Chapter 42: Delicate Flower (Part 4)

A week passed, and Pete had barely set foot beyond the farm. Slowly but inevitably, he slipped back into old habits—tending to his crops, caring for his animals, only venturing into town when absolutely necessary. The farm became his refuge, the only place where he felt safe, where he could disappear without consequence.

Mineral Town wasn't unkind to him. No one treated him with hostility. But that almost made it worse. He didn't belong there, not really. The people accepted him because they thought they knew him—because they saw the man he was supposed to be. But Pete wasn't that man. And the more he tried to play the part, the more damage he caused.

So he stopped trying. Better to stay where he couldn't hurt anyone. No more misunderstandings, no more awkward conversations, no more people left wounded by his presence. It was easier this way. Safer.

One crisp Fall morning, Popuri made her way to Pete's farm. She found him in the fields, knee-deep in his harvest of sweet potatoes. The rows stretched before him in neat, thriving lines, evidence of the care he poured into his work. But as she drew closer, she saw the toll the past week had taken on him.

He looked terrible.

The Pete she remembered had always worn his strength quietly—steady hands, honest work, and a resilience that never needed to be spoken aloud. But the man standing before her now seemed… dimmed somehow. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his shoulders slumped beneath an invisible burden. And his eyes—eyes that had once held a gentle warmth—were hollowed by a loneliness that clung to him like Autumn fog.

Popuri lingered a moment, uncertain, watching the faint breeze tug at the edges of his jacket. Then, gathering her courage, she spoke.

"Hey, Pete." Her voice came out softer than she intended, careful and fragile. "Mom told me you and Elli… broke up." She hesitated. "Are you okay?"

He let out a slow, shaky breath and slipped the rucksack from his shoulder. It hit the ground with a muted thud, sweet potatoes tumbling softly against one another. For a long while, he didn't say anything. He simply stared at the dry earth beneath his boots, as if he might find the right answer buried somewhere in the dirt.

"I don't know," he murmured at last.

Popuri's brow furrowed. She stepped closer, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. "What happened?"

Pete didn't lift his head. He couldn't. He didn't want to see the worry in her eyes—the kindness he didn't feel he deserved.

"It was my fault," he said quietly, the words tasting like defeat. "I didn't take care of what we had. I let it… slip away."

The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of turning leaves. Popuri clasped her hands in front of her, her heart aching at the sight of him.

"Then talk to her," she urged gently. "Elli cares about you. Maybe… maybe this isn't the end. Maybe you can still fix it."

He breathed out a bitter, hollow laugh that wasn't quite a laugh at all. One hand rose to his face, dragging tiredly over his eyes. Up close, he didn't just look worn—he looked like someone who had lost a piece of himself somewhere along the way and no longer knew where to look for it.

"There's no point," he said softly, almost apologetically. "I'm not the man she fell in love with. Not anymore." His voice trembled, then steadied into something resigned. "She deserves someone who can still love her the way I used to."

The wind passed between them, cool and gentle, carrying the last whispers of Summer away. And in that quiet moment, Popuri understood—not everything broken was meant to be mended, and not every goodbye was loud. Some were as soft and aching as the look in Pete's eyes.

Popuri's brows knit together, her gaze softening with concern. "Pete…"

He didn't respond—not right away. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the ground as though the sheer weight of his thoughts had pinned him to the earth. The silence stretched, fragile and heavy, until finally he drew a slow, unsteady breath.

"Did you know," he asked quietly, almost as if the question might shatter in the air, "that I proposed to Elli?"

Popuri's eyes widened. "What? Really? I… I had no idea!"

He gave a faint nod. And in that simple gesture, everything seemed to collapse inside him. It confirmed what he'd already begun to fear—no one knew. It had been their secret. A precious one. Something the other Pete and Elli had shared quietly, tucked away like a seed waiting for the right season. A promise of a future. A love meant to be nurtured slowly, gently, with patience and care.

But he had never known. And because of that ignorance—because of his absence in a life that wasn't originally his—he had let that fragile promise wither. Like a delicate flower left untended, it had needed devotion. Attention. A careful hand to help it bloom. Instead, it had been neglected until only the memory of what it could have been remained. And now the guilt hollowed at his chest, gnawing at him from within.

Popuri swallowed, her heart tightening. "Maybe… maybe I should talk to Elli," she said softly, uncertainty threading through her voice. "There has to be a way to fix this. What you two had—it mattered. To both of you."

