The basket was heavier than usual when Soap trudged up the winding path into the mountains. Fall had already painted the valley gold and crimson, leaves crunching underfoot as he carried the haul. Milk, cheese, eggs – his usual staples – but today he’d added some of his first fall harvest: a bundle of bok choy and a few crisp heads of broccoli.

“He’s not getting any of my pumpkins,” Soap muttered to himself as he shifted the weight of the basket. “Those are for the wee bairns to carve, not for the mountain hermit.”

He stopped at the cabin’s door, balancing the basket on one arm before knocking. The sound echoed in the crisp air. For a moment, Soap thought there’d be no answer, but then the door cracked open and Ghost appeared, mask in place as always.

The man’s eyes flicked down to the basket, then back to Soap. With a grunt, Ghost reached out and took it, his hand steady and deliberate.

“Fresh stuff this time,” Soap said, stepping back a little. “Bok choy and broccoli. Figured you’d appreciate something green.”

There was a pause. Then, as Ghost shifted the basket into his arm, he spoke in that low, muffled voice: “Cranberries will kill me.”

Soap blinked. “...kill you?”

“Can’t eat ’em,” Ghost clarified, clipped. “Allergic.”

For half a beat, Soap just stared. Then a grin cracked across his face. “Well, bloody hell, look at that – you do talk. But thanks for letting me know. Means I’ll not waste any of my harvest on you when the cranberries come in.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly, though Soap swore he saw a glint of dry amusement there before the man turned. He handed back the empty basket from last week.

“Thanks,” Ghost muttered, almost too low to hear, before retreating back inside. The door clicked shut.

Soap stood there a long moment, staring at the wood as if it might open again. His grin lingered. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A word here, a comment there. A man didn’t go from stone silent to friendly chatter overnight.

“Aye,” Soap said aloud as he grabbed the basket. “We’re making progress.”

He whistled his way back down the mountain, already planning next week’s delivery.

~*~

The week passed in a steady rhythm that Soap was beginning to recognize as the true heartbeat of farm life. Mornings started with the lowing of cows and the clucking of hens, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and drying leaves. He hauled buckets of milk to the press, collecting wheels of fresh cheese; he gathered eggs to whisk into mayonnaise. Out in the fields, his eggplants, corn, and cranberries came in strong, alongside the first flush of pumpkins pushing orange against the soil.

Soap had found a good groove. Crops harvested, fish caught, tools mended, the days passed quickly under the fall sun. Evenings, he tinkered with his kegs and presses, this time making sure nothing caught fire. (Laswell had teased him mercilessly about his last "experiment” when she dropped by to check the barn’s roof beams.)

At week’s end, Soap trudged up the mountain trail with another basket for Ghost – this one lighter than usual, just a bit of cheese and some peppers he had laying around. The cabin loomed quiet as always, its chimney smoking faintly in the chill. He set the basket down on the step and gave the door a polite knock.

Nothing.

Soap frowned, waiting a moment before knocking again, louder. Still nothing. No shuffle of boots, no shadow in the window. Ghost wasn’t answering.

“Well,” Soap muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess everyone needs their peace and quiet now and then.”

He left the basket on the step with a quick, “I’ll be back next week!” yelled toward the door, before heading down the mountain again. The unanswered knock itched at him a little, but he shoved it aside. Even mountain hermits weren’t home occasionally.

~*~

The next morning brought a letter with the mayor’s seal, waiting in his mailbox. Soap opened it over his morning tea, reading Shepherd’s careful script.

Dear John,

One week from today, Pelican Town will once again host the Stardew Valley Fair in the town square! It’s the biggest event of the year, drawing people from all across the country. If you’d like, you can set up a grange display for the event. The fair starts early, you don’t want to miss it!

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap leaned back, whistling low. “Biggest event of the year, eh?”

He glanced out at his fields, already tallying in his head which crops looked the finest, which wheels of cheese had cured to perfection, which jars of mayo came out the smoothest. He’d need a strong spread to hold his own.

“Well, Shepherd,” Soap muttered with a grin, folding the letter. “Let’s see what this wee farm of mine can do.”

And so he began setting aside his best – the best quality crops, mayonnaise, and cheese. Hell, he even started sorting the cranberries into ‘fair-worthy’ and ‘going into a keg for wine’. Soap intended his first fair to be a showing worth remembering.

~*~

Ever since Shepherd’s letter, Soap had been buzzing around the farm, baskets of pumpkins and melons lined up, cheese wheels wrapped in cloth, jars of mayonnaise polished until they gleamed. The Grange Display for the Stardew Valley Fair was coming up, and Soap wanted every single item to look perfect.

With a heavy basket in hand, he decided to swing by the Adventurer’s Guild before heading back for final touches. He needed a quick check on his copper and iron stock for some last-minute sprinklers and maybe a quick chat with Alex about tool tweaks.

The guild was quiet when he arrived, a few artifacts and weapons gleaming under the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Soap was placing his bags on the counter when movement at the door caught his eye.

Ghost.

The masked figure stepped inside, silent as ever, but unlike last time, he didn’t vanish immediately. For the first time, his eyes flicked toward Soap and lingered, a ghost of recognition in the masked stare.

“Eh… hi,” Soap said cautiously, setting down the basket. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Ghost’s only reply was a low grunt, but it carried weight. He moved to the back of the guild, inspecting a few weapons with quiet precision. Before leaving, though, he paused, and for the briefest of moments, his head tilted toward Soap.

A single, almost imperceptible nod.

And then he was gone.

Soap blinked, staring at the doorway, a slow grin spreading across his face. Alejandro, polishing a sword nearby, raised an eyebrow.

“You see that?” Soap asked, pointing.

Alejandro shook his head, incredulous. “He… acknowledged you. Again. That’s twice in a row now.”

Rodolfo, from behind a ledger, muttered, “Careful, Soap. That’s a rare sign of trust.”

Soap chuckled, though his chest warmed at the thought. “Well, consider me honoured. And don’t worry – I’ll take it slow. Can’t have him think I’m some sort of pest.”

With that, Soap sold some of the monster loot he had collected and some shiny artifacts to Alejandro before he headed back down the hill towards the town, thoughts swirling between his farm, the grange display, and the quiet acknowledgment from the man he still couldn’t quite figure out.

~*~

The morning of the Stardew Valley Fair dawned crisp and bright, the town square already buzzing with lanterns, booths, and the smells of fried foods and sweet pastries drifting through the air. Soap hauled the last of his best produce into his display: lining pumpkins, melons, tomatoes, cranberries, and polished wheels of cheese and jars of smooth mayonnaise neatly on the table. He stepped back and nodded to himself. Everything looked perfect – ripe, vibrant, and ready for Mayor Shepherd’s inspection.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” he muttered, brushing dust from his hands.

The other locals were also setting up. Alex had a table set up showcasing his forge work: finely balanced swords, polished shields, and a few ingenious tools. Laswell displayed carved wooden statues, small forest creatures and abstract shapes, each carefully sanded and finished. The town’s talent was on full display.

Graves also had a display, not far from Soap’s, meticulously arranged with vegetables and fruits. Soap’s stomach sank when he noticed a familiar melon and a pumpkin – both unmistakably from his own farm – plopped onto Graves’ table.

Soap’s fists clenched. He marched over, leaning close to Graves. “Those melons and pumpkins – are you daft? Those are mine, I sold those to you.”

Graves’ lips curled into a smug smile. “Of course they are. But you see, I’ve been working very hard to find the best of the best. Can’t blame a man for wanting to win, eh?”

Soap’s temper flared, but before he could reply, a firm hand grabbed his arm.

“Easy there, Soap,” Gaz hissed, pulling him gently but insistently away. “We’re at the fair, not the battlefield. Save it for later.”

Soap scowled but let himself be tugged toward the games. “Fine, fine. But he’s gonna hear about this.”

Gaz chuckled. “I’d like to see that. Now c’mon – slingshot first, then the strength test. You’ll feel better after a bit of fun.”

For the next hour, Soap and Gaz moved through the festival games, trying their hand at the slingshot, smashing a stone in the strength test, and spinning the wheel of fortune for a chance to double their tokens. Laughter and friendly competition eased Soap’s tension, the unfairness of Graves’ display fading for the moment.

Soap had spotted the small fortune teller’s tent. After he and Gaz had eaten some of the burgers Gaz had been cooking, Soap wandered over to the small tent, curious. Inside, a faint scent of incense filled the air. A mysterious woman gazed at him, hands hovering over a crystal orb, as Soap took a seat.

“Your farm grows strong,” she said, her voice low and echoing, “but there is a shadow who watches… You will find your rhythm, but patience will reveal the unexpected.”

Soap blinked, glancing around as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows. “Aye… sounds like a certain masked mountain dweller I know.”

The fortune teller only smiled enigmatically.

Finally, Mayor Shepherd began the judging. He moved slowly from table to table, inspecting each display with a practiced eye. Soap’s heart thudded as the mayor stopped in front of his, examining each item. Pumpkins glossy and unblemished, melons plump, tomatoes vibrant, cheese wheels wrapped neatly – every item clearly grown and polished with care.

Shepherd’s eyes flicked briefly toward Graves’ display, pausing over the melon that Soap recognized immediately. A faint frown appeared, and he shook his head subtly, moving on.

When the mayor announced the winner of the local garage display, Soap’s grin nearly split his face.

“Winner of this year’s Pelican Town Grange Display: John MacTavish!”

The crowd clapped, some whistling. Soap stepped forward, accepting a small prize of coins and a ribbon. Graves muttered under his breath, but Soap ignored him, too busy smiling.

As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, the fair continued: laughter, games, and the smell of fried dough filling the air. Soap lingered, chatting with Laswell about carving techniques, joking with Alex about crafting a “battle-ready pumpkin”, and nudging Gaz toward the next round of slingshot games.

And though Ghost wasn’t at the fair, the memory of that vague fortune hung in Soap’s mind – a quiet reminder that some mysteries were worth keeping an eye on.

By nightfall, with his ribbon secured and stomach full of festival treats, Soap headed home, the fair’s music fading behind him. His first Stardew Valley Fair had ended in triumph, and the promise of fall stretched wide before him.

~*~

Fall had fully settled over Pelican Town. Soap moved steadily through his routine: milking the cows, gathering eggs, tending the new pumpkin and cranberry patches, and checking on his broccoli and bok choy.

He had found a new hobby to fill the slower parts of the day: pickling. Soap carefully chopped vegetables, packed them into jars, sprinkled in salt, and poured in vinegar. Each jar sealed felt like a little victory – a way to preserve the harvest and try something new. Even if a few jars had bubbled over or left a sour tang at first, he had quickly adjusted, finding the rhythm.

Fishing still occupied a part of his afternoons. The river was cooler now, the bite a little slower, but Soap was patient. He leaned against the bank, the rod steady in his hands, letting the flow of water carry his thoughts. By the week’s end, he had a modest catch of salmon and tiger trout, enough to sell to Price and save some for the table at home.

It was after one of these fishing trips that Soap received a small envelope tucked under his door.

Dear John,

As the local doctor, I preform the annual checkups on everyone in town. Since you seem to become a permanent resident, I would like to invite you for a checkup as well. Swing by the clinic when you can.

 – Farah

Soap grinned. “Better to keep on the doc’s good side, eh?” He tucked the note into his pocket and returned to sorting his catch.

Later that afternoon, Soap prepared another delivery for Ghost. With a basket filled with pickled vegetables, a few fresh eggs, a particularly large salmon he caught just this morning, and a small jar of creamy mayonnaise, Soap made the trek up the mountain. The cabin was quiet when he knocked, and for a moment, Soap worried Ghost might not be home again.

This time, though, the door swung open just enough for Ghost’s masked face to appear. He reached out, took the basket, and set down the empty one from last week.

“Thanks,” Ghost said quietly, his tone low but steady. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I like the eggplant.”

Soap chuckled softly. “I’ve got another harvest coming in a few days. I’ll make sure to include some extra for you in the next one.”

Ghost gave the faintest nod before closing the door, leaving Soap to descend the mountain with a light step. Even in these small, silent exchanges, he felt progress – an understanding forming in the quiet between deliveries.

By the time Soap returned to the farm, the late afternoon sun slanted golden across his fields. Pumpkins, cranberries, and broccoli swayed lightly in the breeze, the cows lowed from the barn, and the smell of pickled vegetables filled the shed. Soap surveyed the progress with satisfaction. Fall had arrived, and with it came new rhythms, new routines, and even small victories in the mountains above.

He paused a moment, thinking of the upcoming checkup with Farah and the regular deliveries to Ghost, and realized that Pelican Town had begun to feel like a home – a place where the seasons turned, friendships grew quietly, and even a masked recluse could, slowly, become part of the rhythm.

~*~

The morning air was crisp as Soap made his way down the hill to the clinic. Farah was already outside, tending to a few herbs on the windowsill, and she greeted him with a bright smile.

“Soap! Right on time,” she said, motioning him inside. “Let’s make sure you’re in good shape.”

Soap grinned sheepishly as she guided him through a quick examination: checking his pulse, listening to his lungs, making sure nothing had been twisted or bruised from too many trips to the mines.

“All looks good,” Farah said with a nod. “Healthy hands, strong back, steady heart. You’re lucky for all that farm work, it is keeping you healthy. But make sure you take care of yourself when you go into the mines.”

Soap chuckled. “Aye, I’ll try to be careful. Don’t want to end up in one of your beds for an overnight visit.”

Next stop was Alex’s forge. Soap handed over his worn axe and a few iron bars.

“Time for another proper upgrade,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get this thing slicing through logs like butter. I’ve got some large logs at the back of the farm I want to get rid of.”

Alex grinned, taking the tool. “I’ll have it ready in a couple of days. You’ll feel the difference immediately.”

Soap tucked a few coins into Alex’s hand and headed back toward the farm, the day feeling productive and complete.

By mid-afternoon, Soap wandered through the town square, chatting with villagers. Gaz was helping a few kids carve some of Soap’s pumpkins in preparation for Spirit’s Eve later this month. Laswell was hauling a small cart of wood, and Price waved him over to inspect some freshly caught fish.

Soap found himself smiling. The town felt alive, familiar. Even small errands or casual conversations had a rhythm that grounded him in ways his old military life never had.

By evening, he returned to the farm, tired but satisfied. Pickled vegetables rested in crates, the cows and hens were settled for the night, and the warm glow of the sunset fell over his fields. Soap paused at the door, thinking of the upcoming deliveries to Ghost and the quiet promise of another day filled with farm work, his friends at the village, and all his hard work paying off.

~*~

A few days later, Soap received another letter. The envelope was small, cream-colored, and bore the familiar looping handwriting of Mayor Shepherd. Soap tore it open as he sat on the porch steps of his farmhouse.

Dear John,

Notice a chill in the air? It could be the approach of winter… or it could be the spirits in preparation for the Spirit’s Eve Festival tomorrow. The festival starts at 10 PM in the town square. Come prepared for mazes, treats, and spooky fun.  

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap grinned. Spirit’s Eve in Pelican Town had a reputation for being fun in a gentle, charming way – nothing like the chaos he’d seen in his old life. He was already looking forward to it.

~*~

When night fell the next day and Soap entered the town, the square glowed with pumpkins carved into jagged smiles, and a maze of hay bales was set up near Graves’ General Store. Kids ran back and forth, laughter mingling with the cool fall wind.

Soap grinned as he approached, soaking in the sights. But what truly caught Soap’s eye was in the middle of it all: two skeletons rattling in iron cages, their bones clicking faintly in the chill air. Standing guard nearby was a familiar figure – Ghost. Masked, silent, and completely out of place amid the jovial chaos.

Soap blinked in surprise. Ghost was hard to miss – towering, broad-shouldered, his mask pale and haunting under the lamplight. He didn’t mingle like the others, instead keeping watch near the display, silent as the grave. Next to him loomed König, the town guard, fidgeting slightly as if uncomfortable in the crowd. Every so often, König leaned down to murmur something to Ghost, who would respond with the barest tilt of his head.

Soap hesitated. Then, with a quick breath, he strode over.

“Didn’t expect to see you at a festival,” Soap said, pitching his voice light, almost teasing.

Ghost turned his head, the skull mask catching the firelight. For a moment, Soap wasn’t sure he’d get an answer. Then Ghost spoke, voice low and gravelly.

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on the bones.”

Soap smirked. “Fair enough. Thought I’d say hello.”

There was a pause, and Ghost’s gaze softened slightly under the mask. “Hello,” he replied, then turned back to his post without another word.

Soap nodded, satisfied with the brief connection, and moved on to navigate the maze, grabbing a pumpkin-shaped treat along the way.

When Soap wandered in the direction of the food stalls, he was immediately intercepted by Gaz, Price, and Laswell.

“Soap, my man,” Gaz said, pulling him aside with a grin, “did you just talk to Ghost? Proper talk? Words came out of him?”

Soap blinked innocently. “Aye, yes, why?”

Price scratched his beard, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Most folk haven’t heard him say more than two syllables. Some don’t even believe he can speak.”

