Chapter 7: The Perfect Life (Part 2)

As Pete approached the gates of his farm, his attention was caught by the sound of paws padding across the dirt. A white dog with large brown patches and long, floppy ears bounded toward him, tail wagging enthusiastically. Pete instinctively knelt down as the dog stopped just in front of him, looking up with warm, trusting eyes.

"Where did you come from, boy?" Pete asked, running a hand over the dog's soft fur. The animal leaned into his touch, clearly comfortable and familiar with him.

Pete's fingers brushed against a small metal tag hanging from the dog's collar. He flipped it over to read the engraving: "Willie."

"Willie, huh?" Pete murmured, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "I don't remember anyone around here owning a dog named Willie."

The dog barked happily in response, as though affirming the name. Pete chuckled softly, but his smile faded as his gaze shifted toward the old doghouse in the corner of the yard. Or at least, it should have been old.

The dilapidated structure he hadn't touched in years was gone. In its place was a doghouse that looked practically new, its wooden planks freshly painted and reinforced. Across the top, over the arched entrance, was a name written in neat, bold letters: "Willie."

Pete felt his stomach twist uneasily. He stood, his eyes darting between the dog and the doghouse.

"This doesn't make any sense," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He knelt again, taking Willie gently by the collar. "You're lost, right? Came here looking for food or shelter?"

But even as he said the words, he couldn't convince himself. The dog wagged its tail, pressing its head against Pete's knee as if it had always belonged here, as if it had always been his.

Pete's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves slamming against the pasture. He turned to see a sleek chestnut horse galloping with purpose, its mane flowing as it moved with startling agility. The horse stamped its hooves firmly into the dirt, startling the cows who had been carelessly ripping up the grass. The animals scattered, mooing in protest, but the horse seemed undeterred, circling back as if keeping watch.

Pete blinked in disbelief, gripping the fence as he watched the scene unfold. The horse moved with precision, almost as though it had been trained to protect the pasture. "What on earth…" he muttered under his breath.

His eyes then drifted to the stable behind the horse, and his jaw nearly dropped. The old, weathered building he'd resigned himself to ignoring was no longer the moss-covered relic it had been yesterday. Its beams, once darkened with age and dotted with patches of green moss, were now clean and sturdy. The walls were freshly painted, the roof repaired, and the windows glinted in the sunlight as if they'd just been scrubbed.

"This can't be right…" he whispered, looking back at the horse, which had now slowed to a trot and was watching him intently. He didn't own a horse. He had turned down the offer of the one from Greene Ranch years ago, because he didn't need it or wanted it—and certainly didn't have the means to care for it.

And yet here it was, standing tall in his pasture like it had been there all along, its chestnut coat shining in the sunlight. Pete's chest tightened as unease clawed its way back into his mind. First the dog, now a horse, neither that he owned just hours ago.

Pete's gaze drifted toward the field, hoping to find some semblance of normalcy. But as his eyes settled on the soil he had painstakingly tilled and planted with turnip seeds just the day before, his stomach dropped.

The seeds were gone.

In their place, the field was alive with vibrant colors that shimmered under the golden sunlight. Rows upon rows of flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate petals a mix of soft yellows and pale pinks. "Moondrop flowers…" Pete murmured, recognizing the bright, star-shaped blooms that gleamed like captured moonlight. Interspersed between them were clusters of lush, deep green stems topped with pink blossoms—catmints, a flower he hadn't seen in years.

Pete stumbled forward, his boots crunching against the edges of the field. His fingers brushed against a moondrop bloom, its silky petals cool against his skin. He crouched down, running his hands over the flowers, their stems healthy and sturdy, rooted deep in the soil. There were no signs of the turnip seeds, not even a stray sprout.

His mind reeled. He had planted turnips. He remembered the aching in his knees, the sweat dripping down his brow as he carefully placed each seed in the soil, watering them with care. Yet now, the field was transformed into a sea of blossoms, as if his efforts had been erased overnight.

He clenched his fists, confusion giving way to frustration. "What is going on here?" he muttered through gritted teeth. The strange occurrences were piling up—first the dog, then the horse, and now this. His farm, the one he had worked on tirelessly, was changing before his eyes, into something he didn't recognize.

