It is really more of a vacant lot than anything else, and not many people give the area much thought as they pass through it from Mineral Town to Forget-Me-Not Valley.
The large plot of land is populated by overgrown grass, well-established weeds, and rotting tree branches that had fallen long ago. Large rocks have worked their way to the surface of the soil over the years, making the earth a daunting task for anyone to attempt working.
I guess I really can't blame anyone for not jumping at the task. I know I'm not eager to dive in there.
Honestly, the fields are just one of many reasons why the farm south of Mineral Town has stood vacant for years. A small, shabby house stands at the corner of the property, looking more like a shed than anything else. The place does have a lot of charm, though. Peeking into the grimy windows, I can see a few pieces of sturdy furniture covered in white sheets, rustic floors, and hand-carved molding done by a craftsman. I look down at the doormat and walk over to it, brushing off some old leaves from last autumn away with my shoe. It seems a little silly if I think about it too hard, but I feel like I need to keep that doormat clean.
After all, someday that will be someone's front door, right? Might as well keep it a little bit inviting and welcoming.
I've lost track of how many different shoes, boots, moccasins, and heels have stepped across that threshold. Old hands, wrinkled fingers with gnarled knuckles, soft and delicate hands gripping a worn doorknob that has long since lost its luster.
Someone is bound to call it home someday.
It's become something of a laughingstock among the town, the only real reason we get tourists through this area anymore. People interested in the property see it, feel tricked, and leave. I've almost stopped feeling disappointed when their smiles drop as I lead them outside the town gate onto the property. It's become some sort of awkward ritual – they come, their dreams become dashed, and, needing someone to vent their frustration on, I'm naturally the first person they turn to.
Handling complaints is part of my job, and I've long since tuned myself out to raised voices and catty remarks. However, I can't help but feel like I've personally done something wrong as I watch them walk back to the beach to catch the first ferry back where they came from. It's another failed match, after all. The farm is a piece of public property at this point, but I'm a mayor, not a real estate agent… I suppose it wouldn't hurt for me to update the photograph in the advertisement, but I worry if I'm too honest, no one will come at all.
After all, it was beautiful once – tidy rows of turnips and potatoes, the tops of corn plants swaying in the breeze… If I close my eyes and smell the air, sometimes I feel like I can still see it. There is a promise of a new beginning on this property if only someone were brave enough to seize it. I had once considered encouraging my own son to take up the challenge, but those ideas faded from my mind the moment he expressed an interest in joining the police academy. Making a difference, watching over the town – it was only natural he wanted to do so, as I tried my best to encourage a love of Mineral Town as the years went by. It is nice to have a goal to focus on, as I felt pretty aimless when my beloved suddenly passed, leaving me to raise him alone.
Sometimes I still feel like I'm not sure what I'm doing. Time passes, people forget. After all, you're a leader and you should know how to conduct yourself by now. They stop asking how you're feeling because they already know and the lingering silence is uncomfortable. They stop telling you that you need to remember to eat. Yes, it is what they don't say that truly hurts more than any gossip… Her name is said less and less until it is nothing more than a whisper carried on the breeze, a faint memory of a time that no longer exists.
I suppose, in a similar manner to this abandoned property, I still haven't forgotten. I still can see her warm smile as she carried her son on her hip, singing soft lullabies in the twilight hours.
There was always a fresh bouquet of flowers tucked into an old milk jug that rested atop our kitchen table. I always saw the flowers at their peak; she would replace them the moment they had begun to fade. As our married life continued, I began to look forward to what varieties she decided to decorate with that day. She always picked local flowers up near Mother's Hill: daisies, cornflowers, bee balm…
The day I first saw the flowers in the jug begin to wilt was the day we received her diagnosis.
My eyes settle on a few clusters of wild daffodils peeking through the blades of grass. It's been a wet season and the greenery is very lush. The yellow flowers shine like the sun, their bright faces pointed toward the sky. I take a tentative step toward the blooms.
I'm sure that old milk bottle is still somewhere in the cupboard…
I stop, my hand falling by my side.
No. It feels wrong to rob this forsaken property of the little beauty it has left.
My eyes travel up toward the clouds as I tuck my hands into my pockets.
I'm sure when I meet her again, she'll have more than enough flowers to share with me.
The sound of plant material tearing behind me catches my attention. There is a stranger crouched beside the run-down old stable. The young woman's hair is the same golden color as the daffodils she is picking. The long tresses tumble across her shoulders, obscuring her face.
"So pretty…" Her voice, although soft, is laced with an accent that is not of this area.
I watch in stunned silence as she boldly pulls up the flowers I had spared. Finally, I can stand it no more. I clear my throat, attempting to draw myself to my full height and squaring my shoulders. Intimidation was more my son's strong suit than my own; it was likely the girl was taller than myself.
As she stands up, I see that my theory proved to be correct. She steps over toward me and looks down at the flowers in her hand.
"It's my first harvest…" Her words seem to be more for herself than me, as they are barely above a whisper. She looks down at the golden petals with awed eyes.
I can't help but wonder why the strange young woman is here. "Harvest?"
She lets out a nervous chuckle and wipes her sweaty palms on her crisp overalls and extends a hand to shake.
"I came here to purchase the farm. Thomas, right?"
After all this time, a buyer. She hasn't even inspected the property, let alone looked inside of the house. I vaguely remember that she has asked my name. I nod mutely and blink in surprise as I take her hand. It's too soft and hasn't acquired the calluses of hard labor and toil. Her skin is delicate and looks like it hasn't seen much of the sun.
"Pleased to meet you. And your name, Miss?"
I look up at her and notice her gaze is drawn to the overgrown weeds and rotting logs dotting the fields. At her expression, I suppose I can't blame her for having a weak handshake. Her blue eyes focus on the cluster of daffodils in her hand and her expressions range dramatically for a few moments before settling on one.
I am familiar with the expression. I had often used it myself in the morning as I looked at myself in the mirror, still new to life as a widower. Stern eyebrows, straight shoulders, and a hint of a frown – determination.
"My name is Claire."
0o0o0o0
Author's Note: Why daffodils? Because they represent new beginnings. :)
After all this time, I think we're about overdue for a story starring Thomas where he isn't written as a complete jerk. I think I checked and he was tagged in maybe five or six stories? I don't recall a time in any of the games where he mentions a wife, but something about him strikes me as a little lonely; I thought having him be a widower was a good fit.
I hope you enjoyed! Happy spring!