Chapter 2: The way things should be (Part 2)

The road to Flowebud Village was quiet, the only sounds the crunch of Pete's boots on the dirt path and the occasional chirp of birds in the distance. The sun had finally burned through the morning's overcast. As he walked, the distant outline of the crossroads came into view, where the path split in three.

To his left, the road led to Green Ranch. Pete slowed his steps as his gaze lingered down that way, the familiar dirt trail lined with overgrown hedges and wildflowers. The ranch was larger than his modest farm with grazing cattle and weathered barns. It was a place he visited rarely but knew well enough.

Doug Greene, the ranch's owner, was a man Pete couldn't help but respect. A middle-aged workhorse of a man, Doug worked harder than most and rarely complained, though the weight of his labor showed in the deep lines of his face and the calluses on his hands. Pete had always admired Doug's steady demeanor, his ability to shoulder the weight of the ranch and his family. But Pete also knew the man carried burdens of his own. Doug's wife had passed away many years ago, leaving behind a hole that could never quite be filled. Pete had never seen Doug grieve openly; instead, the man buried himself in his work, as though the endless grind of ranch life might bury his pain along with it.

Doug wasn't alone on the ranch, though. His two children were a constant presence, both carving out their own lives amidst the sprawling fields and corrals.

Ann, the younger of the two, was the kind of person Pete had always found difficult to be around—bright, cheerful, and endlessly optimistic. She seemed to find joy in the smallest things, whether it was tending the pasture or knitting colorful scarves. Her laughter was as much a part of the ranch as the lowing of cattle.

Gray, on the other hand, was her polar opposite. The eldest of the Green siblings, he carried himself with a brooding intensity that made most people think twice about approaching him. Gray had a sharpness to him—a perpetual scowl and a cutting tone that pushed others away. Pete could see in his eyes, though, that there was more to him than anger. There was pain, trauma that Gray didn't talk about, wounds that hadn't healed. Like his father, Gray poured himself into his work, but unlike Doug, he didn't bother to hide the weight of it.

To the right, the road stretched upward, winding toward the base of the mountains that loomed in the distance. Pete's eyes lingered on it for a moment, his steps faltering. That path wasn't meant for him—not anymore.

As a child, he had played there endlessly, chasing dragonflies through the tall grass, climbing rocks to find the best view of the valley below, and pretending he was an adventurer in a world far removed from the simplicity of farm life. Those mountains had been his sanctuary, a place where everything felt bright, safe, and full of promise. Him and his closest friend.

But that was before.

Now, the sight of the trail leading up the mountain filled him with a cold, quiet dread. He didn't need to go there to feel its weight—he carried it with him everywhere. The memories of what happened there were like jagged shards, too sharp to touch yet impossible to forget. Pete didn't even like to let his mind wander to those days.

He turned his gaze away, clenching his fists tightly before releasing them with a slow breath. The road to Flowerbud Village lay ahead. It was the direction he needed to take, and he reminded himself that he had no reason to dwell on the past. Supplies wouldn't fetch themselves, and the sooner he got what he needed, the sooner he could go home and bury himself in work again.

Pete adjusted the strap of his rucksack and set his eyes firmly forward. He would get what he needed and leave quickly, avoiding the curious glances and small talk he despised. Work was waiting, and that was all that mattered.

As Pete made his way down the dirt path toward Flowerbud Village, he passed yet another road, this one veering off to the right. The overgrown trail led uphill toward the vineyard, its winding path lined with tangled grapevines that had long since died leaving dried twigs in its path. Pete's pace slowed for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the familiar rise in the land. He hadn't been up there in years—not since he was a child.

The vineyard had been run for as long as Pete could remember by a gruff man named Gotz, a figure as unyielding as the rocky soil his vines grew in. Gotz was the sort of person who spoke bluntly and worked tirelessly, his hands calloused from years of pruning and harvesting. He ruled the vineyard with an iron will, but not without resistance.

