Never Dying Flower

Chapter 1: The way things should be (Part 1)

The morning light seeped through the thin curtains, pale and unassuming, casting muted shades of gray across the sparsely furnished room. Pete stirred, his body reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth the blanket offered. For a moment, he lay still, his eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster seemed more prominent today, though they always looked the same.

The room was clean, almost unnervingly so, but lifeless. No paintings adorned the walls, no knickknacks cluttered the shelves—because there were no shelves. The only signs of life were a small, battered bedside table and the modest bed he occupied. The house itself, though modestly built, held a sharp emptiness, like a void that echoed louder than silence.

Turning his head, Pete gaze fell upon the only photograph he kept. Propped on the bedside table, its frame scuffed and worn, the image was frozen in time: a six-year-old Pete, his cheeks plump and ruddy, sitting beside his grandfather on the bank of a quiet river. His tiny hands clutched a fishing rod, though the line dangled lazily above the water. Beside him, his grandfather—a man of quiet strength—looked on with a smile that crinkled the corners of his tired eyes.

"Morning, Grandpa," Pete murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep. The words were ritual now, as automatic as breathing, though today, they carried an extra weight that tugged at his chest. He reached out, brushing a thumb over the glass before forcing himself upright.

The morning passed as it always did, methodically. A shower that felt more like a chore than refreshment, the sensation of lukewarm water rushing over his skin. He brushed his teeth, the bristles scraping against his gums as he stared at his reflection in the streaked mirror. A gaunt face stared back, its hollowness barely concealed beneath overgrown stubble.

Dressed in his grandfather's clothes—well-worn denim overalls and a faded white shirt—Pete adjusted the rucksack over his shoulder. It was heavier than it needed to be, though he never complained. The fabric still carried faint traces of the earth, and the smell of soil and sweat clung to it despite countless washes. These were the clothes of a farmer, of a man who had worked the land with dignity and care. They were also the only pieces that felt like home.

As he opened the front door, the light of day greeted him, muted by the overcast sky. He stepped outside, his boots crunching softly against the dirt path. The house behind him was a structure of practicality—plain, brown, unadorned. It stood as a reflection of his life: sturdy but utterly void of vitality.

Pete took a deep breath, the cold Spring air stinging his lungs. The fields stretched before him, endless and waiting. There was work to be done, there always was. But as he started down the path, a subtle, unspoken ache nestled deep within him—a yearning for something more, something he couldn't have no matter how much he tries.

The sun had risen higher by the time Pete reached the fields, its light still pale and uninspired, barely managing to break through the thick clouds that hung overhead. He knelt in the loose dirt, hands caked with soil as he pulled turnips from the earth one by one. The smooth, cool surface of the roots slid against his palms, and he placed them into the woven basket at his side with mechanical precision. Once the turnips were done, he moved on to the potatoes, their knobby shapes offering little resistance as he dug them free, and finally the cabbages, whose pale green leaves seemed to droop as if they, too, carried a silent weight.

By the time noon arrived, his body ached faintly, though he barely noticed. He set the basket of vegetables aside and sat beneath the skeletal shade of a lone tree at the edge of the field. Pulling his rucksack into his lap, Pete retrieved a modest rice ball wrapped in cloth. Its texture was dry, its taste plain, but he ate slowly, chewing each bite with deliberation.

As he swallowed, a thought flickered through his mind, unbidden but familiar: This is more than I deserve. He didn't know when he'd started telling himself that, but the words had rooted themselves deep in his soul. They felt true, and that was enough.

When the rice ball was gone, Pete folded the cloth carefully and placed it back into the rucksack before standing and stretching. His shadow stretched long behind him as he made his way toward the barn.

The stable he passed on the way to the barn was old, its wooden beams darkened with age and dotted with patches of moss that thrived in the damp corners. Years ago, someone had offered him a pony—a gift, they'd called it—but Pete had declined. What use did he have for a horse? It wouldn't pull a plow, wouldn't bring in crops, wouldn't pay its way. The doghouse nearby stood just as empty. He'd never adopted a dog; the thought of raising another after his grandfather passed seemed unnecessary. Neither a horse nor a dog would earn him a cent, and Pete didn't have the time or energy for anything that didn't serve a purpose.

He didn't resent the idea of animals or companionship—he just didn't see the point. The farm demanded his every moment and every ounce of strength. A horse would be an indulgence, a dog a distraction. He'd settled into his rhythm long ago: work the farm, tend to the fields, care for the livestock that paid their keep. Then go home. Nothing more.

The barn on the other hand wasn't lifeless, though. The cows and sheep stirred at his approach, their quiet movements filling the space with an unspoken rhythm. "Alright, let's go," he said softly, opening the gate and ushering them outside. The animals lumbered into the pasture, their hooves crunching against the soft grass as they began to graze.

The cows and sheep had no names. Pete had never seen the point; to him, they all looked the same. They weren't companions, weren't friends—they were work. Animals that existed to keep the farm running and nothing more.