Laswell crossed her arms. “And yet, you managed to strike up a conversation.”

Soap shrugged, grinning as if it were no big deal, though inside he was buzzing with pride. “Guess I just have a knack for it. Man’s not so scary once ye get close.”

The three exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced but amused all the same. Price gave a low chuckle and muttered, “Careful, son. You might end up unravelling that mask one day.”

Soap only grinned wider, tossing a wrapped candy pumpkin to Gaz. “Here’s to hoping.”

The festival carried on into the night, lanterns flickering as villagers laughed, played, and wandered the maze. But Soap’s mind kept circling back to the quiet figure by the cages, standing like a sentinel under the harvest moon.

~*~

The morning after Spirit’s Eve carried a bite of frost in the air. Soap stepped onto his porch and could see his breath misting in the early light. The fields that had once been bursting with golden pumpkins, ripe cranberries, and brown yams now looked tired and brittle. Winter was coming, and fast.

Soap rubbed his hands together. “Right, then. Best get to it before the snow buries me alive.”

His first stop was Graves’ General Store. As usual, Graves was waiting behind the counter with that slick salesman’s smile.

“Preparing for winter, farmer boy?” Graves asked, leaning over the counter.

“Aye,” Soap said, eyeing the stock. “Need heaters for the barn and the coop, or else my cows and hens will freeze stiff.”

“Of course, of course. A necessity.” Graves slid two iron heaters across the counter, tapping them with pride. “Not cheap, mind you, but worth every coin.”

Soap sighed at the price, but handed over his hard-earned gold all the same. As he turned to go, something caught his eye: young fruit saplings lined along the wall.

“Those survive the winter?” he asked.

“They will grow but won’t produce fruit until spring,” Graves explained smoothly, “if you plant them now, by next year you’ll have an orchard running properly.”

Soap mulled it over, then grabbed a few: apple, peach, cherry. He could already picture them blooming during the warmer days, tucked into the corner of his fields.

Back at the farm, he set to work. The heaters hummed warmly once installed, and the cows lowed in approval while the hens fluttered, pecking curiously at the glowing boxes. He dragged the saplings out to the far edge of the field, digging into the cold soil to plant them in neat rows. His hands were raw and aching by the end, but seeing them lined up filled him with a sense of promise.

As the sun dipped lower, Soap leaned against the barn fence, surveying it all. The fields were bare, the ground too hard to plant, but his animals were safe, he had the beginnings of a small orchard in place, and the farm was ready to weather the long winter ahead.

“Aye,” he said to himself with a grin. “Not bad for another season.”

The last fall sunset painted the sky with streaks of purple and gold. Soap stood quietly for a while, letting the cold seep into his bones, then finally turned back inside. Tomorrow, a new season would begin – and he was ready for whatever it would bring him.

Chapter Text

The next day, Soap woke to silence. No birdsong, no rustle of wind through crops, not even the lazy buzz of insects. Just the muffled hush of snow blanketing everything outside his farmhouse window.

He sat up with a groan and looked out of the window, only to be met by a world covered in white. “Well, this is shite.”

The fields that had been full of cranberries and broccoli only days ago now lay bare, buried under frost and snow. Even the sprinklers stood useless, their pipes frozen like sad little statues sticking up from the drifts.

There was still plenty of work to do. Soap tended to the animals first – feeding the cows, brushing their thickening winter coats, and gathering the morning’s milk. The chickens were less enthused, glaring at him from their perches as though personally offended by the weather. The heaters kept them comfortable, but even so, they clucked like old women grumbling at the cold.

“Cheer up, ya wee feathered lumps,” Soap told them as he collected eggs into a basket. “At least ye don’t have to shovel snow all day.”

Back in the shed, he got to work on his little collection of machines. The cheese press rumbled cheerfully as it churned out wedges from the fresh milk, and the kegs bubbled quietly as they worked through the mountain of cranberries from all the harvests. Soap poured himself a glass of the tart, rich wine and leaned against the counter, staring at the winter wonderland outside.

It wasn’t enough.

He tried fishing next, trudging down to the river with his rod. Price had been right: the fish bit differently in winter. He pulled in perch, pike, and even the occasional lingcod that nearly yanked him into the icy water. It passed the hours, but standing on the riverbank with his toes going numb wasn’t exactly thrilling.

On his way back to the farm, Soap stumbled across a tiny package buried in the snow near the wild forest path. Inside, wrapped in a bit of cloth, were a handful of pale-blue seeds labeled “Powder Melons.”

Soap turned them over in his palm, grinning. “Guess we’ll see if these can stomach a bit of cold.”

He planted them carefully in the small patch of land between the shed and the farmhouse, hopeful that with a little warmth they might sprout.

Despite the sun setting earlier, the winter days felt long. His routine – feed animals, press cheese, make mayonnaise, check kegs, fish – didn’t feel enough anymore.

By the end of the first week, Soap sat at the pub with Gaz, head on the counter.

“Winter’s dull, mate,” he groaned. “Nothing to do but fish and make cheese. I’m losing my bloody mind.”

Gaz laughed, sliding him a fresh pint. “Get used to it. Winter slows everyone down. Good time to rest. Or, you know, drink your way through it.”

Soap raised his glass with a dramatic sigh. “To survival, then.”

But as he trudged home through the snow that night, Soap couldn’t help but think of the cabin up in the mountains, and how one particular recluse was spending his winter.

~*~

It took Soap another few days before he decided that winter might be the perfect time to gather some more resources. He chopped down some trees on his field, the ones that were in the way of his future plans for the farm, before moving on to the forest. It didn’t take long before he had a solid pile of wood ready to be used in future projects. His next step: the mines.

Soap had gotten used to the copper and iron veins glinting in the shallower floors of the mines, but lately his eye had been on something brighter. Gold. He needed it – for new machines, better tools, maybe even to finally have Laswell fix up the old greenhouse.

So he strode into the Adventurer’s Guild one snowy afternoon, bundled in his thick coat, with a spring to his step.

Alejandro leaned against the counter, polishing a wicked-looking blade. “You’ve been doing well, hermano,” he greeted. “I didn’t expect you to make it as far into the mines as you have.”

Soap grinned. “Aye, I’ve been keeping busy. But I’m looking to move deeper, see if I can find some gold ore. Thought I’d come by, ask for advice.”

Alejandro’s cheer dimmed, replaced with something serious. “Gold? That’s lower. Much lower. Past the eightieth floor. You haven’t seen what lurks there yet.”

Rodolfo added from his seat by the fire, “Shadow spirits haunt the caves there. They don’t fight like slimes or bats – you’ll need to watch their movements carefully. They’ll overwhelm you if you aren’t ready.”

Soap let out a low whistle. “And here I thought the stone golems were bad enough.”

Alejandro gave him a stern look. “Don’t go alone, amigo.”

That night, Soap turned Alejandro's words over in his head. He wasn’t about to let a few bogeymen keep him from the gold. But if he was being honest with himself… maybe he did need someone watching his back.

And there was only one person he knew who went that deep into the mines.

A few days later, Soap made the trek up the mountain, basket in hand. He’d packed it with eggs, fresh milk, and some pickled vegetables. The snow crunched under his boots as he climbed toward the little cabin tucked into the forest.

He knocked, cheerful as always. “Delivery!”

The door opened. Ghost filled the frame, mask on as always, eyes shadowed. He reached for the basket without a word.

Soap held it just out of reach for a beat, grinning. “Listen, I’ve got a wee favour to ask. I’ve been thinking of heading deeper into the mines, going after some gold. Alejandro said it’s dangerous, but you know the place. Thought maybe you’d-”

The words died as Ghost simply plucked the basket from his hands and shut the door.

The latch clicked.

Soap blinked at the wood in front of his face, then let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Well, that’s a no.”

He leaned forward towards the door, raising his voice just enough to be heard inside. “I’ll figure it out myself then!”

Silence. Only the faintest shuffle of movement inside.

Soap sighed, turned, and crunched back down the snowy trail.

~*~

It was early the next morning when Soap made his way to the mines. He had packed enough food to spend a whole day hunting down enough gold ore for all his future projects and then some. When he took the elevator down, the nerves were crawling up his spine but Soap ignored them.

The mines were quieter than usual. Almost too quiet. He encountered a few bats, some ghosts, and the occasional skeleton as he made his way down into uncharted territory. Soap tightened his grip on the heavy broadsword he found in a barrel a few floors up, its edge shimmering in the glow of his lantern. The blade felt good in his hands – balanced, strong. Still, it wasn’t a rifle, and Soap couldn’t shake the itch in his fingers for a trigger.

He ignored Alejandro’s warning ringing through his head as he pressed deeper, past the eightieth floor. The air grew heavier, hotter. The copper and iron gave way to veins of gold, sparkling faintly in the purple earth. He let out a sharp laugh, dropping to one knee to chip at the vein. “There ye are, beauties. Worth the trip already.”

He almost missed the sound – the shuffle of boots on stone, the low hiss echoing through the cavern.

Soap stood slowly, sword raised. From the shadows at the edge of his lantern light, they emerged.

Not slimes. Not bats.

Tall, hulking shapes, empty eyes staring Soap down. The ones Rodolfo had warned him about. And behind them, smaller figures with big yellow masks covering their face, their hands glowing faintly violet.

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, his bravado fading as the first brute lunged.

He swung the broadsword, the blade biting into the monster’s side. It staggered, but didn’t fall. Another came at him, swinging a massive arm that sent Soap sprawling. His ribs burned as he scrambled back to his feet, panting.

Then the shaman raised his hands, a ring of leaves appearing around the creature. Before Soap realised, a small green fireball bounced in his direction.

The spell hit Soap like ice and fire all at once. His limbs felt sluggish, heavy – slower than his mind. “What the-?!” He staggered, trying to lift the sword, but it dragged like lead in his grip.

The brutes closed in. One step. Two steps. The shaman was chanting another spell.

“Shite,” Soap muttered, pressing his back against the stone wall.

The brutes raised their arms. Soap braced himself –

Suddenly, the cavern filled with movement.

Ghost tore into the fray like a storm, mask gleaming pale in the lantern light. His blade arced with terrifying precision, each strike cutting through the void spirits with ease. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t falter. He fought like he’d done this a hundred times before – and he probably had.

The brutes roared. The shamans spat sparks. Ghost answered with steel and fury, every motion efficient, deadly.

Soap, barely able to stand, watched in a haze as Ghost dispatched the last shaman, the figure collapsing into a puff of dark smoke. The cavern fell silent again, only Ghost’s heavy breathing echoing in the dark.

For a moment, the masked man looked at Soap – eyes burning with something Soap couldn’t name.

Then Soap’s knees buckled.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Ghost stepping toward him, blade still in hand, concern etched into every line of his stance.

~*~

Soap woke to the sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic and the faint hum of medical equipment. His eyes blinked open to find the plain white ceiling of Farah’s clinic, a thin blanket pulled over him. His whole body felt like it had been trampled by a bull and then rolled in gravel for good measure.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Farah’s voice came from his side. She appeared, arms crossed, but her eyes softened when she saw him stir. “Don’t move too fast. Ghost brought you in for emergency medical care.”

Soap turned his head, wincing as the movement pulled at his muscles. And there he was.

Ghost, seated in a flimsy plastic chair next to the bed, his mask still in place, posture straight as if he were standing guard. The sight of the massive man crammed into such a small chair might’ve been funny in another context. Not now.

“You were hit by a jinx spell,” Farah explained, glancing at Soap before flicking her eyes toward Ghost. Ghost didn’t move. His presence was solid, heavy, like stone rooted to the ground. “I managed to stop the effects, but I don’t have much experience with magical injuries. You’ll need to stay overnight so I can make sure there are no lingering issues.”

Soap grimaced. His pride stung worse than the bruises. “Overnight? Farah, I’ve had worse hangovers.”

“You’ll stay,” Farah said firmly, raising a brow. “You’re lucky you made it back here at all.”

He let out a low sigh and shifted under the blanket, sneaking a sideways glance at Ghost. The man hadn’t so much as twitched. “And you’re here to make sure I do as the doctor says?”

Ghost didn’t answer. But the silence was enough.

The night passed in strange half-sleeps, Soap waking to see Ghost still there, the man’s shoulders unmoving, his eyes unreadable. Not once did he leave.

By morning, Farah returned with kind eyes and a professional smile. “You’ll live,” she said simply, setting down her clipboard. “But you need to take it very easy for at least a week. Preferably longer. No farmwork.”

Soap’s head shot up. “What? No- Farah, I’ve got animals to feed. Milk to collect. Eggs to process. Wine still brewing in the shed.” His words tumbled out, panicked, as if listing all of the chores he has to do might change her mind. “If I sit still, the whole place will fall apart!”

“I’m sorry, John,” Farah said, and she did look apologetic. But her tone left no room for argument. “Push yourself, and you risk making the damage worse. You’ll need to ask someone to help you.”

Soap muttered something unrepeatable under his breath, already trying to run through names in his mind. Gaz? Laswell? He hated the thought of burdening anyone just because he was stupid enough to think he could take on the mines on his own.

The silence stretched. And then, from the chair at his side, a voice cut through, low and steady.

“I’ll help.”

Both Soap and Farah turned.

Ghost hadn’t moved, but his voice carried a weight that left no room for doubt. Farah blinked, caught off guard, before smoothing her expression. Soap, on the other hand, gaped openly.

“You?” he asked, half incredulous, half amused.

Ghost didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The offer hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.

For once, Soap found himself at a loss for words.

~*~

Farah sent him home less than an hour later with the stern order to get some rest. The walk back to the farm was slow, but steady. Ghost had insisted on carrying most of Soap’s weight, letting the Scot limp against him when the dizziness threatened to return. By the time they reached the farmhouse, Soap was sweating and grumbling under his breath, but Ghost didn’t complain once. He simply opened the door, guided Soap inside, and all but dropped him into bed.

Soap let out a groan, sinking into the mattress. His body felt like lead, every muscle sore from the mines and the lingering touch of that stupid spell. He shut his eyes, but opened them again when he realized Ghost hadn’t left.

The masked man lingered near the door, broad shoulders stiff, as though he didn’t quite know what to do now that the task – delivering Soap home – was complete. He shifted slightly, the faintest hint of awkwardness in his stillness.

“…what d’you need me to do?” Ghost asked finally, voice low but steady.

Soap blinked at him. “Are you serious? You really want to help around the farm?”

A short nod.

Soap let out a huff that turned into a laugh, then immediately winced at the pull in his ribs. “Christ almighty. Fine. If you’re so set on helping, I’ll put you to work. The chickens will be fussing for food by now and you’ll need to collect their eggs.”

Ghost inclined his head once, as if receiving orders.

“And the cows,” Soap added, his voice softening. “Need milking every morning. Got two of ‘em. Be gentle, aye? They don’t take kindly to strangers.”

Ghost turned as if to walk straight back out the door, but Soap pushed himself up on one elbow. “Wait! Not with that bloody thing.” He pointed at the purple blade strapped across Ghost’s back. “You’ll scare the poor beasts half to death if you stomp in there looking like the grim reaper.”

For the first time since Soap had met him, Ghost actually hesitated. Then, wordlessly, he unclasped the sword and leaned it carefully against the wall by the door.

“Better,” Soap muttered, lying back again. “Go on, then. Don’t break anything.”

Ghost left without another word, the door closing behind him.

Soap stared up at the ceiling, his head spinning – not from the spell this time, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. Ghost, the reclusive phantom of the mountains, was outside right now collecting eggs and milking his cows.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What in God’s name is happening?”

The muffled sound of chickens clucking drifted in through the window.

Soap couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or bury his head under the pillow.

~*~

By the time the sun set, Soap was nearly dozing, lulled by the rhythm of animals shuffling in their stalls and the faint creak of floorboards as Ghost moved about the farmhouse. When the smell of something frying reached him, Soap pushed himself upright, blinking.

Ghost emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate – a simple fare, eggs and roasted potatoes, but hot and well-cooked. He set it down on the bedside table without flourish, then straightened as if ready to vanish again.

“Didn’t know you cooked,” Soap said, reaching for the fork. “You keeping more secrets from me, big guy?”

Ghost didn’t answer, merely leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed.

Soap sighed, cutting into the food. “Y’know, most folks would take this as the part where we chat. How’d the animals behave?”

For a long moment, Ghost stayed silent. Soap thought that was that – until Ghost muttered, almost reluctant, “Don’t think your chickens like me much.”

Soap blinked at him, then burst out laughing, the sound filling the small farmhouse. “Oh, is that what’s got you brooding? Those wee devils didn’t like me either when I first showed up. Pecked me raw. Give ’em time. They’ll come around.”

Ghost tilted his head, the mask hiding any expression, but his voice was low when he added, “The gloves saved my fingers.”

That set Soap laughing harder, clutching his ribs until he had to slow down. “Aye, they’ll test your patience, no doubt about that.”

Dinner was eaten mostly in silence after that, but it felt… lighter somehow. When Ghost finally went to leave, Soap had a fleeting pang of disappointment. He half-expected never to see the man again.