Pete's thoughts turned to Karen, Gotz's daughter. As a child, Pete had watched from the sidelines while Karen and her father argued relentlessly, their shouting matches echoing through the vineyard like thunder. Karen was fiery and independent, traits that clashed constantly with Gotz's rigid authority. She refused to be told how to live her life, and Gotz refused to back down, resulting in a never-ending war of words.

Even now, whispers around Flowerbud Village carried stories of Gotz and Karen's fragile relationship, the echoes of their old arguments lingering like the scent of grapes in the vineyard. The villagers had grown used to the tension between father and daughter, but that didn't stop them from speculating. Some said Karen's fiery spirit was too much for Gotz's iron will; others blamed Gotz's stubbornness for the rift. Whatever the cause, their strained bond had become a tale that everyone knew but no one dared to interfere with.

Now as an adult, Karen spent most of her nights at the bar in the village, working tirelessly to save money. She rarely spoke of her plans, but it was no secret that she dreamed of leaving Flowerbud behind. She longed for something bigger than the vineyard, bigger than the quiet, predictable life the village offered. Whenever Pete passed the bar, he'd sometimes catch a glimpse of her through the window, wiping down tables or pouring drinks with a look that spoke of determination—and perhaps a touch of bitterness.

Karen's mother Sasha, on the other hand, is a quiet, melancholy woman who always seemed to hover at the edges of the vineyard. She never joined the arguments, nor did she intervene. Instead, she would stand idly by, her hands clasped tightly as though she didn't know what to do or say. Her silence was its own kind of sadness, a reflection of the strain that had fractured her family.

And then there was Kai, the vineyard's lone worker. Pete didn't know much about him, but he had spent nights in the bar socializing with him. Kai had always been a bit of a mystery, tending to the vines with a quiet efficiency and rarely speaking to anyone. The only reason Kai is so devoted to the vineyard is because he has strong feelings for Gotz daughter Karen.

Pete shook his head, pulling himself back to the present. The memories were faint now, blurred at the edges by time, but the feelings they stirred remained sharp. He adjusted the strap on his rucksack and kept walking, his boots crunching against the dirt. He didn't have any reason to go to the vineyard.

The road to Flowerbud Village stretched ahead, and he focused on the task at hand. Supplies, then home. Nothing more.

When Pete arrived at Flowerbud Village, the air was as it always had been—heavy, muted, and tinged with a quiet unease. The cobbled streets and small houses were as familiar to him as the creak of his farm's old barn door, but there was no comfort in the familiarity. People moved about the village, their footsteps light and measured, their heads down. Conversations were rare, and when they happened, they were hushed, as if the words themselves might disturb the delicate, fractured peace that lingered here.

Pete noticed the furtive glances as he walked by, though he kept his eyes fixed ahead. Some villagers made no attempt to hide their disdain, their eyes hard as they watched him pass. Others offered tight-lipped nods, reluctant but polite, as though unsure of where they stood.

The village had changed since the events of the past, its vibrancy dimmed to a pale shadow of what it once was. The once-bustling village felt quieter now, the laughter and chatter that used to fill the air replaced by a strained silence. And in the midst of it all was Pete, the unspoken wedge that kept the village divided.

Some blamed him outright, their whispers and rumors cutting through the silence like knives. In their eyes, Pete was the reason the village had lost its sparkle, the cause of the heaviness that now seemed to weigh on everyone. It didn't matter that he had been just a child when it happened; they saw him as a symbol of everything that had gone wrong.

Others were more forgiving, though their kindness was often tempered by uncertainty. They hesitated to cast blame, knowing the truth was more complicated than the village gossip made it seem. But even those who didn't hold Pete responsible avoided getting too close.

In the end, he was tolerated, nothing more. Some people, though rare, can openly say that Pete is a friend. The village needed a farmer, someone to tend Tony's fields and keep the flow of goods steady. And so, they let Pete stay, though the looks and murmurs never ceased. They needed him, but that didn't mean they wanted him.

