Chapter 28 The Weight of Familiar Strangers (Part 2)

The morning sun spilled across the fields, bathing the soil in a golden haze as Pete swung his hoe with steady precision. Each strike sank into the earth with a dull, rhythmic thud, punctuated by the chirping of birds hidden in the woods nearby. The scent of damp earth rose with every turn of the soil, clinging to the air as sweat traced slow lines down his temples.

But his mind wasn't on the farm. No matter how he tried to lose himself in the work—the rows of crops, the weight of the tool in his hands—his thoughts wandered back to the night before. To Karen.

He could still see her clearly: sitting alone on the beach, the bottle of wine resting by her side, the pale moonlight turning the glass into something sharp and fragile. She hadn't noticed him watching, not really, but the image had rooted itself in him, refusing to leave.

Pete paused, leaning against the handle of his hoe. His breath came heavy, though not from the labor. He can't help but wonder why did Karen, of all people, occupy so much of his thoughts? Perhaps it was the way her eyes had looked—haunted, weighed down by something he couldn't name. A sadness that didn't belong to the girl he remembered.

In his memories, Karen had been radiant, untouchable: the laughter at every festival, the confident dancer who never needed to try. Back in Flowerbud Village, she'd felt like someone just beyond anyone's reach, someone untamed by the quiet rhythms of village life. Now, here she was—alone, her smile faded into silence.

"Or maybe," Pete thought with unease, it wasn't just her sorrow that kept her in his mind. Maybe it was something else, something he wasn't ready to admit.

He wiped his brow and sighed. "What's wrong with me?" he muttered.

His thoughts wandered back to the reputation of his "other self"—the Pete who had lived here before him. That Pete, as the villagers described, was little more than a shadow. A quiet farmer, a man who tended his fields and kept to himself, speaking only when spoken to. A presence so faint, so easily overlooked, he might as well have been a ghost haunting Mineral Town.

But Pete knew he wasn't that man. Couldn't be. He was something else entirely—an intruder wearing another's skin, a borrowed identity walking paths that were never meant to be his. The farm, the relationships, even the name—it was all part of a life that had already begun without him, and now demanded an ending he wasn't sure he could provide.

The thought tightened in his chest like a vice.

"I'm stuck here," Pete murmured under his breath, the words nearly stolen by the wind. The weight of them pressed down on his shoulders, heavy and unyielding. Yet, after a long pause, a flicker of resolve stirred beneath the despair. "Might as well make something of it."

He straightened up, gripping the hoe tightly as he stared across his farm, the fields already starting to bear the fruits of his labor. The people of Mineral Town deserved better than the silent farmer they thought they knew. They deserved someone who could be part of their lives, someone who cared.

"Today," Pete said aloud, determination lighting his eyes, "I'm going to talk to her."

With that, he set his hoe aside and headed for the well to wash up. The sun was climbing higher into the sky, and he had a feeling Karen would be back at the beach again tonight. This time, he wouldn't just stand there and watch. He would take a step forward, no matter how small.

As the sky painted itself in hues of orange and lavender diring sunset, Pete stepped onto the warm sands of the beach. The rhythmic sound of the waves greeted him, but his focus was on Karen. She was exactly where he thought she'd be, sitting by the shoreline with her forehead resting on her knees, her posture slumped and defeated. Beside her, the ever-present bottle of wine gleamed faintly in the fading light.

Pete approached carefully, his boots crunching softly against the sand. She didn't stir until his shadow fell over her. Slowly, Karen lifted her head, her tired, bloodshot eyes meeting his. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and she looked utterly spent.

"Can I sit down?" Pete asked, his voice low and calm.

Karen didn't respond, but she didn't push him away either. Her silence felt like an unspoken invitation, so Pete lowered himself onto the sand beside her, leaving enough space between them to avoid crowding her. The waves continued to lap gently at the shore, filling the silence between them.

Karen reached for the bottle of wine, her movements slow and unsteady. She took a long drink, tilting her head back as if trying to drown something far deeper than her thoughts. Pete watched her, his brow furrowing slightly.

"How much of that have you had today?" he asked, his tone steady but not accusatory.

Karen let out a bitter chuckle, her voice slurred and heavy. "Why do you care?" she muttered, swaying slightly as she spoke. "You never did before…"

Pete paused, letting the words hang in the air. He wasn't surprised by the accusation. It wasn't the first time someone had pointed out how distant the old Pete had been, how little he had engaged with the people of Mineral Town. He'd heard it in Kai's voice, in Popuri's cautious curiosity, and now, here it was again—in Karen's drunken, wounded words.

"You're right," Pete said softly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "The guy you knew didn't care. He stayed on the farm, kept to himself, and barely talked to anyone."

Karen snorted, taking another swig from the bottle. "Sounds about right."

Pete turned to look at her, his expression steady but sincere. "But I'm not that guy anymore."

She blinked at him, her tired eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure him out. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm trying," Pete said simply. "Trying to be better. Trying to be someone who actually cares about this town and the people in it."

Karen didn't respond immediately. She stared at the wine bottle in her hand, turning it slowly as if searching for answers at the bottom of the glass. Finally, she let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping even further.

"Well, good for you," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But that doesn't change anything for me."