“See you, then,” Soap muttered as Ghost grabbed his blade and slipped out the door into the night.

But come dawn, when Soap was just blinking awake to the sound of clucking outside, the door creaked open. Ghost stepped in, basket in hand, setting it down with careful precision on the table. Inside were neat stacks of eggs and a few bottles of milk.

“Do you have any instructions on what to do with these?” Ghost asked.

Soap rubbed a hand over his face, torn between disbelief and a grin. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Alright, alright. Can’t do this from bed though.”

Ghost stiffened. “Farah said-”

“Farah’s not here,” Soap cut in, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it slow. Come on, big guy. Time to teach you some proper farming.”

Despite Ghost’s low growl of protest, Soap put on his coat and his boots and led him out to the shed, leaning on the doorframe when he needed to catch his breath. He pulled the cover off the cheese press, then the mayonnaise machine, explaining each step in detail.

“Eggs go in here,” Soap said, tapping the top of the mayonnaise machine. “Cheese press, that’s for the milk. Takes a bit, but it is definitely worth it.”

Ghost said nothing, but he watched with sharp, unwavering focus, absorbing each instruction as if it were some sort of mission briefing. Then he repeated the motions exactly, careful, precise.

Soap leaned back, watching him work, and for the first time since he’d landed in Stardew Valley, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

~*~

The days that followed slipped into an unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, rhythm. Ghost was there every morning – sometimes before Soap was even fully awake – bringing in baskets of eggs, bottles of milk, or a wheel of cheese he’d pressed the evening before. Together they worked through the chores: Soap leaning against the fence to watch as Ghost moved through the barn with quiet, deliberate motions; Ghost standing by, arms crossed, while Soap hobbled through feeding the chickens until Ghost finally took over with a muttered, “You need to rest.”

Even the tiny patch of powder melons Soap had planted demanded attention, though little compared to the sprawling fields of summer and fall. Ghost helped there too, watering the soil with practiced precision that had Soap start to think the man had to have a background in the military.

Soap found himself enjoying the silence between them. Where before it had been tense, now it was companionable, filled with the soft cluck of hens and the low grumble of cows. Sometimes, Soap caught Ghost lingering, just enough to watch the way Soap handled the animals, as though taking mental notes.

On the fourth morning, a letter arrived, tucked neatly into the farmhouse mailbox. Soap ripped it open, recognizing Mayor Shepherd’s neat, officious handwriting:

Dear John,

Tomorrow everyone is gathering in the forest for the Festival of Ice. It’s a celebration of winter. There will be snowmen, ice sculptures, and an ice fishing competition. You don’t want to miss it!

 – Mayor Shepherd

Soap stared at the letter, lips pursing. “Festival of Ice,” he muttered, shuffling back inside to sit down. “Suppose it’s out of the question for me. Can’t exactly go swanning about the forest when Farah is going skin me alive if I slip.”

Ghost, who had just set a jug of milk on the counter, tilted his head. “Why not?”

Soap blinked at him. “Why not? Because I nearly got cursed into an early grave not even a week ago, that’s why not. Festivals mean crowds. Talking. Standing. And that's without even mentioning the ice fishing competition.”

Ghost shrugged, leaning against the counter. “If you want to go, we’ll go. I’ll get you there.”

Soap sat up straighter, caught off guard. “You- what?”

“You complained about being bored. Five times. In one afternoon,” Ghost continued, voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Fishing won’t strain you. If you want to compete, compete.”

Soap let out a startled laugh, rubbing at his neck. “You’re serious? You, the man who only shows up at festivals to babysit skeletons in cages, want to drag me to the river for an ice-fishing contest?”

“I don’t want to,” Ghost corrected. “But I can, if you want to.”

For a long moment, Soap just stared, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Bloody hell. Didn’t think you had it in you. Alright then, Ghost. Festival of Ice it is. Don’t say I never take you anywhere.”

Ghost huffed, something between a sigh and a laugh, though the mask made it impossible to be sure. Still, Soap thought he caught the faintest glint of amusement in the man’s eyes.

~*~

The next morning, the air was sharp, the kind of cold that stung the lungs and painted every breath in mist. The pond in the forest east of town had frozen solid, the surface now transformed into a festival ground. Lanterns hung from poles, casting warm golden light over the white snow. Stalls lined the bank with steaming cups of cider, fried bread, and roasted chestnuts.

Soap and Ghost made their way down the path through the forest, Soap bundled in his winter coat, Ghost just as he always was – his cloak with the hood drawn up, mask in place, heavy boots crunching in the snow.

As they reached the pond, villagers turned to greet them.

“Soap! Good to see you out,” Laswell called, lifting a steaming mug his way. “Heard from Farah you had a run-in with some monsters in the mines. How are you holding up?”

“Still in one piece, thanks to a bit of rest,” Soap answered, grinning. “Though if I stay cooped up any longer, I’ll go stir crazy.”

Farah crossed over. “I’m glad you came. You look better. But don’t push it, understood?”

Soap lifted his hands in mock salute. “Doctor’s orders, aye. Promise.”

As they spoke, Soap noticed eyes flicking toward Ghost. Whispers passed quietly – surprise, curiosity – but no one dared to ask. Ghost stood a step back, ready to intervene when it all became too much for Soap. Broad shoulders rigid, watching the crowd as though he expected trouble to spring from the cider stands.

Soap made his rounds, soaking in the cheer of the festival. Price waved him over to his stall where he was serving steaming bowls of chowder. “Didn’t think we’d see you, son. You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Soap said, before being tugged away by Gaz toward the carved ice sculptures Laswell made.

Not every welcome was warm. Graves leaned against his stall where he sold ‘foraged goods’, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Didn’t think you’d hobble all the way down here, farmer boy. Brave of you, dragging your bodyguard along.”

Soap bristled, about to snap back, but Ghost shifted his stance, the faintest tilt of his head in Graves’ direction. Whatever Graves saw in that masked stare made him shut his mouth and glance away. Soap couldn’t help but grin.

When the ice fishing competition began, Ghost steadied Soap with a firm grip as they made their way onto the slick surface. “Careful,” Ghost muttered, easing Soap down onto a bench at the hole carved into the ice.

“I’m always careful,” Soap teased, though his grin softened. “Thanks.”

Ghost didn’t reply, stepping back to stand at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, watching.

The competition was good fun. Soap didn’t win, but he managed to pull in a few decent catches before the timer ran out. Price, naturally, swept the contest, holding his prize aloft with a grin while the crowd clapped and cheered.

As the sky darkened and lanterns glowed against the snow, Soap found Ghost waiting just where he’d left him. They made the trek home together, the woods quiet around them except for the crunch of their boots.

Back at the farm, Soap paused at the gate. “You know, that was fun. Thanks for getting me there and back.”

Ghost gave a noncommittal grunt, already turning toward the path up the mountain. Soap watched him go, shaking his head with a chuckle. For Ghost, that was about as good as a you’re welcome.

Soap stepped inside, feeling warmer than the fire in his hearth could make him.

~*~

The next few days passed in quiet rhythm. With Ghost’s steady hands covering the chores, Soap found himself restless, pacing between his bed and the hearth, trying not to undo Farah’s hard work. By the seventh morning, Farah appeared at the door instead of Ghost, coat dusted with snow as she let herself into the farmhouse.

“You look better,” she said after her examination, prodding and frowning until Soap nearly yelped. “Stronger. No lingering effects from the curse. You can return to work – but slowly, Soap. Don’t go charging off into the mines again just yet.”

Soap grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doc.”

When she left, he made straight for the barn, hands running over the worn wood of the door like he’d been gone for months rather than a week. The cows lowed as if greeting him, the chickens clucked indignantly when he lingered too long without scattering their feed. It felt good – his muscles working, his boots dirty again.

That evening, he found himself staring at the empty space by the kitchen door, half expecting Ghost to appear. But the man didn’t come.

Nor the next day.

Nor the day after that.

Soap told himself he hadn’t expected him to – Ghost had been doing him a kindness, nothing more. Still, the farm felt a little too quiet without the heavy tread of boots outside, without the silent presence hovering near the shed door, eyes constantly watchful of Soap as he moved around.

On the fourth morning after Farah had cleared Soap to go back to work, a knock rattled his door. Soap opened it, and there Ghost stood, snow crusted on his shoulders. Without a word, Ghost walked in, set a bulging sack onto the kitchen table, and opened it. A spill of gold ore clattered across the wood, bright and heavy.

Soap blinked. “Bloody hell – what’s all this?”

“You said you needed gold.” Ghost’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “You lost what you’d gathered the day you got hurt. Picked this up.”

For a long moment, Soap just stared. His throat tightened unexpectedly. “You… you went down there just for me?”

Ghost gave the faintest tilt of his head. “You said you needed it for the farm.”

Soap swallowed, then grinned crookedly, trying to hide how much the gesture touched him. “Aye, I do. It's all about planning ahead, y’know. Come spring, I want Laswell to fix up the greenhouse – get a proper year-round crop set-up going. Maybe add pigs to the barn. They’ll dig up truffles I can sell. And new sprinklers. Better ones that cover more ground.”

As he spoke, Soap moved to the desk in the corner, pulling open blueprints, showing Ghost half-finished projects and scattered notes. Ghost leaned over Soap's shoulder as Soap rambled on, arms folded, saying nothing – but listening. Always listening.

Soap got to work smelting the gold immediately, having moved to the shed to tinker with some leftover copper and iron while Ghost observed, occasionally shifting closer to get a better look. As the light outside dimmed, Soap glanced to the hulking figure beside him.

“Stay for dinner,” he said, almost casually. “I’ve got stew on, plenty for two.”

Ghost shook his head, already reaching for his cloak. “No.”

Soap tried not to look disappointed, nodding instead. “Suit yourself. Thanks – for the gold. Means more than you know.”

Ghost lingered for a heartbeat, then turned and left, boots crunching in the snow as Soap watched from the doorway.

Soap sighed, warmth from the furnace at his back, the gleam of gold ore still shining on his worktable. Ghost might have left, but he had a feeling the man would be back again.

~*~

The next day, Soap set out early, bundled against the cold. With the worst of winter closing in, he needed to stock up on hay for the animals, some fertilizer for the start of spring, and a few odds and ends Alex had promised to set aside for him. The streets of Pelican Town were quiet, the sky heavy with the promise of more snow.

He stopped first at Alex’s forge, exchanging some of the gold Ghost had delivered for upgraded tools. Alex gave a low whistle when Soap laid the bars on the counter. “Where’d you manage this haul? Not many people are willing to risk the lower floors.”

Soap shrugged, lips quirking. “Had some help.”

Alex raised a brow but didn’t pry, taking Soap’s coin and axe before handing over some sketches of improved sprinklers. Soap tucked them carefully into his satchel before heading back out into the cold.

By late afternoon, with errands finished, the warm glow of the pub beckoned. Soap pushed through the heavy door and was immediately greeted by a cheer.

“Look who finally crawled out from under a hay bale!” Gaz called, raising his mug. “Thought we’d lost you to the chickens for good.”

Soap laughed as he sat down at the bar. “Aye, takes more than a few clucks to scare me off. Good to see you, Gaz.”

Gaz gave him a long look, grin tugging at his mouth. “Good to see you too. I’ve been dying to speak with you about the festival last week.”

Soap blinked. “Aye? And why is that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Gaz leaned in, smirking. “Your… friend. Tall, masked, looked like he’d rather eat his own boots than be there? Didn’t think I’d ever see him out in public, and there he was, keeping you company and making sure you didn’t get hurt.”

Soap felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “That wasn’t- he was just… helping me get there, since Farah said I shouldn’t be straining myself.”

Gaz chuckled, shaking his head. “Helping you, eh? Funny, I have never seen him helping anyone else.”

Soap rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Ghost’s just… well. Ghost.”

“Mmhm.” Gaz took a sip of his drink, clearly unconvinced. “All I’m saying is – he doesn’t strike me as the type to play farmhand unless he wanted to.”

Soap barked a laugh, shaking his head. “It was a sight to behold. Trust me on that one.”

But as the laughter faded, Soap thought of Ghost’s quiet diligence – gathering eggs, bracing a milk pail with steady hands, hauling sacks of feed without complaint. The memory made his chest tighten unexpectedly.

Gaz noticed the faraway look and grinned wider. “See? You’re thinking about him right now.”

“Shut it, Gaz,” Soap muttered, hiding his face in his mug.

The pub filled with warmth and laughter, and for the first time in weeks, Soap felt fully settled back in the rhythm of town life – even if Gaz’s teasing stuck with him longer than he’d admit.

~*~

The shed smelled of wine and faint smoke from the furnace as Soap gathered the last of the goods into a basket. Two rounds of cheese, a few jars of pickled vegetables, and a jar of blueberry jelly. The powder melon vines in between the shed and the farmhouse had finally sprouted another round, and Soap added one of the pale fruits to the bundle for good measure.

Before latching the lid shut, he hesitated. His hand drifted to the coin jar sitting on the workbench. He’d made more than he’d expected last week – Graves proved to be paying more for better quality artisan goods. And it hadn’t escaped him that Ghost had been the one to shoulder the bulk of the chores while he’d been laid up.

Soap scooped out a few coins, put them in a pouch, and set it on top of the basket. “Fair share,” he muttered under his breath, as though rehearsing what he’d say when Ghost opened the door.

The walk through the woods was quiet, snow muffling his boots. When he reached Ghost’s cabin, he rapped lightly on the door.

It opened after a pause. Ghost loomed in the doorway, mask in place, eyes unreadable. Soap smiled, trying to keep it casual. “Your weekly delivery. And…” He tapped the pouch of coin. “Bit of extra. Your cut. You helped, so you deserve it.”

Ghost took the basket without a word. Then he plucked the pouch of coins out and pressed it firmly back into Soap’s hand.

Soap blinked. “What? No, Ghost, I meant it, you-”

“I don’t want it,” Ghost cut him off, voice low but certain. His gaze flicked toward Soap, sharp in the dim light. “You wouldn’t have been laid up if I’d listened. You asked me for help in the mines and I shut the door in your face. It was my fault you got hurt.”

Soap’s protest stalled on his tongue. He hadn’t expected that.

Ghost shifted his weight, as though the words weighed more than his armour ever could. “From now on… if you want to go down into the mines, you tell me. I’ll come with you. Won’t let you get hurt again.”

Soap stared for a moment, the pouch of coins heavy in his palm. Then, slowly, he nodded. “...alright then. Deal.”

A small, crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Not that I’ll complain. I’m still better with a gun than a sword. If you hadn’t shown up last time, I’d probably be nothing but bones in a corner.”

Ghost’s shoulders lifted slightly – a shrug, though there was something softer in the gesture. He didn’t linger. Just inclined his head and stepped back, shutting the door with quiet finality.

Soap stood for a moment in the snow, the pouch of coins clenched tight in his hand, pulse quickened. Ghost’s words lingered in his ears, an unexpected promise that warmed him more than the winter coat on his back.

~*~

Soap tightened the straps of his pack as he waited at the edge of the forest path a few days later. The morning was still, cold enough that his breath hung in the air. He shifted his broadsword at his hip – still not used to carrying one regularly – and adjusted the bundle of food he’d packed. A few cheese wedges, bread, dried cranberries (for him, not Ghost), dried blueberries (for Ghost, not him), and a flask of tea.

Ghost emerged from the trees without a sound, as though he’d been carved out of the shadows themselves. He was already armed: purple blade strapped across his back, a belt full of potions and strange vials Soap didn’t recognize, even a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

Soap whistled low. “Bloody hell, you planning to take on the whole underworld, big guy?”

“I like to be prepared,” Ghost said simply. His mask tilted toward Soap’s lighter pack. “You?”

Soap patted the bundle at his side. “Got food. Cheese, bread, bit of dried fruit. That counts as preparation, aye? Someone needs to keep us fed.”

Ghost only shook his head, but Soap swore he caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air grew colder as they descended into the mines. Deeper this time – lower floors Soap had only brushed before retreating. The torches flickered against jagged walls, shadows stretching long.

They weren’t alone for long. From the gloom, a shadow brute lurched forward, its claws glinting faintly. Soap gripped his sword tighter, heart pounding. Ghost stepped ahead, blade out in a single fluid motion.

“Stay behind,” Ghost ordered.

But Soap wasn't someone who shied away from danger and he darted to the side instead, swinging. His strike connected, but not deep enough. The brute roared, turning on him. Soap stumbled back as Ghost’s sword came down in a clean arc, finishing the monster with startling precision.

“Too shallow,” Ghost said, voice calm despite the fight. “If you swing, put your weight behind it. Like this.” He demonstrated with a short, brutal stroke against the stone wall, sparks flying.

Soap swallowed, then mimicked the motion. His wrist jarred, but Ghost nodded once. “Better.”

The hours wore on. They faced not only brutes, but shadow shamans who cast their curses, filling the air with a sickly glow. Soap cursed under his breath, nearly losing his footing until Ghost barked an order – “Left, now!” – and Soap obeyed, narrowly avoiding the arc of a spell. Together, they cut the shaman down.