Pete managed a small, weary smile. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks, Popuri. Really. But… I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me."

She didn't look convinced. The worry lingered in her gaze like a storm that refused to pass.

"Are you sure…?"

He nodded again, more firmly this time. "Yeah. Thanks for everything."

Popuri watched him for a moment longer, as if searching—for strength, for reassurance, for anything that said he wasn't quietly breaking apart inside. But there was nothing more to say. Finally, she exhaled a soft sigh and turned toward the gate.

At the entrance, she paused and glanced back. Pete was already bent over the rows of sweet potatoes, shoulders hunched, his hands moving with slow, methodical precision. It was as if their conversation had been folded neatly away, buried beneath the soil just like the crops he tended—hidden, silent, unseen.

The wind stirred gently through the fields, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the echo of something unspoken. With a quiet heaviness in her chest, Popuri turned away and made her way home, leaving Pete alone in the fading afternoon light—left with his work, his ghosts, and the fragile remnants of a future that no longer belonged to him.

Time moved on without waiting for him. Days slipped quietly into weeks, blending into one another until they became little more than indistinguishable echoes. Pete rose with the sun, worked until exhaustion dulled his thoughts, then collapsed into dreamless sleep—only to wake and do it all again. There was no joy in the routine, no purpose guiding him forward. Just motion. Just habit. Just survival.

At some point, the leaves burned to gold and crimson. Harvests came and went. Festivals were held without him. And still, Pete kept his head down, hands buried in soil, heart buried deeper still. He barely noticed when the world changed around him—until one morning, when he stepped outside and everything was silent.

Snow covered the farm in a soft, white hush. Winter had arrived. With no fields to tend, Pete withdrew even further into his solitude. The barns still needed care, the animals still needed feeding, but beyond that, he let the world pass him by. He had stocked enough food, medicine, and supplies to last the entire season—carefully, deliberately ensuring that he would have no reason to venture into town. No chance encounters. No conversations. No expectations. So he disappeared.

Mineral Town knew he hadn't truly vanished; the evidence sat in his shipping bin each evening—milk bottles sealed tight, neatly bundled wool, cartons of fresh eggs. Proof that he was still living, still working. Just… distant. But as Winter deepened, whispers began to spread. He hadn't shown up to the Fall Festivals. Not a glimpse of him during the Harvest celebrations. And now Winter was here—the season of warmth shared indoors, of laughter echoing against frosted windows, of togetherness—and Pete was nowhere to be found. The farmer who had once begun to stitch himself into the fabric of their lives… had quietly unraveled from it.

He became little more than a rumor again. A ghost tending a lonely farm at the edge of town. And though no one said it aloud, Mineral Town felt the emptiness where he should have been. The absence of him lingered like a cold draft in a warm room—unseen, but always felt.

As Winter neared its end, Popuri decided enough was enough. The townspeople had done little else but whisper—about how Pete had disappeared, how he was wasting away alone in that farmhouse, how the farmer who once moved among them had turned himself into rumor. Popuri understood he was hurting. She understood that he needed space. But an entire season of silence was too much. If no one else was going to do something, then she would.

She made her way to the farm, boots crunching over the thin crust of lingering snow. The world was quiet, the sky pale, the air heavy with the last chill of Winter. When she reached his door, she knocked.

There was no answer. "Pete!" she called, the sound cutting through the stillness. Nothing.

Her jaw tightened. She tried the handle, and it turned easily. The door creaked open, showing the condition of his home. And she stopped in her tracks. The house was a mess. Trash clustered in corners. Dust clung to every surface. A sour smell—stale alcohol, old food, neglect—hung in the air. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, stacked precariously beneath a thin film of grease and grime. She'd never been inside Pete's home before, but she knew Elli. Elli had been orderly. Clean. Caring.

This was none of those things. The house looked like a bachelor who didn't care much about clenliness. Elli's abscence was clearly evident. There was no way she would have allowed this.

And then, she saw him. Pete lay slumped across the couch, one arm dangling uselessly at his side. The slow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life. A half-empty bottle of wine hung from his fingers, its contents swaying dangerously close to spilling across the stained floorboards. His hair was unkempt, his beard untrimmed, his eyes sunk deep into dark shadows.

Popuri took in the scene with a single, steady breath. Then she moved—no hesitation, no gentleness in her stride. Her steps struck the floor with purpose, frustration echoing with every click of her boots. She stormed forward, seized the blanket draped over him, and ripped it away in one sharp motion.