The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, sweet and fragrant, a stark contrast to the earthy, familiar smell of his crops. He stood, looking out at the field as the blooms danced in the wind, their beauty undeniable yet deeply unsettling. Pete's feet moved on their own as his eyes locked onto the structure in the far corner of his property. A massive greenhouse.

His heart skipped a beat, and his face paled. He had dreamed of having a greenhouse ever since he took over the farm. The ability to grow crops year-round, regardless of weather, had always seemed like the ultimate upgrade. But the cost of building one was astronomical—not to mention the upkeep and the resources it would require. He had long since written it off as an impossible luxury, yet here it stood.

The structure gleamed in the sunlight, its glass panes pristine and sparkling. The framework was sturdy, painted a bright white, and looked as though it had been erected just days ago. Pete swallowed hard, his steps slow and hesitant as he approached it.

Peering through the glass, his breath caught. Inside, rows of healthy crops stretched across the soil: turnips, potatoes, cabbage, tomatoes, corn, eggplants and even strawberries! He pressed his palm against the glass, his mouth slightly agape. Crops of all seasons were thriving together in a perfect harmony that defied logic. He opened the door, the scent of fresh earth and vegetation filling his senses.

Walking inside, Pete knelt by the nearest row of tomatoes. The vines were vibrant and heavy with fruit, their red skin glistening. He plucked one, examining its flawless surface. He looked to the next row, where golden ears of corn stood tall and proud, the stalks swaying ever so slightly in the faint breeze from the ventilation system.

The crops he had planted—his livelihood—had been moved into this greenhouse, making way for the sea of flowers now blooming in his field. But why? Flowers were pretty, sure, but they weren't profitable. He couldn't sell them in the same way he could sell produce. They wouldn't pay for the farm or keep food on his table.

Pete stood, scratching the back of his neck as unease crept over him. The greenhouse was a marvel, something he'd wanted for years, but its sudden and unexplained appearance was yet another piece of this bizarre puzzle.

"This doesn't make any sense…" he whispered, his voice echoing faintly in the quiet space. He turned, staring out through the glass panels at the field of moondrop and catmint flowers swaying in the distance.

Pete stumbled back a step, gripping the doorframe of the greenhouse to steady himself. His eyes were fixed on the sight before him—his house, but… not his house.

What stood in the place of his modest farmhouse was a sprawling structure that could only be described as a luxurious cottage. The walls were freshly painted in warm, inviting tones, and large windows adorned the roof, letting sunlight pour in. A beautifully crafted log terrace built beside the house, complete with a few sturdy chairs and a wooden table—a perfect setup for entertaining guests, though Pete had never had anyone over, nor would he have ever bothered with such a thing.

His legs moved before his mind could fully catch up, carrying him toward the terrace. The familiar crunch of the gravel path beneath his boots was the only grounding sensation in this surreal moment. He paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to the terrace, running his hand along the polished wooden railing.

"What in the world…?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

The craftsmanship was immaculate. The terrace's smooth surface and neatly spaced logs seemed freshly made, smelling faintly of varnish and pine. It was as if this had been built just hours ago, yet there wasn't a sign of construction debris or wear on the ground.

He finally walks up to the house. His fingers trembled as he reached for the doorknob. He slipped the key from his pocket, almost afraid of what he might find inside.

"It's still my house," he muttered, half-convincing himself as the key slid into the lock. He turned it, the mechanism clicking smoothly. The door swung open without resistance.

Pete stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat. The interior was an uncanny blend of familiar and alien. The layout was similar to his old farmhouse, but everything was different. The wooden floors gleamed as if polished, and the walls were lined with shelves neatly stocked with books, jars, and trinkets he didn't recognize. A large fireplace dominated the far wall, its mantle adorned with fresh flowers in a vase.

In the corner of his eyes, he saw his bed, now larger to accomidate two people. The photograph of his grandfather replaced by a photo album. Pete sat on the edge of his bed. The soft, floral scent of the pink pillow beside him filled the room, a quiet reminder that this was not the life he knew.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the old photo album resting on his nightstand, its worn leather cover smooth beneath his fingertips. He hesitated for a moment before opening it, bracing himself for what he might find.