By midday, Soap slumped against a rock, dragging the food bundle open. “Break time. Don’t argue. Even phantoms don’t fight well on an empty stomach.”

He handed Ghost a wedge of cheese and half a loaf. Ghost stared at it for a moment, then took it without comment, mask lifted just enough to eat beneath. They ate in silence, the cavern eerily quiet after so much fighting.

Soap leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Not the worst picnic I’ve ever had. Though the company could be chattier.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked toward him, and for a brief second, Soap thought he caught the ghost of a smirk on the uncovered part of his face.

They delved deeper after the break, Soap testing his strikes with more confidence under Ghost’s sharp corrections. He still wasn’t graceful, but he was learning. And Ghost – always a shadow at his side – never let a monster close enough to land a serious blow.

By the time they climbed back to the surface, Soap’s muscles ached and his pack was heavy with gold ore, gems, and artifacts. He was grinning despite the bruises.

“That was… hellish,” he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. “But not half bad.”

Ghost adjusted the rope on his shoulder, eyes sweeping the snowy horizon. “You learn fast. Won’t take long before you can handle yourself.”

Soap chuckled, falling into step beside him. “Aye, I’ve got the best bloody teacher watching my back.”

Ghost didn’t answer, but his silence felt less like dismissal this time – and more like quiet agreement.

~*~

The week settled into a rhythm Soap hadn’t expected, a balance between farm chores, mining trips, and Ghost’s quiet, steadfast presence.

Each morning began with tending to the animals, milk steaming in the cold air, and chickens puffed up against the frost. The powder melons stretched taller, leaves pressing against the wood of the shed. Soap busied himself with plans for spring – blueprints for sprinklers, scribbled maps for where which crop would go, and getting his tools upgraded in time.

But in the midst of that routine came a letter, sealed with Mayor Shepherd’s heavy hand. Soap read it over a steaming mug of tea, lips twitching at the mayor’s flowery phrasing.

Dear John

I would like to give you some information about the upcoming Feast of the Winter Star. It’s a time for the community to come together and think back on all the good fortune we’ve had this year.

Our most treasured tradition is the ‘secret gift exchange’, where everyone in town is randomly assigned to someone else. On the day of the festival, everyone brings a gift for their secret friend and surprises them with something special.

The feast will take place on the 25^th and starts at 10 AM.

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap glanced down to the bottom of the letter, where his secret friend was scribbled.

Gaz.

Soap barked a laugh, nearly spilling his tea. “Well, looks like I’ve drawn the short straw,” he muttered. Not that he minded – Gaz was a good friend, easy to talk to, sharp as they came. But what on earth would he want? Soap already had ideas whirling – something practical, something he could use, or maybe just something to make him laugh.

The letter gave him something new to look forward to.

The mines had become just as much a part of his routine as feeding the animals was.

Every other day, Ghost appeared at his door as though it had been agreed upon, silent but expectant. Soap grabbed his pack, his sword, and his bundle of food, and together they descended into the depths.

At first, their partnership was simple – Ghost in the lead, Soap watching and learning, filling the gaps where he could. But by the end of the week, they moved like they had been fighting side by side for years. Soap swung harder, cleaner, the blade of the broadsword cutting true. Ghost barked the occasional correction, but his tone had softened, almost approving. And when Soap cracked a joke mid-battle, Ghost even gave a sharp huff of laughter – quiet, but real.

Alejandro and Rodolfo no longer blinked when the two of them showed up at the Guild, packs heavy with ore, monster loot, and gems. Soap bartered cheerfully, chattering about their finds, while Ghost stood at his shoulder, offering the occasional dry comment that always caught Soap off guard.

“You’d think they’d give us a bloody discount by now,” Soap grumbled one afternoon, weighing his coin pouch.

“Not with your haggling skills, they won't,” Ghost muttered. Soap turned to him, jaw dropping, before breaking into loud laughter that echoed through the Guild. Alejandro raised a brow, but Soap waved him off with a grin.

It became easier, somehow. The silences between them less heavy, the conversations less stilted. Ghost still wasn’t one to talk much, but he listened, he answered, and sometimes – just sometimes – he teased back.

By the end of the week, Soap realized he wasn’t just surviving winter anymore. Between the farm, the mines, and Ghost’s unexpected company, he was almost… enjoying it.

~*~

The letter from Shepherd had been sitting on Soap’s kitchen table all week, edges curled from being unfolded too many times. Every morning, he glanced at it before heading out for chores, the words at the bottom reminding him: Gaz.

The problem wasn’t that Soap didn’t like the man – Gaz had been nothing but good company since Soap arrived in the valley and had quickly become a good friend. The problem was finding the right gift. Something that wasn’t half-baked or thoughtless, something that showed Soap had actually paid attention.

Between milking cows, collecting eggs, and trudging through snow to check the powder melons, Soap’s mind spun with possibilities. A bottle of his cranberry wine? Too easy. Cheese? Too plain. Maybe something from the mines? He could hardly imagine Gaz unwrapping a lump of copper or some quartz with joy.

When he mentioned his struggle during one of their mining trips, Ghost just gave him a side-eyed glance. “You’re overthinking it,” Ghost muttered, cleaving through a shadow brute with mechanical precision.

“Easy for you to say,” Soap shot back, swiping sweat from his brow. “You’re not the one who’s got to hand something over in front of half the town as part of, and I quote, “our most treasured tradition”.”

Ghost didn’t respond, only grunted as he shoved a lava bat back into the dark, but Soap caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mask. He wasn’t sure if it was amusement or pity.

The days carried on. Soap found himself moving easier in the mines, even starting to anticipate Ghost’s movements. He wasn’t skilled yet, not by a long shot, but he didn’t panic when shadows pressed close. He trusted Ghost to have his back. And, more importantly, Ghost did.

Still, the question of Gaz’s gift loomed large.

The answer came on a frosty morning, when Soap took the long path through the forest to shake off his restless energy. There, nestled between the bare trees, sat the Traveling Merchant’s colourful cart, lanterns swaying in the breeze. Soap almost passed it by – until a small jar caught his eye.

The label read: Gourmet Tomato Salt.

Soap whistled low. He’d only heard of the stuff – rare, savoury, something that could transform a simple dish into a feast. Expensive, yes, but worth every coin. And it was perfect. Gaz was always talking about food, about trying new things, about how even a simple plate of chips could be elevated with the right seasoning.

Soap slapped down the coin without hesitation. As the merchant wrapped the jar, he stared at the gift with a grin. “You’re gonna love this, Gaz,” he said under his breath, imagining the man’s face when he opened it.

Back on the farm that night, he set the jar carefully on the shelf in the kitchen. One less worry gnawing at him. He had the perfect gift now. The rest – the festival, the gathering, the eyes – he could handle that.

Ghost had been right. He had been overthinking it.

~*~

Snow blanketed Pelican Town in soft silence as Soap made his way down the lane, his gift for Gaz wrapped and tucked under his arm. The square had been transformed into a glowing haven: strings of lanterns and candles twinkled in the frosty air, tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats, breads, and steaming mugs of cider. Laughter drifted from every corner, the villagers gathering close against the chill. A large, decorated tree stood in the middle of it all.

Soap paused at the edge for a moment, taking it all in. His first Feast of the Winter Star. His first winter here at all.

“Soap!” Gaz spotted him first, waving him over with a grin. The man’s cheeks were already pink from the cold and the cider, and he clapped Soap on the back. “Wasn’t sure you’d crawl out of the farm with the snow this deep.”

“Not a chance I’d miss this,” Soap chuckled. His fingers tightened slightly around the wrapped jar under his arm. “And I’ve got something for ye.”

Gaz’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Don’t tell me it’s another wheel of cheese.”

Soap grinned, handing the gift over. Gaz tore the paper off with quick hands, then blinked down at the jar. “Gourmet Tomato Salt,” he read aloud, voice a little reverent. “Bloody hell, Soap. Do you know how rare this is?”

“Thought it’d suit ye,” Soap said, scratching the back of his neck. “For your cooking experiments. Might make those chips of yours legendary.”

Gaz laughed, shaking his head in disbelief before pulling Soap into a quick, one-armed hug. “This is brilliant. Thanks, mate. Really.”

Soap felt a flush creep up his own cheeks, though whether from the cold or the gratitude in Gaz’s voice, he couldn’t say.

Later, as the gift exchange circled around, Shepherd found Soap among the crowd. The mayor handed him a carefully wrapped box, his smile warm under his thick beard. “For you, John. Merry Feast of the Winter Star.”

Inside, nestled in straw, was a fine porcelain tea set – delicate cups and a pot painted with curling blue designs. Soap’s breath caught. “It’s… beautiful,” he said honestly.

“A farmer should have something nice for himself, not just the land,” Shepherd said. “Might even help you charm a guest or two someday.”

Soap chuckled, his thoughts moving to a certain hooded figure. Ghost wasn’t present – Soap hadn’t expected him to, but he wondered what the man was doing at the moment. A pang of sadness filled Soap when he thought about Ghost spending the day alone in his cabin. Every villager – even Alejandro and Rodolfo – was here.

The night carried on with food and stories. Price told tall tales about past Feasts, Laswell had everyone admire the decoration she spent days making, Alex tried (and failed) to show off by arm-wrestling half the town. Soap drifted among them, cider warming his hands, laughter warming his chest.

When the lanterns dimmed and the crowd began to thin, Soap stood for a moment in the snow-dusted square. A whole year gone. From the nervous newcomer with calloused hands and nothing but half-grown crops to this: a farmer with friends, a place in the town, and maybe even a few threads of something more waiting to be pulled.

The Feast of the Winter Star had been more than just gifts and cider. It was a marker. An ending, but also a beginning.

Soap smiled to himself, tucking the tea set safely under his arm as he turned for home. The snow crunched under his boots, the night quiet but not lonely.

The farm waited. And so did the year to come.

Chapter Text

Ghost first heard there was a new farmer in town through overheard whispers at the Adventurer’s Guild. Alejandro mentioned it idly to Rodolfo as Ghost passed through, talking about how the old farm was finally seeing life again. Ghost didn’t think much of it. Newcomers came, newcomers left. Most didn’t last through the first season.

Then he met him.

It was halfway through spring, and Ghost had just finished trading in loot from the lower levels of the mines when he stepped out of the Guild and bumped into a man he had seen in the mines only a few days before. He had a bright grin, dirt still smudged on his cheek, and boots caked with mud. He introduced himself as Soap, voice carrying easy warmth that felt out of place against the Guild’s rough exterior.

“Name’s Soap! New farmer in town,” the man had said, as if the world might be a friend if only he smiled hard enough.

Ghost said nothing. He didn’t know what to make of him. A man who laughed so easily in a place built on blood and steel.

When the deliveries started at the end of spring, Ghost was more unsettled than pleased. A knock on his door. A basket waiting. Eggs, milk, bread, later even vegetables and cheese. Ghost didn’t like it. Didn’t like anyone trying to curry favour, didn’t like the suggestion of charity. He had no use for kindness – it tangled, it demanded.

But food going to waste was worse. So he took it. Ate it. Found, against his own expectations, that it was good. The cheese rich, the milk fresh, the vegetables crisp. He told himself it was him preventing waste, nothing more.

As the seasons turned, so did the deliveries. They became more diverse, different types of vegetables and fruits, better quality milk and cheese. And the farmer never asked for anything in return. Soap never pressed into his space, never demanded conversation. Just a quick grin, a word or two, and then he was gone. It was… disarming. Ghost told himself it was harmless. Still, he caught himself waiting sometimes, listening for the knock at the door.

Then came winter.

Soap asked him for help in the mines one day when he delivered another basket filled to the brim, speaking too casually about gold ore as though the lower levels weren’t swarming with things that could tear him apart. Ghost shut the door in his face. He didn’t help people. It wasn’t his job. Wasn’t his problem.

Except it wouldn’t leave him alone. The farmer’s request gnawed at him. Ghost had seen men get down to the lower levels and not come back up, had buried too many in the dark earth because they thought themselves strong enough. Soap wasn’t ready. Ghost knew it.

So when he saw the farmer descend into the mines regardless of the warning Alejandro gave to anyone asking about the lower levels, Ghost cursed under his breath, grabbed his gear, and followed.

He found him cornered, broadsword clumsy in his hands, body wracked by the twisting green flare of a shaman’s curse. Soap staggered under the weight of it, clearly overwhelmed and not used to fighting with a sword. Still, he fought, desperate and determined, and Ghost felt something clench in his chest.

Without hesitation, he cut down the brutes. The shadow spirits fell quickly beneath his blade, old instincts taking over. When the last creature vanished into smoke, Soap collapsed, unconscious and pale. Ghost cursed again, sheathing his sword and lifting the farmer into his arms.

Farah’s clinic was the last place he wanted to go. The sharp tang of antiseptic clawed at his senses, memories pressing close in the scent of medicine and sterility. But only one thing mattered: getting the farmer help. He was lucky it was late in the evening, so no one was staring at him as he stepped through the door with Soap limp in his arms.

Farah took one look at Soap and had Ghost lay him onto one of the beds, muttering about curses and magical backlash. Ghost stayed. Sat stiff-backed in one of the hard plastic chairs, ignoring the eyes of the nurse on shift, watching as the doctor worked. Guilt settled in his stomach. He could have prevented this if he’d only agreed to help the farmer when he stopped by to ask. Ghost knew better than anyone how dangerous those mines were.

When Farah told Soap he’d need to rest – no work for a week – the panic on the farmer’s face struck Ghost harder than expected. Animals, chores, food waiting to rot. Soap muttered in protest, stubborn, but it was the worry in his voice that stuck.

The words left Ghost’s mouth before he thought better of it. “I’ll help.”

Farah blinked. Soap gaped. But Ghost didn’t take it back. He’d failed him once. He wouldn’t again.

The days that followed were… strange. Ghost found himself carrying baskets of eggs, fumbling through milking cows, the farmer’s instructions half-muttered from underneath a blanket. The animals didn’t like him much – the chickens pecked at his gloves, the cows shifted warily – but he did the work anyway. Soap laughed when Ghost grumbled about the chickens, said they hadn’t liked him either at first. Ghost found himself almost smiling at that. Almost.

Little by little, the work grew easier. He watched Soap explain the machines in the shed with enthusiasm, hands sweeping through the air as though this life was something worth fighting for. Ghost didn’t say much, but he listened. He always listened.

And against every bit of his better judgment, he started to look forward to the time spent there. Soap’s laughter, his endless chatter, the quiet pride he took in every egg, every jar of jelly, every small victory. It was… grounding.

Ghost was still wary. Still kept distance where he could. But he couldn’t deny it anymore – Soap was carving out space in his world, and Ghost wasn’t stopping him. Not that he could, but he found himself not wanting to either.

Chapter Text

Spring came in with a warm breeze that melted away the last of the frost clinging to the corners of the farm. Soap breathed it in like he’d been holding his lungs tight all winter, the fresh scent of damp soil and budding leaves reminding him just how alive the valley could be. Winter had been long and quiet, sometimes too quiet. But spring… spring meant work.

And Soap had plenty of that waiting for him.

The morning after the season turned, he was at Graves’ store bright and early, pockets jingling with the earnings of everything he and Ghost had found and sold over the last few weeks. Graves raised a brow at the heavy purse, but Soap only grinned, rattling off the list of seeds he wanted to purchase: kale, parsnips, cauliflower, beans, potatoes. Graves showed him some garlic seeds he got in, and Soap had him add them to the basket.

“You are going to keep me busy stocking, farmer boy,” Graves muttered, but there was a glint in his eye that told Soap he wasn’t complaining. The man had proved himself as someone who would do a lot for money, and keeping up with seed stock wasn’t that big of a chore in Soap’s eyes.

Back at the farm, Soap stood at the edge of the field and let out a low whistle. Winter hadn’t been kind – the soil was littered with branches, rocks, and weeds that had clawed their way up through the thaw. It took him hours to clear it, swinging his pickaxe and scythe until his back ached and his shirt stuck to his skin. But by the end of it, the earth lay ready, rich and dark, waiting for new life.

Planting had been Soap’s favourite part from the start. He knelt in the dirt, hands moving quick and sure as he laid the seeds in rows, already imagining what the fields would look like when green shoots broke through the surface. Garlic here, parsnips there, potatoes lined neatly near the fence. Beans staked along trellises, cauliflower spread in careful squares, kale scattered between them.

He didn’t stop until the sun began to dip, light spilling gold across the farm. By then, the orchard caught his eye. The small cherry tree he’d bought from Graves at the end of fall had survived the winter, its branches heavy with the first burst of fruit. Soap plucked one down, biting into it with a satisfied hum. Sweet, sharp, perfect.

The next few days were no slower. With gold ore smelted into bars stacked on the workbench and the refined quartz fresh out of the furnace, Soap finally built the sprinklers he’d dreamed about all winter. He set them up across the fields, neat circles of metal that promised he wouldn’t be chained to the watering can every morning. Standing back, hands on his hips, he admired the sight. The mines had been worth the effort, worth the bruises.