Pete stirred with a low groan, flinching against the sudden chill. "What the—"

He forced himself upright, blinking against the light until Popuri's silhouette sharpened into focus. She stood before him, arms crossed, posture rigid, expression unwavering. "Get up," she said flatly.

Pete groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Popuri? What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that," she snapped, planting her hands on her hips. "What the hell is this, Pete? What happened to you? I figured you were still upset about Elli, but this—" her gaze swept the room with visible disgust, "this is pathetic."

He sighed, shoulders sagging, eyes dull. "It's none of your business," he muttered, fingers fumbling blindly until they found the neck of the bottle again.

He didn't get the chance. Popuri snatched it from his hand in one swift motion, her expression tightening, and before he could protest she turned and hurled it at the wall. The bottle exploded with a sharp crack, shards scattering across the floor as the last of the wine streaked down the wood like dark, bleeding tears.

Silence lingered for a single, brittle heartbeat. Then Popuri turned back to him—whatever softness she might have once had for him gone from her eyes. "This ends now."

"Hey!" Pete lurched upright, anger flashing across his features. "Was that really necessary?"

Popuri didn't bother answering. She grabbed his arm and yanked. Hard. "Get up!" The shout cracked through the stale air like thunder. Pete staggered to his feet—and instantly she recoiled, nearly gagging.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped, throwing a hand over her nose. "You reek! How long has it been since you last took a bath?"

Pete scowled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What are you, my mom?"

"Apparently," Popuri snapped back. With a shove sharp enough to surprise him, she forced him toward the hallway. "Because clearly you're incapable of taking care of yourself! Now go—bathroom. Soap. Water. Use them."

He muttered something under his breath as he trudged forward. "Alright, alright, I'm going."

"And shave!" she shouted after him, planting her fists on her hips. "You look like a damn bum!"

The bathroom door slammed shut, and Popuri stood alone in the wreckage of his living room. She let out a long, steady breath, rolled her shoulders back, and turned to face the disaster as if preparing to do battle with it. By the time Pete emerged again, steam still clinging faintly to his skin, freshly shaved and dressed in clean clothes, he barely had a moment to adjust before Popuri pressed a broom into one hand and a mop into the other.

"Start cleaning," she said, arms crossed, tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Pete stared at her, wary. The look she was giving him could have cut stone. With a reluctant sigh, and all the attitude of a scolded child, he lowered his gaze and got to work.

The dust told stories of seasons he'd refused to face. Old bottles clinked as he gathered them. Stale crumbs and forgotten scraps scraped across the floor. He swept, then mopped, each drag of the cloth an acknowledgment of how far he had let things fall.

He could feel her eyes on him the entire time. Watching, judging, making sure he didn't dare slack. His back began to ache as he scrubbed a stubborn stain from the floorboards. He glanced up at her. And that was when it hit him again—this wasn't the Popuri from Flowerbud Village. Not the soft-spoken girl he remembered. This Popuri was fire. Sharp. Unyielding. Demanding in a way he didn't quite know how to counter. So he did the only thing he could, he kept cleaning.

"You know," he muttered after a while, rubbing sweat from his brow, "you could help."

Popuri scoffed, planting her fists firmly on her hips. "My name's not Elli," she said coolly. "Clean your own damn house."

There was no arguing with that. Pete bent back down and continued to scrub as if his life depended on it.

Once the cleaning was finally done, Pete and Popuri sat across from each other at the kitchen table. The silence between them was thick—not hostile, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things neither quite knew how to say. The house smelled faintly of soap and fresh air instead of stale wine and regret. For the first time since Summer, it felt like a home again.

Popuri rested her elbows on the table and lightly tapped her fingers against the wood, her expression thoughtful. She watched him for a few quiet moments before finally speaking.

"Look… I get that you're hurting," she said softly, her voice lacking the sharp edge it had carried earlier. "And I really do sympathize with you. But I have to ask—what is it with guys letting their relationships fall apart?"

She didn't say his name. She didn't have to. Pete's shoulders sagged. He knew who she was thinking about. Kai. Another man who had let something precious slip through his fingers. Another bond abandoned and buried beneath stubbornness and fear.

He lowered his gaze to the grain of the table, tracing one of the lines with his thumb as if searching for answers carved there. "This isn't just about Elli," he murmured at last. "It's… deeper than that."

