🌾 CHAPTER 3 – YSELDOUS’ POV
1346 Words
Morning on the farm does not wait for anyone.
It does not adjust, it does not soften, and it does not care if someone is ready.
It simply begins.
By the time the first light stretched across the fields, I was already outside, walking the rows with quiet familiarity. The air was still cool, carrying the scent of damp soil and leaves that had not yet felt the sun. This was the hour I trusted most. Before noise, before movement, before anything had the chance to go wrong.
And something always went wrong.
Today, I already knew what it would be.
Golden Keith Fuentalbon.
I paused near the edge of the field, scanning the distance, not for her presence, but for the absence of it.
She wasn’t there.
Of course she wasn’t.
I checked the time in my head. She had been told to be ready at six.
It was already past that.
I exhaled slowly, not irritated, not surprised either.
Just… certain.
“She won’t come,” Mang Rodel said from behind me, his voice carrying the quiet humor of someone who had seen enough of the world to expect very little from it.
I didn’t turn immediately. “She will.”
There was a short pause.
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
Mang Rodel stepped beside me, arms resting loosely at his sides as he looked over the land.
“City girl,” he said. “Soft hands. Softer habits.”
“She’ll adjust.”
He let out a small laugh. “Or she’ll run.”
I glanced at him then.
“There’s nowhere to run.”
The truth of that settled between us, not heavy, not dramatic. Just real.
Some people run because they can.
Some stay because they must.
And some… don’t know which one they are yet.
“I’ll get her,” I said after a moment.
Mang Rodel raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to wake that kind of storm this early?”
I almost smiled.
“It’s already here,” I replied.
The walk back to the house felt different in the morning.
Quieter, but not empty.
The kind of quiet that held expectation instead of resistance.
The kind that waits to see what you’ll do with it.
I stepped onto the porch and knocked once on her door.
No response.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I opened the door without asking.
Golden was still asleep.
Completely.
Not the light kind of sleep that breaks easily, but the deep, unmoving kind that comes from a life that has never needed to wake early for anything important.
She was sprawled across the bed, one arm over her eyes, the sunlight already touching the edge of her face.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Observing.
Not judging.
Just… noticing.
“She won’t wake on her own,” I said quietly, more to myself than anything.
No reaction.
I walked closer.
“Golden.”
Nothing.
I waited a second.
Then, more firmly, “Golden.”
She groaned, barely moving.
“No,” she murmured. “Five minutes.”
I crossed my arms.
“You already used those five minutes.”
“No, I didn’t,” she mumbled. “I just asked for them.”
I let out a slow breath.
“You were supposed to be outside an hour ago.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” she said, still not opening her eyes.
For a brief second, silence filled the room again.
Not the peaceful kind.
The testing kind.
“Get up,” I said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I studied her for a moment, then walked to the window and pulled the curtain fully open.
Sunlight flooded the room instantly.
Golden reacted like it had personally attacked her.
“Why would you do that?” she groaned, pulling the pillow over her face.
“To wake you up.”
“I was already awake.”
“You were negotiating with sleep.”
She slowly sat up, hair falling around her face in a way that looked unplanned but not careless.
Just… natural.
She squinted at me.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“This whole… farm work thing?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me for a long second.
“You’re not joking even a little.”
“No.”
She let out a breath, long and dramatic, then swung her legs off the bed.
“This is unbelievable,” she muttered. “Do you wake everyone up like this?”
“Everyone else is already awake.”
She paused.
Then looked at me again.
“You’re telling me I’m the only one late?”
“Yes.”
Something shifted in her expression.
Not embarrassment.
Not quite.
But awareness.
“Fine,” she said, standing up. “Give me ten minutes.”
“You have five.”
“You just said I used my five minutes.”
“You did.”
“So now I have none?”
“You have five more.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re making this up as you go.”
“No,” I said. “I’m adjusting.”
She stared at me, then let out a short laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still not moving.”
That got her.
She grabbed her things quickly, moving with more energy than before, though not gracefully.
More like someone trying to prove something.
To me.
To herself.
Maybe both.
I stepped outside to wait.
The sun had risen higher now, warming the ground, pulling the day forward whether anyone was ready or not.
I could hear movement inside. Fast, uneven, unfamiliar.
She wasn’t used to rushing like this.
That much was clear.
Five minutes later, she stepped out.
And stopped.
I turned to look at her.
And for the first time since she arrived, I almost lost my composure.
She was dressed for something else entirely.
Not for the farm.
Not even close.
Light fabric, clean shoes, hair still half-finished, like she had given up midway.
She looked ready for a day in the city.
Not a day in the fields.
“What?” she said, noticing my expression.
“That won’t work.”
She looked down at herself.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything,” I replied.
She crossed her arms.
“I’m not changing again.”
“You will.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
She stepped closer, clearly irritated now.
“You don’t get to decide everything.”
“I do here.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not about fair.”
There it was again.
That resistance.
But this time, it didn’t feel the same.
It wasn’t just defiance.
It was discomfort.
“I don’t have clothes for this,” she said, quieter now.
I paused.
Then nodded.
“Wait.”
I stepped inside and returned with a simple set of clothes. Nothing special. Just something practical.
I handed it to her.
She looked at it like it had personally offended her.
“You expect me to wear this?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
Then sighed.
“This is a disaster.”
“Probably,” I said.
She turned and went back inside to change.
I stood there again, waiting.
Watching the day move forward.
Listening to the quiet.
Somewhere between irritation and resistance, something had already begun.
Not change.
Not yet.
But the beginning of it.
When she came back out, dressed properly this time, she didn’t look happy.
But she stayed.
And sometimes, staying is the first thing that matters.
“Now what?” she asked.
I turned toward the fields.
“Now you learn.”
She looked at the land, then back at me.
“I’m going to regret this.”
“Yes,” I said.
I started walking.
After a second, she followed.
Behind us, the house stood still.
Ahead of us, the work waited.
And somewhere in between, something unseen had already taken root.
- Writer