The greenhouse came next. He called in Laswell, who inspected the half-broken structure with her usual no-nonsense eye. The glass had cracked, the frame bent under years of neglect. Soap explained what he wanted, waving his hands excitedly as he pictured the crops he could grow there year-round. Laswell only shook her head with a small smile and told him to let her handle it. By the week’s end, the greenhouse would be whole again.

Each night, Soap collapsed into bed bone-tired but buzzing with satisfaction. The farm was alive again, humming with promise. Chickens clucked in the coop, cows chewed lazily in the barn, trees blossomed pink and white, and the fields were a patchwork of hope waiting to sprout.

Soap stretched out under his blanket, sore muscles reminding him of the day’s work, and couldn’t help but smile. He was ready for another year.

~*~

Spring didn’t slow down after that first week. If anything, it only picked up. Soap’s mornings began at the crack of dawn, shoving his boots on while the chickens were still half-asleep in the coop, then out to milk the cows before breakfast. The fields demanded tending, the young sprouts of broccoli and parsnips poking through the soil like stubborn green soldiers.

In town, Farah had slipped him a set of blueprints she found during a spring cleaning – beehives. Soap had practically lit up, eyes darting over the parchment. Honey, fresh and golden. It would take some resources, but he already started planning where to place them. Near the mix of flower seeds he’d planted at the edge of the field, so that the bees would have their fill.

When the farm work left his back aching, he’d head down to the river or out to the ocean, rod in hand. The fish were plentiful this time of year, and Price bought his catches with an approving nod and a muttered, “Not bad, son.” Soap couldn’t help but feel a bit like a boy again, showing off to a gruff mentor every time he reeled in something bigger than his arm.

But the days blurred together, the list of chores growing faster than he could check them off. Animals, fields, beehives, supplying Laswell for the greenhouse repairs, fishing runs… by the end of the week, Soap collapsed into bed so tired he barely had the strength to pull the blanket over himself. He didn’t even notice he’d forgotten his usual Sunday delivery until a sharp knock rattled his door the next morning.

He blinked awake, hair a mess, pulling the door open to find Ghost standing on his porch. The man loomed there, his face a half-shadow in his mask.

“So you are alive then,” Ghost said flatly, though his eyes flicked over Soap like he was checking for wounds.

Soap rubbed the sleep from his eyes, grin tugging at his lips. “Missed me, did ye?”

Ghost stared. Soap swore he saw the faintest twitch at the corner of the man’s mask, though it could’ve been a trick of the morning light.

“Thought I should check up on you when I didn’t get the usual delivery yesterday,” Ghost finally said, though it didn’t carry his usual chill.

Soap laughed, a bit sheepish. “Shite, I forgot! Been busier than a one-legged man in a kicking contest.” He stepped back, gesturing for Ghost to come in. “But if you’re here, might as well lend me a hand.”

To Soap’s surprise, Ghost did. The rest of the day settled into a rhythm – Soap showing him where to set up the beehives, Ghost helping haul wood and stone with ease, silent but efficient. They worked side by side through the morning chores, tending to the animals, watering the crops the sprinklers couldn’t quite reach, setting new trellises for the beans.

It reminded Soap of the mines in winter – the same easy balance, only now there were no monsters, just chickens pecking at Ghost’s boots and Soap laughing when the man scowled at them.

By midday, Soap caught himself stealing glances at Ghost, the way he moved without complaint, how his silence didn’t feel as heavy as it once had. It wasn’t that Ghost spoke much – he didn’t. But the quiet felt… companionable.

When the sun finally dipped, painting the sky with streaks of gold, Soap leaned on his hoe, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. “Suppose I ought to thank you. Wouldn’t have gotten half this done alone.”

Ghost just grunted, but didn’t leave. Not right away. He lingered on the porch after dinner, arms crossed, mask tilted toward the fields. Soap stood beside him, listening to the evening chorus of crickets and frogs, fighting the strange warmth curling in his chest.

Maybe it was the spring air, perhaps it was the exhaustion, but Soap thought – just maybe – that Ghost didn’t look quite so untouchable anymore.

~*~

Soap saw the bright, egg-shaped seal on the letter before he even opened it. Mayor Shepherd had a flair for the obvious. Inside was an invitation written in the man’s neat and flowy handwriting:

Dear John,

Tomorrow everyone will gather in the town square for the Egg Festival. It starts at 9 AM sharp. There will be food, games, and the annual egg hunt!

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap smirked, tucking it into his pocket. Sounded silly, but he’d already grown to enjoy these festivals. They broke up the grind of farm work, gave him a chance to talk with the town folk, and – if he was honest – let him feel like he belonged here.

Later that day, while dropping off loot at the Guild with Ghost, Soap broached the subject with a grin. “Have you ever been to the Egg Festival in town?”

Ghost, standing near Alejandro’s counter with his usual brooding air, gave him a sidelong glance. “…no.”

Soap leaned on the counter, grinning wider. “You should. Bit of fun, y’know. Food, games. Hunting eggs instead of stone golems and skeletons.”

Alejandro chuckled from behind the desk, Rodolfo shaking his head with amusement. “Careful, hermano. Ghost doesn’t do festivals.”

“Festivals don’t do me,” Ghost muttered, dropping a pouch of void essence onto the counter.

Soap wasn’t put off, though. “C’mon, Ghost. One afternoon. Could do you some good. Fresh air, sunshine. Might get ye smiling, even.”

Ghost tilted his head down toward him, and if Soap didn’t know better, he’d swear the bastard was smirking underneath the mask. “…not a chance.”

Soap groaned dramatically, but Ghost didn’t budge. Eventually, Soap let it go, though a part of him was disappointed. Festivals would feel better with someone at his side.

~*~

The Egg Festival itself lit up the town square in a wash of pastel colours. Strings of painted eggs hung from lampposts, and tables overflowed with treats – egg custards, devilled eggs, quiches, things with egg that Soap didn’t even recognize. Children ran about with baskets already in hand, while the adults mingled, laughing and sipping drinks.

Soap wove through the crowd, exchanging greetings. Graves made a snide remark about how farmers ought to be “good at finding eggs in the dirt”, which Soap answered with a grin sharp enough to make the shopkeeper scowl. Farah pressed a sweet bun into his hand, insisting he needed “meat on his bones after winter”. Even Laswell wandered by, commenting on how the greenhouse had never looked better now that she was finished with the repairs.

It felt warm, familiar.

“Oi, Soap!” Gaz’s voice cut through the crowd, a mischievous grin already plastered across his face. He clapped a hand on Soap’s shoulder. “This year, we’re taking it. Those kids won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Soap laughed, shaking his head. “You’re getting far too competitive, Gaz. They’re half yer height!”

“All the more reason not to go easy on ‘em.”

The mayor called everyone together, lining up the participants with baskets. The kids bounced on their heels, eyes sparkling. Gaz shot Soap a look, and the two shared a conspiratorial nod.

When Shepherd shouted, “Begin!” Soap bolted, scanning the bushes, flower beds, and fence posts. He snatched eggs with the precision of a soldier sweeping corners, Gaz right behind him, the two of them calling out to each other as if coordinating an op.

“Behind the barrel!” Gaz hissed.

“Got it!” Soap dove, scooping up a painted egg, then tossed a wink at a wide-eyed kid who’d been reaching for the same spot.

By the end, their baskets were nearly full to bursting. The children pouted, though the adults were in stitches watching the two grown men take the hunt so seriously. Shepherd announced the winner – some little lass with pigtails beat them by two eggs – but Soap and Gaz didn’t care. They high-fived, grinning ear to ear, breathless and laughing like fools.

The festival wound down with shared food and drinks, villagers lingering under strings of lanterns as the evening fell. Soap leaned against a table, chuckling as Gaz retold the story of how they’d outmanoeuvred half the kids on the square.

But as he laughed, Soap’s eyes drifted toward the edge of town, half-expecting to see a familiar tall figure lurking there. Ghost hadn’t come, just like he said he wouldn’t. Soap shook his head at himself, but the thought lingered.

Still, the warmth of the festival stayed with him as he finally walked home, heart strangely full.

~*~

A few days later, the rain came down in steady sheets, drumming on the farmhouse roof and running in rivulets down the muddy paths. For most folk in town, it was a day to stay indoors, but for Soap, it was another opportunity to hit the mines – no crops to water, no animals too fussy as long as the doors were shut.

Ghost arrived right on time, hood pulled low against the rain. The two men trudged through the muck, boots squelching until the packed dirt of the Adventurer’s Guild steps gave them some relief.

Inside, Alejandro greeted them with his usual booming voice, while Rodolfo nodded, already rummaging under the counter. “Just got something new in stock,” he said, pulling out a small crate.

Soap leaned in, curious, until Rodolfo pulled free a bundle of neat, compact bombs. “Explosives. Good for breaking through tougher veins or clearing out a large cave. Expensive, but effective.”

Soap’s eyes lit up like a kid. He picked one up, turning it over with practiced familiarity. “Oh, now we’re talking, Rudy. Bloody hell, I used to live for these things.”

Rodolfo raised a brow. “You know how to handle them?”

“Aye, and know how to make ’em,” Soap replied with a grin, setting it back down. “Demolitions were my specialty. Spent years blowing up walls, bridges, whatever the brass pointed at.” He chuckled, nostalgic and maybe a little wistful.

Ghost, standing a few feet back, stilled. His dark eyes fixed on Soap with something unreadable. “…you were a soldier.”

Soap looked over, quirking a brow. “You don’t have to act so surprised. I had a life before coming here.”

Ghost tilted his head, voice quieter. “Just didn’t expect it. You don’t carry yourself like a soldier.”

Soap smirked, letting his voice dip into something almost teasing. “If you saw me in action back then, maybe you’d take me a bit more seriously. I was bloody good at what I did. Where’d you think the nickname ‘Soap’ came from?”

For a long moment, Ghost didn’t move, then finally admitted, “I used to be one too. A soldier.”

Soap’s smirk softened into something more thoughtful. “Aye, see, that doesn’t surprise me at all, big guy. You’ve got the look. Like the fight never really left.”

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy. Ghost’s gloved hand flexed on the hilt of his sword. “…too much fight. Not enough reason to stay.”

Soap hummed, considering that. “And yet here ye are. Protecting a little town on the edge of nowhere.” He nudged Ghost lightly with his elbow as they turned toward the mine entrance. “Suppose some instincts don’t die easily, eh?”

Ghost didn’t answer, but Soap caught the flicker of something like agreement in his posture.

The mines were damp and darker than usual, rainwater dripping through cracks overhead. They moved together with practiced rhythm – Ghost cutting through void creatures with ruthless precision, Soap following his lead, planting explosives with gleeful expertise. Every detonation echoed like thunder underground, the walls cracking open to reveal veins of ore glittering in the lantern light.

For all the danger, Soap felt oddly at ease. Side by side, the two of them moved like soldiers on patrol, but without the weight of orders or commanders. Just them, working together.

And for the first time, Ghost seemed to let that memory of soldiering show, not as something to run from – but something they shared.

~*~

Spring rolled on in full force, and the farm looked like it. The fields Soap had so carefully cleared and planted were starting to burst with life – rows of broccoli and cauliflower standing proud, potatoes tucked under their leafy tops, and beans already curling up their wooden stakes. The second harvest of the season had come in, baskets of parsnips, garlic, and green beans piled up by the shed, waiting to be sorted.

Soap wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, satisfied. “Not bad,” he muttered to himself, stretching the ache out of his back.

But there was still more to do. He had plans – bigger ones this time. Behind the barn, he marked out a patch of grass with stakes and rope, building the frame for a new pen. He hammered in posts, shoulders straining, then stretched the fencing taut. It wasn’t the neatest work he’d ever done, but it was sturdy.

“Good enough for the pigs,” he said with a grin, already imagining the little truffle-diggers rooting around in the dirt.

By late afternoon, he was washing the grime off his hands at the well when he noticed movement at the edge of the path. Ghost. Same cloak, same mask, boots caked with mud from the road.

Soap wasn’t even surprised anymore. “You’re starting to make a habit out of this, big guy,” he called out, waving him over.

Ghost stepped into the yard, gaze flicking from the fields to the new pen. “Busy day?”

“Aye. Busy season. But worth it.” Soap dusted his hands off on his trousers. “C’mon. I’ve got something ye might like.”

They ended up on the front porch, a pair of mismatched chairs set up to catch the evening breeze. Soap pulled out two cups and a bottle of pale golden mead. The cork popped with a satisfying thunk.

“Brewed this myself from some of the honey,” Soap said, pouring. “Still young, but it’s got a kick.”

Ghost accepted the cup, holding it for a long moment before finally lifting the mask just enough to sip, then lowered it again with a slow exhale. “…good.”

Soap grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Knew you’d have good taste.”

For a while they sat in silence, the only sound the clinking of cups and the rustling of spring leaves. Soap was used to fill silences, but this one didn’t feel like it needed filling. Ghost wasn’t fidgeting to leave; he was just there.

When Ghost did speak, it was quieter than Soap expected. “Didn’t think I’d… sit like this again.”

Soap glanced over, curious. “Like what?”

“Quiet. With company.” Ghost’s gaze stayed fixed on the field, voice low, as though it was easier to admit with his eyes elsewhere.

Soap didn’t push. He just took another sip of mead and let the moment stretch. “…world’s not always kind. Sometimes it takes more than it gives. But-” he gestured at the fields, the new pen, the baskets of crops by the shed “sometimes it gives you this.”

Ghost gave a short nod, as though considering that. He took another sip of mead.

They stayed like that until the bottle ran dry, the last light of day slipping away behind the mountains. When Ghost finally stood, setting his empty cup on the porch rail, Soap caught himself feeling just a little lighter.

“See you tomorrow?” Soap asked casually.

Ghost hesitated – then nodded once before striding off into the night.

Soap leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly to himself. The pigs weren’t here yet, but something was already rooting around under his skin.

~*~

The pigs arrived in the early morning, delivered in a rickety wagon that rode down the farm path. Soap had been up since dawn, pacing the new pen like an expectant father. When the animals trotted off the ramp, snuffling the fresh straw and rooting around in the dirt, he let out a loud whoop.

“Would you look at that! Handsome lot, aren’t they?” Soap leaned over the fence, grinning ear to ear. “Strong legs, shiny coats – aye, they’ll make fine truffle hunters.”

Ghost stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the pigs with that unreadable stare of his. “They’re just pigs.”

Soap clutched at his chest in mock offense. “Just pigs? These beauties are gonna make me rich. You’ll see.”

It didn’t take long for Soap to be proven right. Only a few days in, and one of the pigs came trotting up with a fat, mud-caked truffle clenched in its mouth. Soap nearly tripped over himself getting to it.

“Ha! Told ye!” He held the fungus aloft like it was a treasure. “That’s money right there, Ghost. Real gourmet stuff.”

He was practically buzzing when he sold the first truffle to Mayor Shepherd, who accepted it with a curious smile. “Excellent work, John,” the mayor said. “If you ever get around to making truffle oil, I’ll gladly take it off your hands. Don’t ask me why.”

Soap blinked. “Er… aye, right. Won’t ask.”

Back at the farm, he relayed the story to Ghost, who only muttered, “That man’s up to something.” Soap could only laugh.

A few afternoons later, while checking the edge of the field near the orchard, Soap spotted another truffle half-buried in the soil. He crouched down, muttering happily to himself, when the dirt suddenly twitched. The ‘truffle’ sprouted legs and scuttled sideways with a hiss.

Soap yelped, stumbling back on his rear. “Bloody hell!”

Ghost’s laugh – real, sharp, and unguarded – rang out behind him. Soap stared, wide-eyed, as Ghost leaned against the fence post, shoulders shaking.

“It’s a crab,” Ghost managed between chuckles. “A truffle crab.”

Soap scrambled to his feet, brushing off his trousers. “Aye, well, I don’t care what it’s called. Shouldn’t be jumpin’ out of the dirt like that.” He jabbed a finger at the crab as it scuttled off. “That’s unnatural, that is.”

Ghost was still laughing when Soap shot him a glare. “Glad I could entertain ye.”

“You certainly did,” Ghost admitted, voice still tinged with amusement.

Soap grumbled, but the sound of Ghost’s laughter stuck with him long after the crab disappeared.

~*~

It didn’t take long before Soap received an invitation to the Flower Dance. This time, he didn’t even bother with asking Ghost if he was going, already knowing the answer. Soap couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, but that disappeared quickly on the day of the Flower Dance.

The meadow had been transformed overnight. Soap followed the winding trail through the forest until it opened onto a wide clearing, the grass dotted with daisies and colourful ribbons strung between the trees. Tables sagged under the weight of pies, jellies, and pitchers of spring wine.

Soap adjusted his shirt collar, tugging at the fabric as he stepped into the crowd. Gaz spotted him first, waving from near a table stacked with strawberry tarts.

“About time you showed up,” Gaz called. “I thought you’d skip it.”

“Skip a party with free food?” Soap grinned. “Not a chance.”

