Chapter 20: The Girl he Doesn't Know (Part 2)

Pete sat at the edge of his bed, the old journal resting heavily in his hands. The leather cover was scuffed and worn, its corners frayed from frequent use. The pages inside were yellowed and smudged, as though the writer—his other self—had scribbled in haste, his thoughts spilling out faster than his pen could keep up.

When he arrived in Mineral Town, he found the journal on the nightstand. Back in his home in Flowerbud Village, that spot—right there on the nightstand—had always been reserved for something else: a photograph, faded with age but vivid in memory. It showed a younger version of himself sitting on the grassy riverbank, grinning up at his grandfather, who was caught mid-laugh, caught in the middle of one of his endless stories about days long past. The river had sparkled in the foreground. Pete could almost hear it now—the soft rush of water, the warm hum of his grandfather's voice, the steady rhythm of a simpler time.

But the photograph was gone. In its place sat this journal—a stranger's possession, though it bore his name on the inside cover. A relic, not of the life he remembered, but of the one he had supposedly lived here in Mineral Town. Its presence felt intrusive, like finding someone else's memories tucked inside your own home. The words looked familiar, written in his own handwriting, yet they felt distant, like echoes of someone else's memories. The entries were fragmented, incomplete thoughts scattered across the pages, each hinting at a version of Pete that he didn't recognize.

It was like trying to piece together a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. For every scrap of insight, there were glaring gaps that left him with more questions than answers. What kind of person had this Pete been? What had he cared about? What had he lost to bring him to this place?

Pete ran his fingers over the worn edge of the journal, his brow furrowing. The answers weren't coming easily, but one thing was clear: this journal held pieces of a life he'd never lived, a story he was somehow expected to step into and continue like nothing was wrong. And as disorienting as that was, he knew he couldn't just put the book down and ignore it.

With a heavy sigh, Pete turned the page, the paper crackling faintly under his fingers. His eyes scanned the hurried, looping handwriting, hoping that somehow the fragments on these pages would align into something coherent, something that could give him the answers he desperately sought. But the disjointed entries felt more like riddles than revelations, leaving him grasping for meaning in a story he hadn't lived.

If only he could find the journals that came before this one. Surely there had to be more—a record of his life in Mineral Town before this point. Without them, it was like trying to start a novel from the middle, the crucial setup forever out of reach. Those missing entries might explain how he'd gotten here, who he was meant to be, and—most importantly—what had happened to twist the timeline into this confusing, unfamiliar shape.

As Pete flipped through the journal, his eyes landed on an entry that made him pause:

"Elli loves flowers, especially Toy Herbs. I should bring her some tomorrow after work."

He frowned, the words stirring a tangle of emotions. In his original life, flowers had always been Popuri's passion. She adored them—especially catmint flowers, its vibrant hue a perfect match for her pink hair. Her radiant smile whenever he brought her a bouquet from his grandfather's farm was one of his most treasured memories growing up. Those moments, so simple yet so profound, were etched into his heart.

But here, in this strange, fractured world, Popuri seemed almost indifferent to flowers. She was now consumed with poultry, dedicating her energy to caring for the ranch and her family. Pete struggled to reconcile this version of her with the girl he had grown up with, the girl who found magic in the smallest petals and always had flowers braided into her hair. That fondness for flowers, it seemed, now belonged to Elli.

Pete sighed, setting the journal aside and rubbing his temples. The more he read, the more impossible it seemed to wrap his head around the life he was supposed to be living—and the relationships he was supposed to cherish. Chief among them was the idea that he was in love with this version of Elli.

She was kind, no doubt about that, and there was no mistaking the warmth in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Clearly, she cared for him in ways he didn't fully understand, but she wasn't "Elli". She wasn't the cheerful baker from Flowerbud Village, the girl who spent her days perfecting pastries and her afternoons fishing by the riverbank with a laugh that could brighten the gloomiest day.

This Elli was different—a nurse, steady and nurturing, with a quiet strength that spoke of dedication and resilience. Her love of flowers was something he never would have expected, a trait that felt as foreign to him as everything else about this world. She was a stranger wearing the name and appearance of someone he had once known, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't reconcile the two.

The disconnect gnawed at him. How could he pretend to love her, to be the man she thought he was, when his heart still belonged to another life? A life where Popuri loved flowers and Elli baked cakes instead of tending to the sick?

Pete shook his head, trying to push away the ache of longing that threatened to overwhelm him. This Elli wasn't to blame for any of it, and it wasn't fair to compare her to the version of herself he had left behind. Yet, despite his efforts, the sense of dissonance lingered.

For now, all he could do was play the part and hope that somewhere along the way, he might find clarity—or at least the strength to accept the life he had been thrust into.