The first page greeted him with a familiar sight—his grandfather, sitting by the riverbank with a fishing rod in hand, his younger self at his side. The photograph had not changed. The same serene afternoon, the same carefree smiles, the same warm sunlight filtering through the trees. For a brief second, relief flickered in his chest.

But as he turned the pages, his breath caught in his throat. On a random page, an image he didn't remember taking stared back at him. His heart pounded as he traced the edges of the unfamiliar memory.

There he was, kneeling in a secluded forest clearing, the dappled sunlight casting gentle patterns on the ground. His hands hovered delicately over a strange blue flower, its petals glimmering as if kissed by the sky itself. But it wasn't the flower that left him speechless.

Beside him, a young woman knelt, her unmistakable pink hair cascading over her shoulders, catching the light in soft waves. Her eyes, filled with warmth, gazed at him as though he were the most important thing in the world. That smile—so radiant, so achingly familiar—hit him like a knife to the chest.

"Popuri…" he whispered, the name barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Popuri had been gone for years, her life tragically cut short on the mountain. But here she was, as real as the flowers blooming in his field, her image captured in this mysterious album of memories he didn't own.

He quickly flipped back through the pages, searching for answers. The photo album brimmed with moments that felt both foreign and intimate, a tapestry of memories he couldn't recall weaving. There was a picture of Pete standing proudly beside a group of carpenters, the newly rebuilt mountain bridge arching behind them—a structure he knew should still be crumbled and broken.

On the next page, his breath hitched as he saw himself boarding a hot air balloon, the villagers gathered in the background, their faces lit with joy and anticipation. His own expression was one of exhilaration, a moment of triumph he had no recollection of experiencing.

He flipped to another photo, this one of him holding a gleaming trophy, the villagers surrounding him in celebration. The label beneath it read, "Champion of the Local Derby." Pete's face in the picture was lit with an unguarded smile, a genuine moment of pride that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

The next image made him pause. He stood in the center of the frame, one arm resting on the neck of a content-looking cow, the other waving cheerfully at the camera. Around him, a group of young women dressed in fashionable city attire posed playfully, their wide-brimmed hats and stylish dresses standing in stark contrast to his simple work clothes. The caption underneath read, "Welcoming City Tourists to the Farm."

Pete's brow furrowed as he stared at the photograph. None of these moments belonged to the life he remembered. Yet here they were, perfectly preserved, as if he'd lived them.

The photographs with the women of the village stood out the most. Each one captured something deeply personal, something almost intimate. Him and Maria, fireflies lighting up the night around them. Him and Elli, sharing the soft glow of moonlight trapped in a glass jar. Ann laughing as they cared for a snow-white winter rabbit. Karen, her face aglow with mischief and wonder, dancing in a strange, ethereal light labeled as "The Dance of the Kifu Fairies."

But none of it struck him like this last picture of Popuri. The memory that should never have existed.

Pete's hands trembled as he turned back to the page, his eyes locked on her image. Her pink hair, her bright eyes, her infectious smile—it was her. She looked much older than the little girl he had lost, her presence felt so real, so undeniable.

Pete froze in place, his heart pounding so loudly he couldn't hear the rhythmic tap of the knife on a chopping board. Once he heard it, he turned to an unfamiliar door in his house. Everything else had already thrown him off, but the sight before him was too surreal to process. Mere hours ago, this was his whole house. Now he has an extra room, he assumes a kitchen based on what he was hearing. He opens the door, his eyes darting around the massive addition to the house. It didn't take long for him to see the source of the sounds, landing on a figure at the counter.

Popuri.

Her pink hair, now longer and tied neatly back, framed her face in a way that was unmistakable. She was an adult now, her features softened but still carrying the playful vibrance he remembered from their childhood. She wore a pink house dress and an apron, moving with practiced ease as she chopped vegetables on the counter.

When she noticed him standing there, her lips curled into a warm smile, as if his stunned expression was the most ordinary thing in the world. She set the knife down, picked up a nearby rag, and wiped her hands, approaching him without hesitation.

Before Pete could even attempt to form a coherent thought, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

He stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape, his body locked in place as though his brain had shut down from sheer shock.

"Hello, honey," she said, her voice soft and affectionate, her eyes filled with warmth.

Pete couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think. "This couldn't be real. Could it?" he asked himself.