Pete felt the weight of it all as he walked through the road to the flower shop, his boots scuffing against the stone path. He didn't stop to greet anyone. There was no point. He had come here for one thing, and the sooner he got his supplies, the sooner he could leave.

Pete arrived at the small flower shop, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze, but before he could step inside, a low rumble from his stomach reminded him of how little he'd eaten that day. Across the street, the familiar scent of warm bread and pastries wafted from the bakery, stirring a hunger he couldn't ignore. The rice balls he brought from home were filling but lifeless; he needed something more substantial to get through the rest of the day.

Reluctantly, he turned from the flower shop and crossed the street to the bakery. As he pushed open the door, a soft chime announced his arrival. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the chill in the air, the smell of fresh bread and sugar filling the small space.

Behind the counter stood Jeff, the bakery's owner. Middle-aged and perpetually tired, Jeff offered a brief nod of acknowledgment as Pete entered.

"Pete," Jeff greeted with a neutral tone, his hands busy kneading dough. Jeff wasn't exactly friendly, but he wasn't hostile either—a rare middle ground in a village where most people either accepted Pete or openly resented him. Pete suspected Jeff's attitude had less to do with kindness and more to do with the bakery's finances. Business was business, after all.

"Jeff," Pete said simply, his voice low as he glanced around the cozy shop. Loaves of bread were neatly arranged on wooden shelves, and a small display case held an assortment of pies and cakes. It was a place that, in another life, might have felt comforting.

"Elli's not here?" Pete asked after a moment, noticing the absence of Jeff's cheerful business partner.

"She's tending to her grandmother," Jeff replied, his tone dipping. At Pete's questioning look, Jeff sighed heavily, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron. "Ellen's not doing well, Pete. She's very old. Her health…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Pete nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken words. Ellen, Elli's grandmother, was the oldest residents of the village, a kind soul whose frailty had become more apparent with each passing year. Though Pete rarely interacted with her, he'd always respected her quiet wisdom and warmth. The news left a heavy weight in his chest, but he simply said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

Jeff gave a curt nod in return, his expression tight. After a moment of silence, Pete cleared his throat and gestured toward the counter. "Can I get a sandwich? Something for dinner," he asked.

Jeff moved quickly, grabbing a loaf of fresh bread and slicing it with practiced precision. "Anything specific?"

"Whatever you've got," Pete replied. "I'm not picky."

Jeff wrapped up a simple sandwich—a thick slice of ham and cheese between two pieces of freshly baked bread—and handed it to Pete.

"That'll be 50G," Jeff said. Pete fished a few coins out of his pocket and placed them on the counter before nodding in thanks. Without another word, he turned and left the bakery, the warmth of the shop quickly replaced by the cold reality of the village streets.

The flower shop waited, and with his dinner in hand, Pete crossed the street, ready to finish his errand and return to the solitude of the farm.

Pete pushed open the door to the flower shop, the soft chime of the bell announcing his arrival. The air inside was thick with the scent of fresh blooms—roses, daisies, tulips—a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere that seemed to cling to him like a shadow.

Behind the counter stood Lillia, her pink hair sways slightly as she carefully wrapped a bouquet of vibrant flowers for Harris, the village mailman. Her back was to him, but Pete knew she was aware of his presence. She always was. Yet, like so many others in the village, she refused to meet his gaze.

Pete didn't speak. He moved with purpose, heading straight to the neatly stacked seed bags arranged on the left side of the store. His fingers brushed against the bag labeled "Turnip Seeds," and he picked it up, turning to place it on the counter in front of Lillia.

Harris murmured a quiet thank you and left the shop, the door chiming softly behind them. Lillia still didn't turn to face Pete. Instead, she reached for the seed packet, her voice calm but distant.

"That'll be 400G," she said simply.

Pete frowned, his brows knitting together as he reached into his pocket. "The price is 200," he said, his tone firm.

