Disclaimer: Sadly no, Harvest Moon doesn't belong to me. Also, certain dialogue belongs to Harvest Moon: FoMT and Natsume.

A/N: Here's Chapter 2! Hope you like the story so far. :3 Reviews are awesome like marshmallows in hot chocolate.

Chapter 2: Waiting For Max Robbins

The year was 1973.

Old Man George woke up at half past four, as he always did. He got dressed and fumbled around for his walking cane. He hobbled to the window and peered through it at the sky outside. The same mixture of the darkest blue and grey, Old Man George knew the colour by heart, the familiarity comforted him. At least some things didn't change, he mused as he shuffled towards the kitchen. He put the kettle on and sat down and waited. His joints were stiff, and he slapped the back of his neck to ease the nagging pain that was bothering him. Whenever his arthritis flared up, Old Man George became grumpier than usual. There used to be a time when he could lift three sacks of potatoes at once, but now he had trouble trying to keep the kettle steady as he poured hot water into his coffee mug. He was a young soul trapped in the body of a doddering old fool! As he sipped at his morning drink, his eyes wandered to the stack of letters lying on his bedside table and he wondered how the boy was doing. Well, hardly a boy anymore. Max would be… sixteen or seventeen this year. Old Man George sighed. The little boy had become a man, and he was… a very old man. A doddering old fool.

He left his mug in the sink and shuffled outside. The farmer's body may be wearing out, but that didn't mean he didn't have to work anymore. He swung open the barn door and breathed in the sweet-smelling hay that was stacked against the wall. Then there was the distinct animal smell. The only living thing that was responsible for the smell was lazily drinking water from the trough.

"Good morning, Tulip," Old Man George cooed as he heaped some fresh hay into the cow's feed box. He took an old brush hanging on the wall by a string and started to brush Tulip down. The cowed mooed.

This wasn't the same Tulip the little boy Max Robbins rode on all those years ago. This was a younger Tulip, but Old Man George called all his cows Tulip for convenience's sake. An old man like him couldn't be bothered with names. It was hard enough trying to remember what day of the week it was. Tulip swished her tail playfully as Old Man George sat down on a stool on Tulip's left side. "Stop that, silly girl. I'm trying to milk you!" He reached for the milk pail.

A small mewing sound distracted the old farmer. A grey kitten, the size of Old Man George's hand came up to him and clawed at his shoes. "Good morning to you too, kitty." The kitten had been found by him two months earlier down by the fishpond. The kitten, a stray, had been trying to take a drink when it fell in. Old Man George rescued it and took it in. Normally Old Man George avoided cats. He was a dog-lover, but ever since his Winnie died (bless her little doggie soul) he felt more lonely than he would admit.

The kitten followed Old Man George out of the barn, or more likely, the pail of fresh milk he held in his hands. He set the pail inside his house and after making sure the kitten had her share to drink, man and feline walked towards the field, where the farmer still maintained a small crop of turnips. There wasn't much left to do on the farm. He had sold the horse four years ago, and his vegetable patch grew to a large extent smaller over the years. He still owned several chickens, but they were very good at taking care of themselves.

The turnips were doing well. In a couple of days they would be ripe for picking. He made a mental note to pay the Harvest Sprites a visit. The fun-loving creatures would be more than happy to lend a hand, in exchange for some packets for flour. What those little imps did with so much flour was beyond Old Man George, but he had heard that the Harvest Sprites liked cooking and throwing parties, so maybe they were just glad they didn't have to spend money buying groceries.

There was a cough behind him. Old Man George turned around and saw a man looking expectantly at him. He surveyed the stranger and decided he didn't trust him. Anyone who snuck up on an old man wasn't to be trusted anyway. He was heavily-built, had short brown hair and a thin moustache. One half of a small blue towel stuck out from his pants pocket. He looked extremely familiar.

"What d'you want?" Old Man George narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I'm not selling my land."

The man shook his head. "George, it's me, Zack. You know, live on the beach, in charge of shipments. Been working with you for years," Zack said with a worried look on his face.

"Wha- Zack? Where's your beard?" Old Man George pointed his walking cane at Zack. "That was a fine beard."

The man grinned and touched his bare chin. All that was left of his facial hair was a thin moustache. "Heh heh. Lillia said I looked too much like a ruffian."

"D'you have anything for me?" Old Man George looked at the envelope in Zack's hand.

"Oh yeah, this just came in this morning. Thought you'd want to read it straight away."

