Hannah's POV
I glanced at the framed photo on my nightstand—a snapshot from three summers ago. My dad and I, arms slung around each other, sunburnt smiles and carefree eyes. That was before Mom left. Back when everything still felt whole. We've always been close, my dad and I. He's the kind of man who says little but listens to everything. The farm I now call home once belonged to his dad, my grandpa, and somehow, through overgrown weeds and peeling barn doors, it feels like all three of us still exist here together.
5:30 AM. The rooster hadn't even finished his second crow by the time I shuffled into the kitchen, tightening the belt on my robe and pouring myself a mug of strong, no-nonsense coffee. Early summer mornings are my favorite—cool air, golden light, and the faint hum of a town that hasn't quite woken up yet.
With the last sip, I started my daily transformation: red striped tee, ripped denim overalls, black work boots, and a claw clip to tame the long waves cascading down my back. Farmer chic, I call it.
The usual morning grind kicked off: watering my crops, feeding the chickens, collecting fresh honey from the bee homes, and loading hops into the kegs to brew pale ale. It's a workout that puts most gym sessions to shame, and by the end of it, I was already mentally drafting a nap schedule.
I haven't met everyone in Pelican Town yet—Mayor Lewis keeps nudging me about it like it's part of my civic duty—but the people I have met seem decent, if not delightfully quirky.
Robin is quick with a joke, quicker with a hammer, and probably a little too quick to lose her patience. I've yet to meet her family. Evelyn is a sweetheart, always smelling like lavender and fresh cookies, while George is, let's say... passionately grumpy. They have a grandson, apparently, but he's as elusive as rain in a heatwave.
Emily is sweet and dramatic, like a walking musical. Penny's quiet—sweet, polite, but quiet. I hear she teaches the local kids, Jas and Vincent. I've only run into Vincent's older brother, Sam, once. He seemed nice. Late for work, but nice. We didn't talk long—he had a Joja shift looming, and I, for one, do not miss those days.
Marnie's the one who sold me my animals, bless her. Warm, chatty, and easy to talk to. Her nephew Shane, on the other hand, has apparently mastered the art of being unapproachable. Haven't met him yet, but I've heard the legend.
That's the short list of my introductions so far, and since it's the third Friday of the spring, I figured it might be the perfect night to check out the saloon. According to Lewis, it's the weekly social event of the season. Translation: town gossip, small talk, and cheap beer.
I spent the entire spring carving this farm out of nature's chaos. Grandpa hadn't been able to maintain it for years before he passed—he had a good excuse, being, you know, dead—but that didn't make the forest of weeds, rocks, and tree stumps any less intense. One season later, I can finally walk from one end to the other without tripping over a branch or cursing the sun. Progress.
I dropped my watering can by the well, placing it on a little side table I'd painted firetruck red—weatherproofed and everything. My chickens, being dramatic, were still doing laps around the coop like tiny feathery divas.
I pulled my claw clip free, letting my hair fall to my shoulders as I stepped inside. The A/C greeted me like an old friend, cool air colliding with the heat clinging to my skin. Dirt, sweat, and whatever I stepped in near the coop had officially overstayed their welcome. I grabbed a bottle of water, downed it like it owed me money, and cranked the shower up to volcano-mode.
Hot water hit my back, rinsing away every smudge of hard work. It felt like washing off the day and putting on a new self. I towel-dried my hair and let it hang damp at my hips as I padded back into the bedroom.
I wanted something neutral—something I could blend into a crowd in. I landed on an oversized brown Chicago sweatshirt my dad brought back from a work trip, a long denim skirt, and my trusty Doc Martens. Effortlessly forgettable. Exactly what I wanted.
I slung my crossbody bag over my shoulder, took one last look in the mirror, and nodded to myself. Not stunning. Not invisible. Just enough.
"Here goes nothing," I muttered, locking the door behind me.
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Alex POV
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"Come on, man, you never come to the Saloon with us. It's literally one of, like, three things to do in this town," Sam whined like I'd just told him football was canceled forever.
I set down my dumbbell with a thunk and raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. I never go. And why would I start now? What, did they get a new jukebox or something?"
Sam opened his mouth, then hesitated. I could see the gears turning... very slowly. "Because..." he said, stretching the word out like it was going to finish the sentence for him. "Because you're actually my friend, and I never get to see you anymore."
A low blow. And effective.
He had a point. We used to be thick as thieves back in elementary school—me, Sam, Haley, and Penny. Then my mom passed, and I did what all emotionally-stunted twelve-year-olds do: disappeared into sports, grief, and the art of bottling feelings. Haley—God bless her aggressively stubborn soul—never let me pull away completely, but Sam and I just... faded. We kept up with football talk when the season hit, but that was about it. These days, his main crew was Sebastian and Abigail. I didn't know much about them—except Seb was Robin's quiet, emo son, and Abigail was Pierre's daughter with inexplicable purple hair. Like, seriously, no one talks about it?
"You'll like them, I swear," Sam said, trying again. "Seb's not mean, he's just... emotionally haunted. Like a cool ghost."
I snorted. "I don't think they're mean, Sam. I just don't... hang out."
"Well, congrats. You're hanging out tonight." He looked way too proud of himself for that.
I sighed, the universal sign of someone caving. "Fine. I'll come to the Saloon."
Sam lit up like it was Christmas. "Yes! It's five right now—you ready to roll?"
I reached into my closet and pulled on a clean white t-shirt. "Now I am."
Sam pumped a fist in the air like I'd just agreed to go to prom with him. "This is gonna be fun, man. Maybe you'll even talk to someone without a sports stat involved."
"Don't push it."
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