Popuri studied him, the steel in her eyes softening into something gentler, warmer. "Is it Isabella?" she asked quietly. "Mom told me about her. I thought you didn't remember."

Pete's body went still. She had no idea how much those words struck him now. Before, when she had first asked, her question had meant nothing to him—just another gap in a life that wasn't truly his. But now, after opening that dusty box beneath his bed… after reading every word of the journals left behind by the other Pete… Isabella was more than a name.

She was grief. She was youth. She was the wound that had never healed for the man whose life he now lived. And she was also every shadow he carried from his own past. He could never tell Popuri the truth. He couldn't tell her who he really was, or why so much of this world felt like a memory that belonged to someone else. But this—this pain—this lonely heart of his? That, at least, was real.

Pete took a slow breath, steadying himself. He had a chance now—to be honest, in a way that didn't unravel everything. To finally say what weighed on him without revealing the impossible truth lingering beneath it all. He met Popuri's eyes, and for once, he didn't look away.

"I was just… running from it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I lost her, and it hurts… more than you can imagine."

He wasn't talking about Isabella. He was talking about Popuri—the other Popuri. The girl he had grown up beside. The girl whose laughter once filled his world. The one whose death had shattered him so completely that even now, in another town… in another life… the wound still bled beneath the surface.

But the Popuri sitting across from him didn't know that. She heard Isabella in his words. She saw a grieving childhood friend, not the ghost of a love he had lived and lost. Maybe that was kinder. Maybe that was safer. Her expression softened. Slowly, gently, she reached across the table, resting her hand over his. It was warm. Steady. There was no pity in her touch—only compassion. Only sincerity.

"Pete… I understand," she said quietly. "I may not know what it's like to lose someone like that, but you have to realize something." Her thumb lightly brushed his knuckles, grounding him. "You're not alone here. We're all here for you. If you let us in, we'll help you—just like you helped us. Mineral Town isn't just a community. It's a family."

He looked up at her. Really looked at her. And for the first time, he truly saw Mineral Town—not as a place he'd been forced to live in, not as some strange third chance he never asked for, but as a living, breathing tapestry of people who refused to let him fade away. These weren't just neighbors. They shared their burdens. They shared their laughter. When one of them broke, the others tried to hold the pieces together.

It wasn't like that in Flowerbud Village. There, when Popuri died, the world had turned cold. People had pulled away. Their eyes followed him with quiet blame, their whispers full of judgment instead of comfort. He had mourned alone. Hurt alone. Survived alone. No one reached for him. No one dragged him back when he disappeared into himself.

But here… even after all his mistakes, even after he shut everyone out… Popuri was still reaching for him. Her hand remained over his, gentle yet firm, anchoring him in the present. In this town, in this life, in a place where, maybe he didn't have to grieve alone anymore.

Pete drew in a slow breath, feeling something inside him loosen—like a knot he hadn't realized he'd been strangling himself with finally beginning to unravel. "Popuri… I'm sorry," he murmured. "You're right. We're all here for each other. I just… lost sight of that."

Popuri's lips curled into a confident grin, arms folding proudly over her chest. "Of course I'm right." Then she leaned forward, eyes narrowing in faux severity. "Now stop being a slob. New Year's Day is coming up, and I expect to see you at Rose Square with everyone else. No excuses."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Pete managed a genuine smile. "I'll be there."

"You'd better," she shot back without missing a beat. "Because if I ever walk into this house and see it looking like that again?" She pointed sharply toward the now-clean room, her tone darkening with mock threat. "I will make you regret it."

They both laughed then, a soft, natural sound that cut through the lingering heaviness in the air. The tension dissolved, leaving something gentler in its place. Popuri stood, smoothing her skirt and heading toward the door. She paused, glancing back at him one last time. Her expression softened—not pity, not concern, but something warm and steady. Something like faith.

"See you soon, Pete."

He watched her leave, her pink hair catching what little Winter sunlight filtered through the clouds as she slipped beyond the farm gate. When the door finally shut and silence returned, it didn't feel suffocating anymore. It felt… peaceful.

Pete exhaled slowly, a quiet hope stirring in his chest. Maybe he wasn't as alone as grief had convinced him he was. Maybe he could try again—to step back into the town, to belong, to live rather than just endure. And maybe, when he was ready, he could face Elli… make things right… and begin again.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a possibility.