He moved among the villagers, exchanging greetings. Rodolfo pressed a cup of fruit punch into his hand. Farah asked about his crops. Even Price was present, standing with Laswell near the musicians, a glass of mead in hand. Everyone seemed lighter, brighter – the promise of summer just around the corner.

Graves had set up a little stall near the edge of the meadow, selling bouquets tied with ribbon. When Soap passed by, Graves smirked.

“Funny thing, Soap – bouquets have been selling real well this week. Y’know, folks buy them when they’re looking to court someone proper.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Court someone? With bouquets?”

“That’s right,” Graves drawled. “You should think about it. Might make someone’s day.”

Soap frowned, puzzled. Bouquets as a sign of romance? He’d never thought of it. Flowers were flowers. Nice to look at, sure, but he couldn’t picture himself handing them to anyone. He muttered a thanks and moved on, not giving it more attention.

At some point, Ana, a nurse at the clinic, nudged him with a teasing smile. “You should ask someone to dance, John. It’s tradition.”

Soap laughed it off, scratching the back of his neck. “Aye, well, I think I’ll leave the dancing to the folk who won’t trip over their own boots.”

She rolled her eyes, moving off to join a circle of friends, but Soap stayed where he was. The thought of stepping out into the flower-lined circle with someone… it felt strange. Not wrong, exactly – just not right either. He couldn’t put his finger on why.

When the musicians struck their instruments, the meadow filled with dancing pairs. The rhythm was light, cheerful, feet moving in practiced steps across the grass. Soap lingered at the side, cup of punch in hand, watching the others spin and laugh beneath the garlands.

For once, he didn’t mind standing back. The music lifted on the breeze, carrying the scent of lilacs. The villagers swirled together, but Soap felt oddly content watching from the sidelines.

As the last notes rang out, he clapped along with the others, smiling, though a little voice in the back of his head nagged at him on why he hadn’t joined. He brushed it off, already thinking about the chores waiting at the farm.

~*~

A few days later, Soap found himself spending a Friday night at the pub. It had been raining all day, Ghost hadn’t shown his face, and Soap fancied some company. The pub was warm, lamplight glinting off the colourful bottles behind the bar and the low hum of villagers gathered around tables. Rain pattered against the windows, soft and steady. Soap slid onto a stool with a sigh, grateful for the fire crackling in the hearth.

Gaz spotted him at once. “Soap!” he grinned, shoving a tankard of ale across the counter before Soap even asked.

Soap chuckled and lifted it in salute. “You always know exactly what I need.”

“Perks of being a good barkeep,” Gaz said, winking.

Laswell was already seated at the corner table, nursing a glass of wine. Price leaned back opposite her, pipe in hand. Soap joined them, ale in tow, glad for the company.

They spoke for a while about the Flower Dance – the music, the food, who danced with whom. Soap laughed along but eventually cleared his throat, scratching the side of his jaw.

“Can I ask you something? Something that’s been rattling in my head since the festival?”

Price raised a brow. “Go on, then.”

Soap leaned in. “Graves was selling bouquets, right? He mentioned people buy them to, uh… court someone?”

Laswell smirked faintly. “He’s not wrong.”

Soap frowned. “So that’s really a thing around here? Buying flowers as what? Some sort of declaration?”

“It's tradition,” Alex piped up from a nearby table, clearly eavesdropping as he sipped his whiskey. “You give someone a bouquet when you want to show you’re serious about them. Not just a passing fancy. It’s old-fashioned, but folks here take it to heart.”

Price blew a ring of smoke into the air. “Simple, but effective.”

Soap blinked between them. “But… why flowers? They die in a week.”

Laswell chuckled. “That’s the point, John. They’re fleeting, fragile, beautiful. Makes them meaningful. At least, that’s the idea.”

Soap stared down into his ale, thoroughly puzzled. Flowers as a sign of romance – it sounded daft, if he was honest. He could think of sturdier gifts, ones that lasted, ones that felt… practical.

“Can’t say I understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But maybe that’s just me.”

Gaz laughed from behind the bar. “Don’t think too hard about it, mate. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

Soap lifted his drink, still bemused but deciding to let it go for now. Pelican Town had its quirks, and bouquets were just another one to add to the list.

~*~

The fields were full, every row bursting with colour and life as the last days of spring pressed on. Soap moved between the crops with some crates, bending low to gather up the broccoli heads, parsnips, and potatoes. Strawberries were planted in the greenhouse, and the cherries from the orchard were coming in fast.

He’d set up crates near the shed, separating everything into neat piles. One for Graves’ shelves, and another marked for preserving. The pickling jars bubbled quietly inside, and the wine barrels already gave off the sharp tang of fermenting fruit. If he kept up this pace, he would need another shed soon.

“Christ,” Soap muttered, hefting a sack of potatoes into a crate. “So much to keep track of. Ought to buy myself a planner.”

The crunch of boots over dirt made him glance up. Ghost arrived, as he often did these days, silent as a shadow. He gave Soap a curt nod before rolling up his sleeves.

“Need help?”

“Aye, always,” Soap said with a grin, pointing him towards a basket of parsnips. “Sort those, would you? The crate on the left is for selling, the one on the right is for the pickle jars.”

Ghost crouched without complaint, gloved hands moving methodically. He didn’t say much – didn’t say anything, really – but every so often Soap caught the faint twitch of his shoulders that might’ve been a laugh when Soap grumbled about how Graves would try to cheat him on cherry prices again.

Hours passed that way, the two of them working side by side as the piles of produce shifted into tidy order. Ghost lifted heavy sacks without being asked, his silence only broken once when Soap tried to balance too many jars at once and nearly toppled over.

“Reckon you were better with a rifle than with your own feet,” Ghost said dryly, catching him by the elbow.

Soap barked a laugh. “Ha! Fair point.”

It was more than Ghost had said in an hour, but the warmth of the remark lingered. Even closed off as he was, Ghost still knew when to jab, when to cut the silence with a joke sharp enough to make Soap grin.

By sundown, the farm was quiet again, crates packed, the smell of fruit and earth clinging to their clothes. Soap leaned on the fence, wiping sweat from his brow, while Ghost stood beside him, gaze fixed out over the rows of green that would soon give way to summer’s bounty.

“Nearly through the season,” Soap said. “Can’t believe how fast it went.”

Ghost gave only a grunt in reply, but the faintest glimmer of contentment tugged at the corner of his eyes.

Chapter Text

The farm smelled different the first morning of summer. Gone was the damp sweetness of spring; instead, the air carried a dry, sun-warmed scent that clung to Soap’s shirt as he hauled seed bags across the field.

He had a whole new spread to tend to – melons, radishes, tomatoes, blueberries, and even the new red cabbage seeds he’d bartered off Graves. Each row had to be cleared, watered, and covered with fresh fertilizer before planting. Soap muttered his way through it, knees sore from crouching, but the satisfaction of seeing neat rows of tilled earth was worth the effort.

The orchard gave him its first gift of the season: a handful of soft, fragrant peaches. Soap bit into one mid-task, juice dripping down his chin, and sighed. “That’s the taste of summer, right there.”

Behind him, boots scuffed on the dirt. “You’re making a mess.”

Soap spun around to see Ghost, sleeves rolled and gloves on, already moving toward the stack of seed bags. He didn’t wait for instructions, just lifted a sack onto one shoulder like it weighed nothing and set it down beside the rows.

“You’re late,” Soap teased, wiping peach juice from his chin.

“You’re greedy,” Ghost countered, eyeing the half-eaten fruit. But his tone wasn’t sharp – if anything, it was almost… amused.

The two of them worked side by side as the sun rose higher, Soap planting carefully while Ghost dug irrigation trenches and shifted heavy loads. They didn’t need to talk much anymore; Ghost seemed to know where to step in, his quiet strength filling the spaces where Soap’s energy flagged.

By midday, the seeds were in the ground, and Soap stood back with his hands on his hips, sweat dripping down his temple. “Thought it’d take me all week on my own.”

Ghost brushed soil from his gloves, gaze scanning the neat rows. “Would’ve. You’d have collapsed from exhaustion before you got halfway.”

Soap snorted, tossing him a canteen of water. “You’re not funny, big guy.”

Ghost only shook his head, but Soap swore he saw his eyes crinkle from a smile.

Later, as the evening cooled, they walked the orchard together, Soap pointing out where he’d planted new saplings – apricot and orange to join the peaches, a pomegranate tree for fall. Ghost listened quietly, one gloved hand brushing a low branch heavy with fruit.

The farm, once overwhelming in its demands, no longer felt impossible. Not with Ghost showing up as regularly as the morning sun.

Soap leaned against the fence, watching the horizon glow pink. “Summer’s here. Let’s see if we can make it even better than spring.”

Ghost didn’t answer, but he stayed beside him until the crickets started to sing.

~*~

The heat of summer had settled heavily over the valley, the kind that made Soap roll up his sleeves and swear at the sun while hauling crates filled with harvest. The melons were coming along nicely, their broad leaves shading the soil, while the blueberries were already speckled with tiny green buds. Soap liked the busyness of it, the rhythm of mornings spent tending crops, afternoons filled with making artisan goods, and evenings fishing by the river.

It left little time to think – except when Ghost showed up.

As steady as ever, he drifted in and out of Soap’s days, helping with chores without complaint, lending his quiet strength where Soap’s energy flagged. It was easy now, the two of them falling into a rhythm much like they had in the mines: Soap filling the silence with chatter, Ghost listening, and every now and then surprising him with a dry comment that made Soap bark a laugh.

Soap had started to look forward to it. A little too much, if he was honest with himself.

One afternoon, as Soap finished hammering the last plank into the pig pen that had broken down causing a few pigs to escape, he spotted Ghost making his way down the dirt path. Not unusual in itself – but this time, Ghost was carrying something small and carefully wrapped.

“What’s that?” Soap asked, wiping sweat from his forehead as he made his way to the house.

Ghost set the bundle on the table on the porch and peeled back the cloth. Inside was a packet of seeds, the parchment stamped with a faint sigil of curling vines.

“Picked them up off a trader passing through,” Ghost said. “Traded him some old thing I’d had lying around – a dried seed he was very interested in. Said these were worth a lot.”

Soap blinked, then picked up the packet. Ancient Seeds. His mouth went a little dry. He’d only ever heard of them when he went through his grandpa’s old farm notes, him describing old tales of crops thought lost to time. “Bloody hell, Ghost… These are rare. Proper rare.”

Ghost only shrugged, as if he didn’t just give Soap a packet of valuable seeds. “Figured you’d make better use of them than me.”

Soap stared at him, throat tight. “That’s… that’s a hell of a gift. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Plant them,” Ghost replied simply.

So Soap did. They headed over to the greenhouse, where the air smelled of earth and the strawberries Soap had planted last season. Soap knelt by the freshly tilled soil, planting the seeds carefully in a row beside the bright green strawberry plants. He patted the soil down, almost reverently, and glanced up to find Ghost standing nearby, watching in silence.

Soap smiled faintly. “Guess we’ll see if they take root. Be a shame if they didn’t, after a gift like that.”

Ghost shifted, hands in his pockets. “Some things are worth the risk.”

Soap didn’t know what to say to that. He only felt his chest tighten strangely, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the greenhouse air. He busied himself with the watering can, cheeks hotter than the summer sun.

Later, when the work was done, they lingered on the porch with mugs of mead, the crickets humming in the dark. Soap caught himself thinking – not for the first time – that the farm didn’t feel quite right anymore on the days Ghost wasn’t there.

And he had yet to put together why.

~*~

A few days later, Soap woke to a strange, dim light filtering through the curtains. Not the soft gold of morning, not even the dull grey of a storm, but something otherworldly – a faint, shimmering green. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. The glow was everywhere, filling the farmhouse like a lantern’s haze.

“What the hell…” he muttered, tugging on his boots.

When he opened the door, his jaw slackened. The valley stretched out in a surreal dreamscape – sky heavy with green clouds, rain falling in translucent sheets that stained the earth in liquid emerald. Every drop hissed faintly as it struck the soil. Trees swayed, their leaves glistening, and strange weeds had sprouted across the fields, forcing their way up as if the land itself had been jolted awake.

“So you’ve seen it?” a voice came from his left, making him jump.

Ghost stood there, hood drawn low against the eerie rain. Even he looked unsettled, his dark eyes glinting with reflected green.

“Aye,” Soap said, stepping aside so Ghost could enter. “Looks like something out of a bloody alien flick. Thought it was just my eyes playing tricks.”

Ghost shook his head. “It’s everywhere. Lights don’t work right. Tried turning on the radio – just static.”

Soap tried the TV in the living room, but the screen only showed a whirl of sickly green static.

Ghost shifted, restless. “This rain could draw things up from the mines. Or worse.”

Soap frowned. “Then we’d best check on the town. Can’t just sit here wondering when there could be danger out there.”

So they set out together, trudging down the muddy path. The rain soaked through their clothes in minutes, leaving a tingling chill on the skin. Soap bent now and then to pull up the strange weeds sprouting near the fences, stuffing them into his satchel. Something told him they’d be useful later.

The town square was nearly deserted, but the glow of the pub beckoned. Inside, the air was warm, though tense. A handful of villagers had gathered – Gaz behind the bar, drying glasses with a rag while pretending he wasn’t staring out at the strange sky. Laswell sat at a table with a notebook, scribbling observations. Graves leaned on the counter, arms crossed. Even Price was there, fiddling with one of his fishing lures, his expression tight.

Mayor Shepherd stood near the hearth, wringing his hands before raising his voice. “Everyone, remain calm. I just got off the phone with the governor. They’re saying this is… well, not dangerous. A weather phenomenon, that’s all. It may happen every few years. Nothing to fear.”

Gaz snorted, pouring Soap and Ghost a drink. “Easy for him to say, sitting in his cushy mansion, dry as a bone.”

Soap exchanged a glance with Ghost. Neither of them looked convinced.

By lunch, Soap was growing restless and turned to Ghost. “We should check on others, see who’s stuck where.”

Ghost didn’t argue, only nodded. They sloshed through the green rain again, crossing the town square to the clinic.

The waiting room light glowed faintly green, the windows humming with the rain’s shimmer. Inside, Farah sat behind the counter, her hair pulled back, trying to look calm though her shoulders were tense. Alex leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded, watching the door as if expecting trouble. The two nurses Farah had employed were seated together in the waiting room, faces concerned.

“Soap,” Farah said, relief softening her voice when she saw him. “And Ghost. Good – you’re both safe.”

“We’re fine,” Soap said, shaking rain from his sleeves. “Thought we’d check in. The governor claims the rain is just a weather phenomenon. What do you reckon – is it dangerous?”

Farah pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. Nothing in my books describes rain like this. Doesn’t seem toxic, but…” She gestured to the green-tinged windows. “I’d rather keep people indoors until it passes.”

Alex gave a wry smile. “Whole valley’s looking like a bad sci-fi set. If it wasn’t so creepy, I’d almost enjoy it.”

Soap chuckled, though it came out hollow. “You’re not wrong.”

Ghost lingered near the doorway, eyes flicking over the clinic, restless and uneasy. Soap caught the slight twitch in his posture – the place clearly made him uncomfortable – but still, he stayed, silent and watchful.

They waited a while, talking in low voices. Farah reassured them she’d check on the villagers after the storm to make sure no strange sickness spread. Alex cracked jokes to keep the tension down. Outside, the rain drummed endlessly against the roof.

By the time they finally left, evening was settling in. The sky glowed deeper, a darker green shading into near-black. Both men were soaked through again by the time they reached the farm. Soap wrung water from his shirt and gave Ghost a crooked grin.

“Well, if this happens every few years, I’ll need a bloody boat next time.”

Ghost huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.

They trudged back toward the farmhouse in silence, boots heavy with mud, green rain still falling in endless sheets. Soap hoped the rain was a one-off and that the governor was wrong, but something told him that was idle hope.

~*~

When Soap stepped outside the next morning, the world looked… normal again. Too normal, after yesterday. The sky was clear, the air sharp with early summer warmth. Not a single trace of the green-tinged downpour remained. The strange weeds he’d seen sprouting were gone, their roots vanished without so much as a mark in the soil. Even the mud seemed less sticky, like the land had swallowed the whole bizarre event whole.

Soap scratched at his neck, uneasy. “Like it never happened,” he muttered.

The only sign of it came in the form of a crisp envelope resting in his mailbox, stamped with the mayor’s seal. Soap ripped it open, scanning the neat script.

To all villagers:

Local authorities have determined yesterday’s rain to be harmless to human and animal health. While unusual, it is believed to be a rare meteorological event. Reports suggest it may return every few years, but you need not be concerned. The valley remains perfectly safe.

 – Mayor Shepherd

Soap snorted, shaking his head. “Aye, that’s reassuring.”

Ghost showed up not long after, hood thrown back, his expression as unreadable as ever. Soap handed him the letter. Ghost’s eyes flicked over the page once before he gave a soft, sceptical grunt.

“They’d say that even if it wasn’t harmless,” Ghost said flatly, folding the paper in two and handing it back.

