Chapter 3: The way things should be (Part 3)

The evening settled quietly over the farm, the soft hum of crickets filling the air as the last traces of sunlight faded from the horizon. Inside the simple, lifeless home, Pete stood with a broom in hand, sweeping the wooden floors with slow, deliberate motions. The rhythmic scrape of bristles against wood was soothing in its monotony, giving him a fleeting sense of peace that was hard to come by.

The day's work was done. The seeds were planted, and the animals were settled. For now, the farm was quiet, the stillness broken only by the occasional creak of the house as it adjusted to the cooling night air. Pete finished sweeping and leaned the broom against the wall, surveying the clean floor with a small nod of satisfaction.

But that peace wouldn't last. It never does.

Pete glanced at the clock on the wall, its steady ticking reminding him that it was getting late. The weight of another long day pressed down on him, urging him toward rest, yet he hesitated. Sleep was inevitable, but it was also something he dreaded more than the hardest day's work.

He hated sleeping.

For about fifteen years, sleep had been anything but restful. His dreams were not dreams—they were memories, nightmares. Shadows of a past he couldn't escape, replaying the events of that fateful day over and over again, as if his mind was determined to make him relive it until it broke him completely.

In his dreams, he saw Popuri. Her laughter, her smile, her voice calling his name. And then, as dreams do, they shifted. Her laughter turned to screams, her smile twisted into a look of fear. The memories blurred into a torrent of grief and guilt, the weight of her absence suffocating him even in the safety of his bed.

Pete shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He couldn't change the past, no matter how often he revisited it in his sleep. He had work tomorrow. He had a farm to run.

Resigned, he moved through the house, going through the motions of his nightly routine. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and folded his grandfather's work clothes neatly for the next day. Each action was mechanical, a ritual that kept him tethered to the present, no matter how fragile that tether felt.

Finally, he approached his bed, the last and most reluctant step of his routine. Sitting on the edge, he reached for the picture of his grandfather and himself, his fingers brushing against the worn frame. He stared at it for a long moment, as if seeking strength in the image.

"I'll try again," he whispered, though the words felt hollow.

Setting the picture back on the bedside table, Pete lay down and pulled the thin blanket over himself. The room was silent now, save for the ticking of the clock and his own shallow breathing. He closed his eyes, the weight of the day dragging him toward sleep even as he fought against it.

And, as always, the dreams came.

The dream began softly, like a memory wrapped in golden light. Pete was six years old again, standing on the edge of Flowerbud Village, his small frame barely able to contain the excitement coursing through him. He could see her—Popuri—her pink hair catching the sunlight like a bloom in full glory. She stood by the edge of Fowerbud Village, grinning ear to ear, waving him over with a vigor only a child could muster.

"Come on, Pete!" she called, her laughter ringing like a bell through the Summer air.

His younger self ran toward her, his legs pumping with determination, a carefree grin plastered across his face. When he reached her, she grabbed his hand without hesitation, pulling him toward Tony's farm. Together, they darted through the rows of crops, their laughter mingling with the hum of bees and the gentle rustling of the breeze.

They were inseparable. Every Summer, Pete would return to the village, and every Summer, Popuri was there, waiting for him. The adults in the village would watch them with smiles, their hearts warmed by the sight of the two children running hand in hand, exploring every corner of the world they called home. They often joked that they were going to get married when they grow up.

They played in the village square, chasing each other around the market stalls. They tumbled through the fields on Pete's farm, laughing as they hid among the tall grass hiding with the cows. And most of all, they loved the mountain.

The mountain of Flowerbud Village was their secret world, a place where they could climb, explore, and dream. The adults had warned them countless times: the mountain was dangerous. The trails were steep, the cliffs unforgiving, and the weather unpredictable. But they were children, and warnings were nothing more than distant echoes in their vibrant world.

Popuri loved the mountains most of all because of the flowers. The higher they climbed, the more wild and beautiful the blooms became. Every trip brought new discoveries—delicate bluebells swaying in the wind, fiery red poppies clinging to rocky ledges, and soft pink catmints that framed the horizon.

"This is what I want," Popuri said one Summer afternoon as they rested on a grassy hill overlooking the village below. She twirled a wildflower between her fingers, her eyes bright with a dream only she could see. "When I grow up, I want to take over my family's flower shop. I want to grow flowers like these and make the whole village happy."

Pete remembered nodding, though he didn't fully understand the depth of her words at the time. She was always talking about flowers, and to him, they were just another part of their adventures. But to her, they were everything.

The dream shifted, and Pete found himself standing in that same field again, watching as Popuri ran ahead, chasing a butterfly. The sunlight danced around her, her laughter filling the air. It was a perfect moment, one of countless perfect moments they'd shared.

But even in the dream, a shadow lingered. Pete's heart tightened as he watched her run, knowing what would come next. He wanted to stop her, to call her back, but his voice was stuck in his throat.

Because no matter how many times he dreamed of these Summers, he could never change how they ended. Popuri never got the chance to grow up.

The dream shifted again, the warm glow of their innocent adventures giving way to a cooler, darker light. Pete and Popuri were ten years old now, their laughter echoing through the mountain trails as they climbed higher and higher, ignoring the warnings they'd been given so many times before. The world was theirs, vast and beautiful, and they were fearless.

But fear found them that day.

"Look, Pete!" Popuri exclaimed, pointing excitedly to a vibrant purple flower blooming on the edge of a rocky cliff. Its petals shimmered in the sunlight, delicate and otherworldly. "Isn't it beautiful? I've never seen one like it before!"

"It's just a flower," Pete replied, eyeing the steep drop uneasily. "Come on, Popuri. Let's go back."

She shook her head, her determination as bright as her pink hair. "No way! I want it for my collection. It's so rare!"

"Popuri, don't—" Pete started, his voice tinged with worry.

But she was already moving. She crouched at the cliff's edge, her hand outstretched toward the flower. The dirt beneath her feet shifted slightly, but she didn't notice.

"Be careful!" Pete called, his voice sharp now.

"I've got it," she replied, her voice filled with confidence. She leaned further, her fingers just brushing the flower's stem.

And then it happened.

The earth beneath her gave way with a sickening crumble. She screamed as she slipped, her body plunging toward the edge. Pete lunged forward, grabbing her arm just in time.

"I've got you!" he shouted, his young hands gripping her arm with all the strength he could muster.

Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto his. "Don't let go, Pete!" she screamed.

"I won't!" he promised, his voice cracking with the effort. He pulled as hard as he could, his small frame straining against gravity, but it was no use. The sweat on his palms made his grip slippery, and her weight was too much for him to hold.

"Pete, please!" she cried, her voice growing more frantic.

"I'm trying!" he yelled, his tears mixing with the sweat on his face.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperately he held on, his grip began to slip. His fingers burned, his arms ached, and then, with horrifying finality, his hands gave out.

Popuri fell.

Pete jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes darted around the dark room, the familiar surroundings of his home doing nothing to calm him.

Her scream pierced his head, cutting through Pete like a knife. The scream echoed in his mind, reverberating over and over, until—

Silence.

That was the worst part. Not her screams, but the silence that followed. The absence of her voice, her laughter, her life.

But the dream lingered, as it always did. He could still hear her scream, could still feel the weight of her slipping through his fingers. And worst of all, he could still feel the silence.

He buried his face in his hands, his breath shaking as he tried to steady himself. It had been fifteen years, but that day never left him. It haunted his nights, gnawed at his soul, and left him hollow.

Even as the room around him returned to quiet, the silence inside him roared.