Pete grabbed a small basket and made his way to Mother's Hill, his steps steady but his mind restless. According to the journal, there were fields of wildflowers growing near the slopes, and if he was going to act the part of a devoted boyfriend, he might as well start there.

The climb was peaceful, the kind of serene escape he hadn't realized he needed. The scent of fresh earth and wild grass rose with each step, mingling with the faint sweetness of flowers that grew somewhere just out of sight. A gentle breeze carried the soft chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves, creating a melody that seemed to harmonize with the natural rhythm of the hill.

As Pete continued to climb the sun started to lower in the sky, painting the horizon with streaks of gold and blue. The afternoon has arrived. The warm light spilled over the landscape, illuminating the rolling fields and casting long, soft shadows. It was breathtaking—a kind of beauty so quiet and profound that it made him stop in his tracks.

He set the basket down at his feet and took a deep breath, letting the moment wash over him. For the first time in what felt like ages, his thoughts quieted. He wasn't thinking about Flowerbud Village or Mineral Town, about Popuri or Elli, about the tangled mess of past and present. For just a fleeting second, he was simply there—standing on the hill, bathed in sunlight, surrounded by the timeless elegance of nature.

Eventually, Pete's wandering led him to a patch of wildflowers nestled in a sunlit clearing on the side of Mother's Hill. The vibrant colors of nature spread out before him like a painter's palette, but among the splashes of yellow and green, the delicate white blooms of Toy Herb flowers caught his eye. Their soft, cotton-like petals swayed gently in the breeze, almost as if they were inviting him to pick them.

Kneeling down, Pete ran his fingers over the stems, careful not to crush the fragile blossoms. Slowly and deliberately, he began gathering a small handful, each flower more perfect than the last. He took his time, arranging them neatly in the basket, making sure the stems were aligned and the blooms faced upward.

Pete paused, his gaze fixed on the small bouquet of Toy Herb flowers nestled in the basket. The delicate blooms swayed gently as the wind whispered across the hillside, but their soft beauty brought him no comfort. Instead, they seemed to mock him, a tangible reminder of how lost he felt.

"What am I even doing?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rustling grass. The question hung in the air as he tightened his grip on the basket. Was he really entertaining the idea that he was meant to love Elli? The thought felt so alien, so fundamentally wrong. The Elli he knew—the one who laughed freely, baked clumsily, and had a sparkle in her eye every time she reeled in a fish—wasn't here. And yet, here he was, standing on a hill, gathering flowers for this stranger as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the flowers again. "I don't even know who I am anymore," he muttered. The words carried more weight than he expected, pulling at the frayed edges of his resolve.

For so long, Pete's life had been shaped by guilt and grief—etched into the very fabric of his days like cracks in old stone. It was the ache of what he couldn't save, of what he couldn't change, that haunted him. Death had crept in quietly, and then all at once, filling the corners of his mind until it drowned out everything else.

He had done whatever he could to outrun it. Working tirelessly on the farm, throwing himself into the soil and sweat, or losing himself in the comfort of countless hobbies—woodworking, fishing, swimming, repairing broken tools—anything to keep his hands moving, anything to silence the ghosts for just a little while. They were distractions, small islands of peace in a sea of sorrow. And though none of it healed him, it helped him endure.

And then—like a spark in the dark—there had been happiness. It came suddenly and unexpected, like Spring breaking through the frost, in the form of Popuri. For three days, he had known something pure, something bright and full of promise. Those brief days had felt like a dream carved from memory, where laughter rang freely and love had no weight. Popuri, with her wild pink hair and spirited smile, had been the girl everyone said he was destined to be with. People used to joke they'd get married someday. In that flickering version of his life, they had.

He could still feel the echo of it—the warmth of her hand in his, the quiet rhythm of a life beginning. They were happy. They were building a home, a future, a family. It felt inevitable, like the unfolding of a story written in the stars.

But that life was gone now. Vanished like a dream at dawn, replaced by something fractured and strange. This new reality was a poor imitation, one where familiar faces looked past him, where places he knew had shifted just enough to feel foreign. Even the man he was supposed to be—whoever that version of Pete had been—felt like a stranger wearing his skin.

Shaking his head, Pete looked up at the horizon. The golden light of the sun painted the landscape in warm hues, but it did little to ease the storm brewing in his heart. "Maybe this is all I deserve," he whispered to himself, the words laced with a bittersweet resignation.

After a moment, he adjusted the basket in his hands and turned back toward the path leading down the hill. The flowers weren't for him, after all. They were for Elli—this Elli, the one he didn't know; but who, in some strange way, might deserve at least an effort from him. If he couldn't find his place in this world, maybe he could at least try to make someone else's a little brighter.