"It's 400 now," Lillia replied, her voice devoid of emotion. "Prices have changed. Take it or leave it."

Her words hung in the air like a challenge. Pete clenched his jaw, feeling the tension in his shoulders. For a moment, he considered arguing, but he quickly decided it wasn't worth it. He pulled out the coins on the counter with a deliberate motion. "Keep the change," he said, his voice cold and clipped.

Lillia finally turned slightly, just enough to take the money and slide it into the register. Her eyes didn't meet his, and her face showed no emotion as she dropped the seed packet into a small paper bag and pushed it toward him.

Pete grabbed the bag without another word, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly. He turned and walked out of the shop, the bell above the door chiming once again as he stepped back onto the street.

As Pete stepped out of the flower shop, still fuming from his exchange with Lillia, he barely took two steps before being intercepted by a familiar figure. Mayor Thomas, a small, round man with a perpetually cheerful demeanor and red suit that often masked the tension of the village, waved him down with an urgency that made Pete's shoulders sag.

"Ah, Pete! Just the man I was looking for," Thomas called, waddling up to him with a clipboard tucked under one arm.

Pete stopped in his tracks, his patience already worn thin. "I'm in a hurry, Mayor," he said curtly, adjusting the strap of his rucksack.

"It'll only take a moment, I promise," Thomas said, his smile unwavering. He gestured to the village square in the distance where a small table was set up with a box and papers. "You haven't voted for this year's Spring Goddess yet."

Pete blinked, his brow furrowing. "Oh right. The Spring Goddess thing... I forgot"

"Yes! You know its our tradition," Thomas said, waving his hand enthusiastically. "Each year, the men of Flowerbud Village cast their votes for the most beautiful maiden, and the winner is crowned as our Spring Goddess. She represents the spirit of renewal and hope during the season and plays an important role in our festivals."

Pete shook his head, already turning to leave. "I don't have time for that."

But Thomas stepped in front of him, his round face growing more insistent. "Now, now, Pete, I really must insist. You're the last person who hasn't voted, and…" He hesitated, glancing at his clipboard. "The women are tied. Your vote will decide who wins."

Pete sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. Of all the things to be dragged into, this felt like the most ridiculous. He looked at Thomas's eager face and realized there was no escaping it. The mayor wouldn't let him leave until he cast a ballot.

"Fine," Pete muttered. "Let's get this over with."

"Wonderful!" Thomas beamed, clapping his hands together. He led Pete to the square, his energy almost childlike as he gestured toward the square.

At the voting table, Pete hesitated as he picked up a ballot, his eyes scanning the names printed neatly across the paper: Karen, Elli, Ann, Maria. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he is reminded that there was something missing—someone missing.

His heart sank, a deep ache clawing at his chest. There should have been five names. The absence of Popuri, his childhood friend, hit him like a sudden wave, leaving him breathless. Memories of Summers spent laughing and playing on the farm with her flashed through his mind, bright and vivid, in stark contrast to the cold reality of the present.

He knew why her name wasn't there. He IS the reason.

The world around him seemed to fade. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought he might drop the pencil in his hand.

"Pete? Are you all right?" asked the mayor.

Mayor Thomas's concerned voice broke through the fog. Pete's head snapped up, his expression carefully neutral as he met the mayor's curious gaze.

"I'm fine," Pete muttered, though his voice was strained. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he checked Elli's name on the ballot. She was kind, hardworking, and had never been unkind to him, even when others had. He didn't need to think much longer about it—he just needed this to be over.

Pete folded the ballot with shaking hands and dropped it into the box. As it disappeared, he felt a small but sharp pang of guilt, a weight pressing down on his already heavy shoulders.

He stepped back from the table, avoiding the mayor's gaze as he muttered a quick, "Done," and turned to leave.

The mayor called after him, but Pete didn't hear the words. His mind was somewhere else, back in a time when things had been brighter, simpler. Back when Popuri's laughter had filled the air, and the weight he carried now hadn't yet found its way into his heart.