That didn't mean he neglected them. Out in the pasture, he would run a hand over their thick coats, checking for burrs or signs of illness. He'd brush them with methodical care, ensuring their fur or hides stayed healthy and clean. He'd kneel beside them when needed, inspecting hooves or soothing an agitated animal with a steady touch. But that was the extent of his affection.

They were assets, and he treated them as such—not cruelly, but practically. When the time came, Pete milked the cows with practiced efficiency, the warm streams hitting the metal bucket in a steady rhythm. He sheared the sheep with quiet precision, folding the wool neatly to prepare it for shipping.

Each task was another cog in the relentless machine of his daily life. He cared for the animals because it was his responsibility, but he never crossed the line into sentimentality. They weren't pets or confidants. They were simply part of the farm, just like the fields he tilled and the tools he mended. And that was enough.

Next, Pete made his way to the chicken coop. The birds clucked softly as he reached in, one at a time, and carried them to the yard. Their feathers were warm against his hands, and he set them down gently, watching as they scratched at the dirt, searching for worms and insects.

Like the cows and sheep, the chickens were nameless. Pete remembered, in quiet moments, how his grandfather, Tony, used to name every animal on the farm. It didn't matter if it was a workhorse or a hen—each one had a name and a story, as if they were part of the family. Tony spoke to them kindly, patted their heads with a fatherly tenderness, and always made time to care for them beyond their utility.

But Pete wasn't like that. He didn't have it in him. The chickens were just chickens, clucking and scratching in the dirt, doing what they were meant to do. They laid eggs; they lived in the coop; and Pete tended to them with the same pragmatic care he gave the rest of the animals. He fed them, cleaned their coop, and collected their eggs without a second thought. He was young, strong, and hardworking, but there was something missing inside him. A hollowness that made love and affection feel as distant as the horizon.

It hadn't always been this way. As a child, Pete had loved the farm. Every Summer, his parents would send him to visit Tony, and those days felt like the best of his life. He'd play in the fields, chase chickens, and ride on the backs of the cows, his laughter echoing across the land. Tony had been larger than life to him—a kind, wise, and endlessly patient man who always smelled faintly of hay and sunshine.

Pete had adored the animals then, too. He would pat the cows on their heads, giggle as the sheep nibbled at his shirt, and swear up and down that one day, he would take over the farm. "When you're too old to do it, Grandpa," he'd say with all the conviction of a boy who thought the world was unchanging.

But that was a lifetime ago. Five years ago, Pete had received the call. Tony had passed away. No warning, no long goodbyes—just a quiet end to a long, steady life. Pete had come back to the farm shortly after, fulfilling the promise he'd made as a child. But the boy who had once loved this place was gone, replaced by a hollow man who moved through his days on autopilot, weighed down by grief and the dull ache of loss.

Now, he was here. Alone. The animals were no longer companions but obligations. The fields no longer a playground but a burden. The farm, once a place of joy and belonging, felt like a monument to everything he had lost. And yet, he stayed. He worked. Because if nothing else, Pete had his word—and his word was all he had left.

Once the animals were tended to, Pete returned to the field. His hands gripped the worn handle of his hoe, and he began the backbreaking task of turning the soil. The earth was stubborn but pliable beneath his efforts, yielding to the sharp blade of the hoe as he worked row after row. The rhythm of the task was meditative in a way, each push and pull grounding him in the moment.

It was late in the season of Spring, and Pete knew his options were limited. Only turnips would grow quickly enough to ripen before Summer arrived. He paused, wiping a streak of sweat from his brow as he looked over the freshly tilled rows. The land was ready, but it didn't fill him with satisfaction. It was merely another task completed, another box checked off in the endless cycle of tending, planting, and harvesting.

The clouds above had thickened, a faint chill creeping into the air. Pete stared at the horizon for a long moment before setting his hoe aside. There was still work to be done, but the ache in his chest lingered, unshakable.

Pete wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the tilled earth stretching before him in neat, straight rows. The soil was ready, and now came the painstaking task of planting the turnip seeds. Kneeling down, he began the process, dropping each seed into the small holes he'd prepared and covering them gently with dirt. Every few rows, he'd stop to water the newly planted seeds, the soil darkening as it soaked up the moisture.

The rhythm of the work was steady but grating. The sun, now peeking through the clouds, bore down on his back, and the repetitive motion began to wear on his patience. Yet, Pete kept at it, one row at a time, until he reached for another handful of seeds—and came up empty.

He stared at the bag in his hand, shaking it once as if more seeds might magically appear. But it was no use. He'd miscalculated, and now he was short. The realization made his jaw tighten, frustration bubbling up from somewhere deep within.

Going to the village for supplies was the last thing he wanted to do. It wasn't far, just a short walk down the dusty road, but he hated going there. The bustle of people, the conversations, the pitying smiles from those who remembered his failure—all of it made him want to avoid the place entirely.

Pete took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. Getting upset wouldn't change anything, and the field wouldn't seed itself. He dusted off his hands, stood up, and stretched his aching back.

"Let's get it over with," he muttered to no one in particular. With that, he set off toward the house to grab his wallet, leaving the half-planted field behind.