Pete didn't press her. He knew better than to push someone when they were already on the edge. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, letting the cool evening breeze wash over them both. "Maybe not," he said after a long pause. "But it doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying."

Karen glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed like she might say something, but instead, she fell silent again, the waves filling the space between them.

The quiet stretched between them as they sat on the beach, the soft sound of the waves filling the silence. Pete didn't press her to talk, didn't push her for answers or explanations. He just sat there, letting his presence be enough. It was Karen who finally broke the stillness.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, her voice weary, almost resigned. "You want to know my life story? Nah, you already know. Everybody does."

Pete tilted his head, glancing over at her. "I don't want your life story. I want to talk about you and Rick. What happened between you two?"

Karen's hand instinctively went to the wine bottle beside her. She picked it up, swirling the deep purple liquid inside as if the motion would bring her clarity. Her gaze locked onto the swirling wine, her face distant and thoughtful, like she was staring into a memory.

"Rick promised me," she said finally, her voice quiet but tinged with bitterness. "He promised me that we were going to get married when we grew up."

Pete leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "And what happened?"

Karen let out a short, hollow laugh. "Time, I guess," she said, her words bitter yet laced with something sadder. "When Rick was thirteen, his dad left town. Walked out to find some miracle cure for Lillia, but never came back. Rick had to step up, be the man of the house. He forgot about me—and our stupid promise."

Pete's brow furrowed, the weight of her words settling over him. "Have you talked to him about this?"

Karen shook her head, her expression hardening. "Of course not. What's the point? I don't have time for childish dreams. I have to help my dad with the supermarket, keep things running."

Without another word, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took another long drink. Pete watched her, concern etched into his face. He shifted slightly, reaching a hand toward the bottle. "Karen, I think you've had enough for today."

Karen's grip on the bottle tightened, and she pulled it close, glaring at him. "Hands off!" she snapped, her voice defensive, almost venomous. "What are you, my dad?"

Pete held up his hands in surrender, his voice calm but firm. "No, I'm not your dad. But I am your friend—or at least I'm trying to be. And friends don't sit by and watch each other do this to themselves."

Karen's glare softened slightly, but she didn't let go of the bottle. Instead, she looked away, her eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. "It's not like it matters," she muttered. "Nobody can fix this, Pete. Not you, not Rick, not anyone."

Pete exhaled slowly, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the sky. The stars were starting to appear, tiny pinpricks of light against the vast darkness. "Maybe not," he said quietly. "But that doesn't mean you have to go through it alone."

Karen didn't respond right away. She sat there with the bottle in her lap, staring out at the waves as if they held some kind of answer. For a moment, Pete thought she might snap at him again, but instead, she just let out a tired sigh.

"You don't get it, Pete," she said, her voice softer now. "I'm not the kind of person people stick around for."

Pete turned to look at her, his expression steady. "You're wrong about that."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't say anything. For the first time, she didn't try to argue. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them again, the sound of the ocean filling the gaps where words didn't seem enough.

Karen let out a bitter, defeated laugh, the sound hollow against the rhythmic crash of the waves. "I just realized that I called you my dad," she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. She glanced at Pete, her eyes glassy and tired, before taking another swig from the wine bottle. "My parents suck, you know that? I don't even know why they got married or why they decided to have me. I mean, they can't even stand each other."

She sighed and slumped forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I can't even remember a time when they were happy. Mom's always pushing my dad around, and honestly? I can't blame her. He's such a pushover. But still... he deserves better."

Pete studied her quietly, his expression calm but thoughtful. There was a strange sense of familiarity in her words, a thread of memory that tugged at him. It was oddly comforting, in a way, to know that some things hadn't changed—even in this strange new timeline. Sasha, Karen's mother, was different than the woman he remembered from Flowerbud Village: timid, quiet, and perpetually unhappy with her husband.

Back then, Gotz constantly argued with Karen, their voices carrying over the village square as they clashed like thunder and lightning. Because of this, he could not remember a day Sasha was ever happy. He had always wondered if happiness was something Sasha avoided, almost deliberately. Seeing that same dynamic now, in Mineral Town, with a different man filling Gotz's role, was like a strange, melancholic echo of his old life.

Pete nodded slowly, his gaze still on Karen. "Sasha hasn't changed much," he said, almost to himself.

Karen raised an eyebrow at him, confusion flickering across her face. "What do you mean by that?"

Pete snapped out of his reverie, flashing a playful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing," he said casually, his tone betraying a hint of evasion.

Karen let out a frustrated sigh, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further. Instead, she continued, her voice quieter now, as if she were unearthing a memory she'd rather leave buried. "Then there was the affair…"

Pete's head snapped toward her, his eyes widening. "The affair?" he repeated, his voice sharp, almost disbelieving.

Karen's gaze shifted to the seaside shack in the distance, her expression darkening as the salty breeze carried the weight of unspoken history. She nodded toward the weathered structure, her lips tightening into a grim line. "Yeah," she said, her tone heavy with meaning. "My mom... with him."

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud ready to burst, the unspoken name of the man in the shack seeming to echo louder than any sound on the crashing waves. Pete followed her line of sight, his jaw tightening as the realization began to sink in. The secrets swirling in this tiny town suddenly felt much larger and more exposed.