Chapter 1

Year 1, Spring 2, Wednesday

Life wasn't going so well, that much was clear. What did I have ahead of me? A job in the city with my father? What would I become? Rich? Just another faceless accountant, lost in the seas of urban life? I didn't want that. I wanted to be somebody, heck, something. I wanted to make a name for myself; well, no, maybe that's not the best way to put it. I wanted to make a difference, to achieve something. My true desire was to create. I didn't want to sink into the generic anonymity my father was in; I wouldn't trade my character for wealth, like he did. The world of the city felt… cold. Bleak. Where was the kindness, the warmth? I guess I'm a sensitive guy, because I admire kindness. I hated the universe I came from, ever since the last beacon of light died from it and abandoned me to my other parent. I loved Mom. Loved her to death… well, maybe that's not a good way to put it, considering. It's not that I don't love Dad, it's just… Regardless, when the opportunity arose to leave that world, I took it.

I never spent a lot of time around Grandpa, and even still, he was one of the most influential people in my life. I was five years old and my mother had just passed away. It was spring and fading into summer, and I spent that summer on the farm, to recover from that loss. So, Dad sent me to Grandpa. Grandpa was… different. Probably even in the country where he lived. Genial, amicable. Just a likable guy all around. He had a wife, who died before I was born, and a single son, my father. Grandpa had built his farm up from nothing; cut down the wood himself, nailed in the nails himself, put the tiles on the roof himself. I always admired that; creation. That's one of the reasons I wanted to live in the country. In the city, I don't think any paths for creation would be open to me. What would I create as a businessman? Nothing, just deal with the meaningless numbers of stocks and money and… whatever. That's not important.

Grandpa was trusted and respected by the whole town, I knew from the moment I came to his funeral. But what was more important than all the trust and respect in the world was the love. He was truly an important person in this town, a driving force, a loved one.

Will I be like that?

When he was dying, a few days before that fateful day, I talked to Dad about the farm. I don't remember most of the conversation, not like it matters. He was disapproving, and it took a good bit of stubbornness and persuasion. I pulled a few nasty tricks and did whatever it took to get out of that damn city. Finally, he agreed. Two days later, with 500G, the clothes on my back and my beloved hat, Dad and I were on a train to the town that Grandpa lived in. We didn't talk.

His death is something I can't write about, and I won't write about. Today. Someday, I will. But I can't now.

The funeral was odd. I'd been to a few before, and they were always depressing, mournful. Yet this one was… happy? Not exactly. But not sad. It was as much a festival of remembrance as it was a mourning. He was a beloved member of their community, and they all had their own little stories they shared with him, save for the youngest ones. There was no end to the praise of him, and from I could see, no one really disliked him.

I had so much to say about him. That he was neighborly, kind, genial, the epitome of goodness, even though I had spent only a summer with him…

But I remained silent. It wasn't my place. Besides, nothing I would have said would be something that no one didn't already know.

A few hours later, the people had dispersed, and were sound asleep in their beds. I stood in the farm that was once my grandfather's and now… mine? Even as I write this, I can't believe that I didn't earn this, like I pried it from my grandfather's dead hands. But I can't think that. I'm not taking it from him, I'm taking it for him. In the coming years, I swear that I'll make it as great as I can. My father wasn't going without a few miserable, disapproving words, though.

"Are you sure you want to do this? It's a hard life out here, and you might not make it like Dad… Your grandfather did."

No, Dad, I'm not sure I want to do this, that's why I want through all the trouble of convincing the least open-minded man in the world to let me leave the gray hellhole I was trapped in. But I kept to my sarcastic thoughts to myself. My verbal answer was curt and clear.

"Yes."

I forgot to write, I have a dog now. He's cute, and I named him Spike. I guess he's been pretty lonely since Grandpa died.

And now, what my grandfather created lives on in memory. For what he created isn't the house I'm living in, nor the field outside, nor the empty stable near this abode. For what he created was love, and now, that was my job.

To create.