Soap shrugged, stuffing the letter into his pocket. “Maybe. But the valley looks fine today, doesn’t it? Sun’s shining, crops didn’t die overnight, and I’m not growing a third arm for as far as I know.”

Ghost only gave him a side-eye, unconvinced. Still, he followed Soap to the barn without complaint.

The day was filled with the easy rhythm of farm work – harvesting baskets of summer crops, shaking dew from the leaves. Soap and Ghost worked side by side, feeding the animals and gathering the day’s yield: eggs warm from the coop, fresh milk from the cows, and a few truffles from the pigs.

Soap carried everything into the shed, where they set about turning the haul into something worth more than the sum of its parts. He poured milk into the cheese press, whistling while Ghost methodically cracked eggs into the mayonnaise maker. Truffles went into the oil maker, vegetables into the pickling barrels, and fruits into the kegs for wine.

“Not bad for a day’s haul,” Soap said proudly, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Not bad,” Ghost agreed, though his tone made it sound more like a military assessment than praise.

Later, they wandered into the greenhouse. The air was humid, rich with the smell of damp earth. Soap crouched by the neat row of strawberries and the single patch of ancient seeds. The tiny sprouts had begun to peek through the soil, fragile and green.

Soap bent low, brushing the dirt lightly with his fingertips. “Look at that,” he said softly. “Surviving just fine after all that madness.” He glanced up at Ghost with a grin. “Yer gift’s takin’ root.”

Ghost stood behind him, arms folded, watching in silence. For once, he didn’t hide the satisfaction in his eyes.

Soap straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “Don’t know what these’ll grow into, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give ‘em the best chance. They’ll get the best fertilizer, the best care, everything.”

Ghost gave a small nod. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Keeping things alive.”

The words hung there a moment, heavier than Soap expected. He chuckled, a little awkward, and patted Ghost’s arm as he passed him on the way out. “Aye, well, somebody’s got to.”

By evening, the farm was quiet again, the day’s work neatly wrapped. The valley stretched out golden under the setting sun, as if yesterday’s rain had been a bad dream. Still, Soap caught Ghost looking to the horizon more than once, as though waiting for the sky to turn green again.

~*~

The more days of summer passed, the more Soap’s farm thrived. The melons were fattening in their rows, blueberries turning dark and sweet, and the air around the greenhouse was rich with the scent of damp soil and green growth.

Every morning, Soap would duck into the greenhouse to check on the little patch of ancient seeds. They’d pushed up into delicate stems, sturdy now, growing taller each day. He didn’t know what they’d become, but every time he saw them thriving, he thought of Ghost’s silent gift and couldn’t help but smile.

Ghost had been showing up more often too. At first, Soap thought it was only for the chores, the animals, or maybe the mines. But now… Ghost lingered. He stayed for supper when Soap offered, boots at the door, sitting stiffly at first but loosening a little each time. Soap learned Ghost had a taste for hearty stews and brown bread. He even tolerated Soap’s stories, the rambling kind that usually put others off. And more than once, they’d ended the evening sitting side by side on the porch, overlooking the fields while the sun dipped low, mugs of mead or wine in their hands.

Soap liked those evenings best. Ghost rarely said much, but the silence wasn’t heavy  –  it felt steady, grounding. Soap told himself it was just good to have company, someone who understood the rhythm of work and the satisfaction of tired muscles at the end of the day. The warmth in his chest when Ghost stayed a little longer each day? He chalked that up to the mead.

~*~

When Ghost suggested another run into the mines on a rainy morning, Soap was ready. They stopped by the Guild first, where Rodolfo had set aside a neat stack of explosives Soap had ordered after their last visit.

“Careful with those,” Rodolfo warned with a smile.

Soap grinned, hefting one into his pack. “Careful is my middle name.”

Ghost muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “doubtful”, though the corner of his eyes crinkled.

Down in the mines, the air was damp and close, shadows thick between the rocks. Soap set his first charge with practiced ease, the memory of his demolition days slipping back into muscle memory. He whistled as he backed up. “Ready?”

Ghost gave a sharp nod.

The explosion echoed through the caverns, shaking dust from the ceiling and scattering a pack of lurking monsters. Ghost moved in immediately, blade flashing with clinical precision, every step measured, every strike clean. Soap hung back, broadsword drawn, covering Ghost’s flanks and laughing when the monsters scattered like spooked chickens.

They made a good team  –  Soap’s bursts of noise and energy clearing paths, Ghost’s steady hand finishing what Soap started. The deeper they went, the more Soap trusted Ghost’s wordless signals, the tilt of his head or the flick of two fingers. It felt almost like old times, when Soap had worked with squads who knew each other so well they barely needed words.

By the time they resurfaced, packs heavy with ore, loot, and gems, Soap’s heart was hammering not just from the fight but from the exhilaration of it all. He clapped Ghost on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, we’re getting good at this.”

Ghost only grunted, but Soap felt the satisfaction radiate off the man as they made their way to the Guild to sell what they had gathered.

That night, Ghost stayed again. Soap threw together a simple supper (adding in some extra hot peppers), and afterward, they sat out on the porch as the fireflies began to drift over the fields, the rain having stopped. Soap talked idly about the crops, about turning the blueberries and peaches into wine, and how he was getting a steady harvest of strawberries now that he had planted them in the greenhouse. Ghost listened, quiet as always, but there was a softness in the way he leaned back in the chair, letting the evening stretch long.

In the greenhouse, the ancient seeds were pushing higher toward the glass ceiling. Soap thought of them as he glanced sideways at Ghost. Roots in the soil. Quiet growth. Something steady building where he hadn’t expected it.

~*~

Summer in Pelican Town meant long, golden days and salt in the air from the sea, and with it came the Luau.

Soap had been looking forward to it in a quiet sort of way. He’d picked his contribution carefully  –  a crisp, vibrant red cabbage from his fields, its colour almost jewel-bright. Freshly harvested just the day before, still cool from the morning dew, it seemed the perfect choice for the potluck.

The morning of the Luau, Soap paused at the greenhouse, checking on the ancient seeds before heading out. Their leaves were larger now, growing steadily and strongly, almost brushing the glass panes above. He gave them a fond pat, then tucked the cabbage under his arm and started down toward the beach.

Part of him had hoped Ghost might show, but when he reached the shore, music in the air and tables groaning with food, there was no sign of him. Soap felt a pang of disappointment that surprised him with its sharpness.

Still, the festival had its own rhythm, and he was soon caught up in it. Gaz found him first, already waving with a grin and two drinks in hand.

“Soap!” Gaz said, pressing a cup into Soap’s hand. “Knew you’d bring something good for the stew.”

“Fresh cabbage,” Soap said proudly, holding it up. “Straight from the field.”

“That will get the Governor smiling.” Gaz clinked his cup against Soap’s. “C’mon, let’s make the rounds before the food disappears.”

They wove through the crowd together, Soap greeting villagers who seemed genuinely glad to see him. Laswell gave him a firm nod when he dropped off the cabbage for the potluck, Price teased him about whether he’d managed to keep the pigs from escaping again, and even Alex, busy chatting with Farah, raised a mocking salute before Soap turned away with a grin.

The Governor himself made his appearance, sampling from the giant pot and declaring the stew “the best soup he ever tasted” to a round of cheers.

The day stretched warm and bright, the sea breeze carrying laughter and music across the beach. Soap let himself enjoy it, eating and drinking, swapping jokes with Gaz, dancing a little when urged on by some of the braver villagers.

But every now and then, his gaze would flick toward the edges of the crowd, half-expecting to see a tall, masked figure lingering in the shade.

When the sun began to dip, casting the beach in orange light, Soap lingered with Gaz a while longer before finally making his way back home. The farmhouse was quiet when he arrived, the fields glowing softly in the twilight.

Still, when he stepped onto the porch and sat down to watch the fireflies fly over the fields, the empty chair beside him seemed more noticeable than usual.

~*~

Summer rolled on in an easy rhythm of farm chores, mining trips, and long evenings on the porch with Ghost. What had once been quiet, almost tense silences between them was starting to ease into conversation. Ghost spoke more now – dry comments when Soap made a blunder with the animals, the occasional sharp-edged joke that always caught Soap off-guard and left him laughing.

Soap didn’t know when the shift had happened, only that it felt natural. Ghost’s presence was something Soap looked forward to.

One hot Friday morning, a letter arrived with his name scrawled across it in Price’s heavy hand. Soap wiped the sweat from his brow before opening it.

This weekend is the Trout Derby by the river in the forest. Thought it would be a good opportunity for you to prove your freshwater skills, you might even win a prize. I’ll be competing tomorrow.

Soap chuckled. “Aye, sounds like a challenge if I ever saw one.”

The next day, he made his way down to the forest river where a handful of villagers had gathered along the bank. The water sparkled, clear and fast-flowing, perfect for rainbow trout. Price stood there, pipe in hand, already smirking.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Price called.

“Didn’t think you’d risk losing to me,” Soap shot back, raising his fishing rod.

The Derby was simple: catch as many rainbow trout as possible before sundown. The moment the horn blew, Soap cast his line, the thrill of competition kicking in.

It was a day of laughter and banter, Soap shoulder to shoulder with Price as fish after fish was pulled from the river. Gaz stopped by halfway through to cheer Soap on, shouting advice that was more distracting than helpful. By the time the sun dipped low, Soap had a respectable pile of trout beside him. Price’s was only a little larger.

When the tally came in, Price won by a handful. Soap still came away with the runner-up prize: a gleaming mounted trout on a polished plaque.

“Not bad for a farmer,” Price said, clapping him on the back. “Keep practicing, son, and you’ll give me a run for my money next year.”

Soap just grinned, holding up the mounted fish like a trophy.

Back at the farm, Ghost was already there, seated on the porch with his arms folded. He raised an eyebrow as Soap approached with the trout.

“What the hell is that?” Ghost asked dryly.

“Prize from the Derby,” Soap said proudly, holding it up for inspection. “Got second place. Not too shabby, eh?”

Ghost gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re actually planning to hang that thing up?”

“Of course I am! Right above the fireplace. Something to admire when the weather turns.”

Ghost snorted, but Soap caught the fondness in his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you kindly,” Soap replied, grinning.

He carried the mounted trout inside, setting it carefully on the mantle before coming back out to join Ghost on the porch. They sat together as the fireflies blinked to life over the fields. Soap leaned back in his chair, the sound of the river still in his ears, and thought that maybe – just maybe – he liked this summer more than he’d realized.

~*~

The days shortened as summer wore on, the heat clinging heavy in the afternoons before slipping into cooler evenings. On the farm, the fields were bursting with green – blueberries still clinging to their bushes, tomatoes ripening under the sun, the peach trees swaying with sweet fruit. Soap had never known such satisfaction as walking his rows and seeing all that life thriving under his hands.

Ghost was around more often than not. Some days he turned up unannounced to help with chores, other days he appeared at dusk, taking a seat on the porch with a bottle of Soap’s mead set between them. The rhythm of their companionship had shifted: what had started as quiet tolerance now felt like an easy, steady bond.

One evening, after a day of hauling hay and repairing fences, Soap caught Ghost staring out across the fields longer than usual. His mask shifted slightly as he breathed in.

“Did you ever think you’d end up here?” Ghost asked suddenly, voice low.

Soap blinked. “On a farm? Can’t say I did. But I don’t regret it.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Ghost spoke again, softer. “I used to think I’d never make it past thirty.”

Soap tilted his head, watching him carefully. Ghost rarely spoke about himself. “What makes you say that?”

Ghost’s shoulders rose and fell. “I had some bad years in the military. Ones where you stop counting them after a while. Ones where every day is a coin flip whether you come back or not. Didn’t think I’d ever make it out alive.”

Soap felt something tighten in his chest. Ghost had told him he had been a soldier, but hearing him talk about it was different. Soap also had realised there was a reason Ghost hid his face, and that reason was possibly connected to his time in the military.

“I know the feeling,” Soap said quietly. “Didn’t think I’d walk away either. But I did. And now…” He gestured at the fields, the barn, the soft glow of lanterns from the farmhouse windows. “Now look where we are.”

Ghost let out a low chuckle. “You make it sound so bloody simple.”

“Maybe it is,” Soap replied with a grin, though there was warmth behind it.

Ghost didn’t answer, but he stayed longer that night, finishing another bottle of mead with Soap as the stars spread wide overhead.

~*~

Before Soap realised, the summer was almost over. Only when he received an invitation to the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies did he stop and take a look at a calendar. Soap spent the last day of summer completing chores, harvesting the last crops before the season turned, and making sure he was ready for fall. In the evening, he headed to the beach where the entire village had gathered near the docks, lanterns strung between posts casting a warm glow over the ocean. The tide shimmered in the twilight, the air humming with quiet anticipation.

Soap wandered through the crowd, greeting Gaz, Price, Laswell, and Farah. But his eyes kept drifting toward the edges of the dock, half-hoping.

And then, to his surprise, he saw him.

Ghost stood near the rocks, just beyond the lantern light, half-shadowed but unmistakable. He hadn’t dressed differently – still the same cloak, the same mask – but the very fact that he was there at all made Soap grin.

“You made it,” Soap said when he reached him, his voice delighted.

Ghost gave a small shrug. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about since you didn’t shut up about it.”

“I’m glad you did.” Soap leaned on the railing beside him, their shoulders brushing.

Mayor Shepherd gave a short speech, and then a small boat with a lantern was pushed from the shore. Out over the water, the first glowing jellyfish rose from the depths, trailing light like stars drawn down into the ocean. Dozens followed, their gentle glow painting the night in hues of green and blue.

Soap exhaled in awe, the magic of it catching in his chest. He glanced at Ghost, who stood utterly still, the reflection of the jellies shimmering in his eyes.

For a long while, neither spoke. The ocean pulsed with light, and the villagers watched in reverent silence.

At last, Soap leaned in a little closer. “Worth coming?”

Ghost gave the smallest nod. “Worth it.”

They stayed until the last jellyfish disappeared into the dark horizon, the summer’s warmth carried away with them. And when the crowd dispersed, Soap and Ghost walked back toward the farm together, the hush of the ocean still echoing between them.

Chapter Text

The first chill of fall swept through the valley with a golden haze. The fields that had been heavy with green only days before were now framed by the red and amber blaze of the trees. Soap woke early on the first morning of the season to find the air crisp and sharp, his breath almost visible as he stepped outside.

There was no easing into the new season – here never was on the farm, Soap had learned. New seeds from Graves lay already stacked in sacks against the wall: pumpkins, yams, eggplants, cranberries, corn, wheat. Soap has bought almost the whole fall catalogue.

After breakfast, Soap started on tilling the soil and spreading fertilizer. He wasn’t surprised when Ghost showed up just an hour after Soap had started. The man didn’t say much at first, just grabbed a spare hoe and set to work beside him, the two of them falling into a wordless rhythm.

“Y’know,” Soap said eventually, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, “you’re getting real handy out here. Could hire you on proper.”

Ghost huffed, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Doubt I’d make much of a farmhand.”

Soap grinned. “You’re not half bad. Might even give me a run for my money.”

For a moment, Ghost only shook his head. But later, when Soap looked over, he could’ve sworn there was the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his eyes.

~*~

The next few days were spent working in the fields. Together, they lined up rows of pumpkins and yams, built new trellises for grapes, and organised the field of cranberries for maximum efficiency when harvesting. The orchard bore its first apples, their sharp sweetness filling the air as Soap gathered them by the crate.

Evenings had settled into a kind of ritual. After a shared dinner – sometimes at the farmhouse table, sometimes out on the porch – they would sit with mugs of hot cider, watching the fields fade into shadow as the sun went down. Conversation came easier now. Ghost still guarded his words, but he was opening up more and more, telling Soap anecdotes from his time in the military or his adventures in the mines.

One night, Soap caught himself watching Ghost as he leaned back in his chair, the porch lantern catching on the edge of his mask. There was something steady about him, something grounding. Soap’s chest felt too warm, though he brushed it off with another sip of cider. It was just gratitude, he told himself. Just comfort.

Midway through the week, they made another trip to the mines on a rainy day. Soap brought explosives again, delighted to see Ghost’s approving nod as he cleared out an entire wall of stone in one blast.

“See that?” Soap crowed, dusting himself off. “Told you I was good at this.”

Ghost eyed the rubble, then Soap, the corner of his mask twitching. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Soap grinned, a spark of pride lighting in his chest. He was beginning to recognize the rhythm of them together: Soap’s reckless push forward balanced by Ghost’s precision, his quiet watchfulness. A good team.

By the end of the week, the fields were fully planted, and the first crops were coming up. Soap stood with Ghost on the porch one evening, looking out at the neat rows, the orchard, the glow of lanterns strung up along the barn.

“Not bad for a week’s work,” Soap said, stretching his arms.

Ghost was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Not bad indeed.”

Their shoulders brushed as they stood side by side. Soap didn’t move away, and neither did Ghost. The silence between them felt easy, comfortable – charged, even. Soap’s heart beat faster, though he still didn’t quite know why.

~*~

Slowly, the first week of fall blended into the second one. The days began misty and cool, leaves drifting down in lazy spirals across the yard, the air carrying the scent of earth and apple cider. Soap had just finished turning the last batch of cranberries into jelly, stepping out of the shed to put a crate of jellies by the house to sell them the next morning, when he heard the familiar steady tread of boots on the path.

Ghost appeared at the gate, carrying a crate. Without a word, he stepped through, setting it down on the porch with a quiet clink of jars. Soap wiped his hands and grinned.

“Brought more jars? Careful, Ghost – you’re spoiling me.”

“Doubt that,” Ghost muttered, but his eyes crinkled faintly at the corners.

They worked side by side that morning, tending to the animals and checking on the latest batches of wine. When they reached the greenhouse, Soap hesitated before pushing the door open.

Inside, green life thrummed in every direction. The strawberries, blueberries, and a few cranberries had spread, lush and thriving – but at the centre of it all were the ancient seeds Soap planted last summer. What had begun as fragile, almost doubtful sprouts now stretched tall and strong, bearing fruit unlike anything Soap had ever seen.

Deep blue, with a sheen almost like polished glass, the ancient fruit glowed faintly in the filtered sunlight coming through the glass ceiling. Soap stared, not daring to touch.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

Ghost leaned over his shoulder, studying the vines with cool curiosity. “That’s what you’ve been fussing over all summer?”

Soap chuckled, a little breathless. “More than fussing. I’ve done some research. These things – they’re very rare. It’s said they’ll grow all year long if you treat ’em right.”

He reached out and plucked one of the fruits carefully, turning it in his hand. “These will certainly get the farm through the winter comfortably. All thanks to you, Ghost.”

Ghost only shrugged, but Soap noticed he lingered as he set the fruit gently into the basket, as though it mattered to him too.

That evening, a letter arrived. Soap slit it open by lamplight at the kitchen table, frowning as he read.

Dear John,

A friendly reminder that the Stardew Valley Fair is taking place in the town square one week from today. Just like last year, there will be the possibility to set up a grange display to showcase your talents. You’ll be judged on the quality and diversity of your display.

– Mayor Shepherd

Soap set the paper down with a groan. “As if I don’t have enough to keep me busy.”

Ghost took the letter from him, and after he finished reading, he raised a brow. “It’s a fair. Why are you so worked up about it?”

“Because!” Soap jabbed a finger at the letter. “It’s not just any fair, it’s the fair. It’s the biggest event of the year, the whole town will show up, and so will people from all across the country!  What if I mess it up? I have a title to defend. What if people think my stall is rubbish?”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “You’ve built this farm from the ground up. You’ve got more produce than half the town combined. You’ll be fine.”

Soap gave him a sceptical look. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to stand there while Shepherd judges whether your pumpkins are up to scratch.”

 “Then don’t worry about him. Focus on what you’re good at. That’s what people will see.” Ghost huffed, “Besides, I help you plant and harvest those pumpkins, we basically share custody.”

Soap opened his mouth, then closed it, staring at him for a moment. Somehow, Ghost’s calm certainty carried more weight than the mayor’s whole pompous letter.

“...maybe you’re right,” he admitted quietly.

Ghost tilted his head. “Of course I’m right.”

Soap barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Arrogant bastard.”

They ended the night seated on the sofa together, an old movie playing on the TV. Soap was barely paying attention, his mind still on the upcoming fair, but for the first time, Soap felt a little less nervous about the days ahead, Ghost’s words echoing through his head.

~*~

The letter from Mayor Shepherd stayed pinned on the fridge, glaring at Soap like a deadline that wouldn’t stop breathing down his neck. Every morning that week, he caught himself glancing at it as he reached for the milk, tapping his fingers against thebottle before forcing himself back outside.

The farm was in full fall colours now – pumpkins swelling orange in their plots, corn and eggplants pushing up from the dark soil, grapes heavy on the trellis. The first batch of ancient fruit sat safely in the shed, sealed in jars and bottles Soap hardly dared to open.

And, as had become routine, Ghost showed up almost every day. Soap tried not to think about how natural it felt – Ghost moving across the yard as though the farm were his second home.

Soap started setting aside his best produce.

“This’ll do for the fair,” he said one morning, hefting a prize pumpkin onto the table with a grunt. “Look at the size of it, Ghost – bigger than my head.”

Ghost stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, arms folded, his mask lifted enough to sip tea. His gaze slid over the pumpkin, unimpressed. “An accomplishment, considering that your head is enormous.”

Soap shot him a glare that held no heat. “You’re a cruel man, you know that?”

In the end, Ghost helped like he always did these days – wiping the soil from vegetables, carrying filled jars from the shed, even repairing a crooked leg on Soap’s display table with a few nails and steady hands.

Soap caught himself watching those hands longer than necessary, surprised by their carefulness. For a man who could carve through void creatures in the mines with clinical precision, Ghost handled a jar of jelly like it was glass spun from air.

One evening, as they worked side by side sorting through cheeses and preserves, Soap broke the silence. “You ever been to the fair?”

Ghost shook his head. “Crowds aren’t my thing.”

Soap hummed. “Figured. Still – you’d like it. Food, atmosphere, games.” He hesitated, then added with a grin, “You should come.”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He was polishing a jar of truffle oil, his thumb moving in slow circles over the glass. At last, he said, “We’ll see.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either, and for some reason, it made Soap’s chest tighten.

~*~

The nights grew colder as the fair drew closer. Soap and Ghost often ended the day on the porch, boots kicked up on the railing, mugs of tea in their hands. They didn’t always talk – sometimes they just listened to the cicadas and the rustle of the cornfield in the wind – but Soap found he liked the silences too.

One night, Soap caught himself staring at the glow of the lantern light across Ghost’s profile, the way it softened the sharp lines of his mask. He felt something stir in his chest, something unfamiliar and unwelcome. He tore his gaze away, heart thudding, telling himself it was just gratitude. Just relief at having someone steady at his side.

And yet… when Ghost leaned back, his voice quiet in the evening air, Soap had to fight not to smile at the sound.

“You’ll do fine at the fair,” Ghost said. “Better than fine.”

Soap’s throat went dry. “Aye? And what makes you so sure?”

Ghost’s eyes met his, unreadable in the half-dark. “Because I’ve seen what you’ve built here. And it’s not luck. It’s you.”

Soap couldn’t think of a reply. For once, words failed him. He just sat there, the warmth of Ghost’s steady presence beside him lingering long after the lanterns went out.

~*~

Soap hadn’t slept much the night before the fair. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw jars tumbling from the table, pumpkins rolling into the mud, Ghost shaking his head in disappointment. It was ridiculous, he knew, but the nerves had their claws in him.

When Soap arrived at 9 AM, the town square was already alive with colour – bright tents and flags strung across the square, villagers laughing and calling to one another as they set up their displays. Soap’s wagon creaked as he hauled his produce into place: the best quality pumpkins and strawberries, jars of ancient fruit jelly, a wheel of cheese, bottles of mead, a rainbow-coloured mineral he and Ghost found in the mines. He tried to arrange them neatly, fussing until the table looked less like a farm stall and more like a showcase.

He was wiping his palms on his trousers when Graves strolled past, eyeing Soap’s display with a smirk.

“Well, well, well,” Graves drawled, “the soldier turned farmer, trying for the prize again? Hope you’ve got more than oversized pumpkins this year. Wouldn’t want the judges to think you peaked already.”

Soap’s gut tightened. His hands clenched into fists before he forced them loose. “Hope you brought your own items this time, Graves, instead of profiting off other people’s hard labour,” he muttered, but the words didn’t stop his heart from hammering.

Gaz appeared at his elbow, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. Graves wouldn’t know good produce if it hit him in the face. You’ve got this, Soap.”

Soap managed a smile, though his nerves still hummed like static under his skin.

And then – out of the corner of his eye – he saw a familiar shape cutting through the crowd. Tall, broad, masked.

Ghost.

Soap blinked, sure he’d imagined it. But no, there he was, striding past stalls and villagers who openly stared. Ghost never came to festivals. Never. Yet here he was, hands tucked into his coat pockets, looking like he’d rather vanish into thin air.

Soap’s heart leapt in a way he didn’t dare examine.

Gaz grinned widely. “Well, look who finally crawled out of the shadows.”

Ghost’s gaze flicked to Soap, unreadable, before he said flatly, “Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

Soap swallowed the lump in his throat and grinned. “Glad you came.” His voice cracked slightly, and he hoped no one noticed.

Gaz, never one to miss an opportunity, promptly hooked an arm through Ghost’s. “C’mon then, Ghost. You’re not getting away that easily. Soap and I were about to play a few games, and you are joining us.”

Soap laughed, watching Ghost’s scowl deepen, though he didn’t resist as Gaz pulled him toward the booths.

They started with the slingshot stand, Soap trying – and failing – to beat Gaz’s high score while Ghost leaned against the fence, murmuring dry commentary that only made Soap laugh harder. Then came the fishing game, Soap pulling in a decent haul while Ghost surprised him by calmly catching one after another, his movements precise and economical.

“Show-off,” Soap muttered, though he couldn’t hide his grin.

Later, Soap and Gaz tugged Ghost toward the strength contest, Gaz handing him the mallet with a smirk. “Let’s see if you’re as strong as you look.”

Ghost only raised an eyebrow, lifted the mallet, and slammed it down. The bell rang clear at the top of the pole. Soap let out a whistle. “Aye, alright, point proven.”

For the first time that day, the corner of Ghost’s eyes crinkled with something dangerously close to a smile.

Just like last year, Soap made his way to the fortune teller’s tent. Ghost and Gaz were held up with the burgers Gaz had been cooking on the grill. The air inside smelled of incense, and the fortune teller’s eyes glinted as her hands hovered over the crystal orb.

“Your future…” she murmured, tracing the orb. “You’ve planted roots here, strong ones. But what grows next… depends on more than soil or rain. There is someone near you – close, yet far. A shadow at your side. Be careful. Be open. If you let yourself, your heart will find what it longs for.”

Soap frowned in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The fortune teller only smiled. “You’ll see.”

Outside, Ghost was waiting. He tilted his head. “Didn’t peg for someone who visits a fortune teller.”

Soap shrugged, forcing a laugh. “Eh, just for fun. She said some vague shit. Shadows and hearts and all that.” He brushed it off, but her words nagged at the back of his mind. A shadow at your side. His eyes flicked to Ghost before he could stop himself. He looked away quickly, cheeks warm.

When it came time for the judging of the grange displays, Soap stood stiffly by his table, stomach in knots. The mayor strolled past each entry, murmuring and writing notes. Graves’ smug expression as Shepherd stopped at his booth made Soap want to knock his pumpkins onto the cobblestones.

But when he reached Soap’s table, Shepherd smiled. “Excellent variety, fine quality. Well done, John.”

Soap barely breathed until the results were announced – his name called as the winner. Second year in a row.

The relief hit like a wave, and Gaz let out a cheer, clapping him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over. Soap laughed, grinning wide – then caught sight of Ghost, standing just behind the crowd. His eyes met Soap’s, and though his mask hid most of his face, the pride in his gaze was unmistakable.

Soap’s chest went tight, that same unfamiliar warmth sparking again. He grinned back, heart pounding.

~*~

The week after the Stardew Valley Fair felt lighter, though not for lack of work. Fall continued heavy and fast: pumpkins to haul from the fields, grapes to crush into wine, cranberries filling baskets until Soap’s arms ached.

And Ghost was there. Always at his side.

Soap found himself noticing it more, now – how often Ghost drifted toward him in silence, boots crunching steadily in the dirt, how easily they slipped into rhythm. Where Soap hauled, Ghost lifted. Where Soap swung a hammer, Ghost steadied the boards. No words needed, just the comfort of someone moving in sync with him.

But it was the fortune teller’s words that lingered like an itch in the back of his mind. There is someone near you – close, yet far. A shadow at your side. Be careful. Be open.

Every time he glanced at Ghost, the memory pricked him. A shadow at his side. And hadn’t Ghost been that ever since last winter?

He caught himself staring more often than he liked to admit. At the sharp way Ghost’s eyes tracked across the fields, always assessing. At the quiet strength in the way he lifted sacks as if they weighed nothing. At the rare moments, when the day was fading, that Ghost’s voice softened enough to make Soap’s chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

It unsettled him. Soap was used to friendship, camaraderie, laughter. But this – the weight in his chest every time Ghost looked his way – was new. And he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

~*~

One evening, after a long day spent hauling pumpkins, they sat on the porch with mugs of freshly brewed wine. The fields stretched out before them, gold fading into twilight.

Soap leaned back, letting the cool wood of the chair soothe his sore muscles. “Never thought I’d say this, but I think I’ve had my fill of pumpkins for a lifetime.”

Ghost snorted softly. “Give it a week. You’ll be bragging about the pumpkin harvest again.”

Soap grinned. “You know me too well.”

Silence settled between them, comfortable. Then Ghost spoke again, voice low.

“Used to hate harvest season,” he said. “Back home, when I was a kid. Meant long days, hard labor for little pay my father stole the moment I got home.”

Soap turned his head, surprised. Ghost rarely spoke about himself, not like this. “And now?”

Ghost’s gaze stayed fixed on the fields. “Now it feels… different. Purposeful. Like it matters.”

Soap’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, something that matched the weight of what Ghost had shared, but the words tangled in his mouth. Instead, he nudged Ghost lightly with his shoulder. “Well, you make it matter. Couldn’t have done half of it without you.”

Ghost glanced at him then, eyes sharp in the dim light, as if weighing Soap’s words. For a moment, Soap thought he might say something more. Instead, Ghost just gave the faintest nod and looked back at the fields.

Still, Soap couldn’t shake the warmth that spread through his chest.

That night, lying in bed, Soap thought again of the fortune teller’s words. Be open. If you let yourself, your heart will find what it longs for.

He stared at the ceiling, listening to the crickets outside, and realized with a jolt that what unsettled him wasn’t the fortune itself.

It was that a part of him already knew what his heart was leaning towards.

And that scared him more than anything in the mines ever had.

~*~

The end of fall was slowly nearing. The days shortened, fields thinned, and the farm wore the muted colours of fading leaves and ripened crops. Soap buried himself in work to ignore the way his thoughts kept drifting toward Ghost – the fortune teller’s words still chasing him.

He told himself it was nonsense. Just a silly trick of fate, nothing more. And yet, when the letter for Spirit’s Eve arrived with Mayor Shepherd’s looping script, Soap felt a flicker of anticipation he couldn’t quite smother.

The town square had transformed overnight. Lanterns were lighting up the carved pumpkins that were lining the paths. The air was rich with spiced cider, roasted chestnuts, and the chatter of villagers dressed in makeshift costumes. Soap had always liked Spirit’s Eve – the laughter of children darting between stalls, the thrill of the haunted maze. This year, though, his eyes drifted more than once toward the far end of the square.

Where Ghost stood.

Same as the year before, he stood watch near the cages where the skeletons rattled and swayed, straw and bones shifting with each eerie movement. His mask gleamed pale in the lantern light, his arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd.

Soap told himself he wasn’t watching. He was sampling candy, tossing rings at a stall, chatting with Gaz who had set up a cauldron of spiced cider. But every so often, his gaze slipped.

He was looking in Ghost’s direction again when it happened.

A group of children ran past, laughing too loudly, daring one another to poke sticks through the bars of the skeleton cages. One of the smaller children – Price’s niece, Soap thought – pressed too close to the bars, giggling when one of the skeletons lunged, bony fingers snapping forward. The bony hand grabbed her sleeve, yanking her off balance against the bars.

Her cry cut through the music and chatter.

Before anyone could react, Ghost was already moving.

In a blur, he wrenched the skeleton’s arm away with a strength that made the monster groan, scooping the girl up in one motion and pulling her safely against him. His masked head turned, eyes like steel as he checked her over. The girl burst into tears, clutching at Ghost, while her friends scattered in shock.

“You’re alright,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Stay clear of the cages. They’re not toys.”

The girl sniffled, nodded, and Ghost placed her into the arms of her frantic mother.

Soap realized he’d been holding his breath. His heart hammered in his chest, not from fear, but from the way Ghost moved – unshakable, protective, absolute. It made something deep in Soap’s chest twist and burn. It wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just trust. It was more. Something that had been growing all year, quiet and steady, until now it stood in front of him, undeniable.

Oh.

Oh.

Soap’s heart stuttered.

He’d fallen for Ghost. Properly, completely, hopelessly.

Soap’s throat went dry. He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the maze, on the laughter, on the carved pumpkins glowing bright. But the thought stayed, burning at the edges of his mind.

Later, as the villagers drifted toward the haunted maze and the music picked up again, Soap found himself by Ghost’s side. He didn’t speak – couldn’t, not with the rush of everything caught in his throat. He only stood there, cider cooling in his hand, staring at the lantern glow flickering over Ghost’s mask.

The fortune teller had been right. A shadow at his side. The one his heart longed for.

And Soap knew, deep down, his life had already shifted. There was no going back.