"Thanks, thanks."

"I'll be off now. I'll be back in the evening for collection, eh?"

"You'll have your eggs and milk by five," Old Man George muttered absentmindedly as he waved his cane in Zack's direction. He was staring intently at the envelope.

Zack's eyes lingered on the farmer's stooped form for a few more moments. He was concerned for Old Man George, who didn't have any family and very little friends. He wanted to help him, but the old man abhorred sympathy. Lillia would know what to do. What that comforting thought, Zack left Old Man George to read his letter in peace.

Dear George,

I wish I could stay in Mineral Town for the summer. But Dad has arranged for me to visit Mom and Fred. Dad says I should spend more time with Mom since I'm her only son and she misses me, but I think it is weird spending the holidays with Mom and her new husband. It's been three years since Mom and Dad got divorced. Fred is nice enough, but he is obsessed with cars and keeps talking to me about engines and gearboxes. Personally, I prefer trains, or just walking if I can help it.

I'll be finishing school soon and maybe after that I'll come and visit you. I sure miss the farm. Dad wants me to go to business or law school, he says that's about the only things worth learning in college. I'm not too sure I'm the college type though. High school is hard enough.

Anyway, how are things on your end? The Cow Festival is coming up, isn't it? You should enter Tulip. We both know all cows from Honey Tree Farm stand a good chance of winning. Tell me how it goes.

I have baseball practice in an hour, so I should prepare for that.

Love,

Max.

Although he had only received the letter two hours ago, Old Man George had read it so many times and clutched it so tightly that the paper was badly crumpled in several places. For the past ten years Max had written letters to him detailing every aspect of his life, while Old Man George usually wrote about the changes in Mineral Town and Mother's Hill.

The blue magic grass has finally bloomed in the field on the mountains, he wrote one autumn. Personally I've never liked flowers much, but Sasha brought me a bouquet yesterday and I must say they look quite nice. I suppose The Harvest Goddess makes magic grass especially pretty because they're the last flowers of the year. Someone in town said they spotted the Kappa on Mother's Hill, but I don't believe it. Surely the Kappa has better things to do than wander around the mountains. Tulip is not doing so well, I think I may have to put her to sleep and get a new cow. Don't want her to suffer more than she should. I am thinking of burying her in that spot between the barn and stable. She deserves somewhere nice, and Tulip would want to stay on the farm, even after she's gone. Study hard, Max. And come visit soon.

Summer came and went and there was no sign of Max Robbins. Autumn brought chilling winds and Old Man George wore a thick woolen jacket as he harvested his sweet potatoes. The Harvest Sprites were warming their tiny hands by the big bonfire he had started earlier. He set aside a few tubers that were not good enough for shipping, but definitely good enough for seven shivering sprites and one old man. He picked the last of the sweet potatoes and placed them at the very top of the mounting pile in his harvesting basket. Gripping the large basket firmly, Old Man George tried to hoist it up his shoulder as he always did. But he felt his back muscles tauten and his knees started shaking uncontrollably. Cursing under his breath, he hollered for the imps to come over. Together, they managed to drag the rattan-woven basket to the shipping bin. Zack would collect it in the evening and the pay Old Man George got in return would be enough to get him through the winter. He stoked the fire and dropped the sweet potatoes on some burning twigs. The imps' chatter became a small buzzing voice at the back of his head as he stared into oblivion.

The year was 1977.

Old Man George received seven letters that year, each with a different address on it. Max Robbins had graduated from high school, but did not go to business or law school as his father intended. Instead the young man took up a vagabond's life, always in a new city every other week or so and earning money as he moved around.

His latest letter arrived just before winter. Max was in some city called Cherrygrove, he was waiting tables temporarily. The pay was good and he hoped to be in the city for the winter. Old Man George would not admit it to Max, but he was very worried about him. That wasn't how a young man should live, always wondering when he would get his next meal or a good place to sleep. From what he could tell, Max hadn't contacted his parents in months and preferred it that way. I'm really enjoying this, George. It's a little tough, but it's supposed to be like that. Don't worry, Mom and Dad already worry enough for me. I've stopped calling them because they just keep trying to talk me into going home. I'll be staying in this city for awhile, so you can keep writing to this address. As usual, I'll write you before I leave so you'll know to stop sending letters and I'll write again when I've found somewhere new to settle down. Love, Max.

The year was 1978.

Old Man George felt it in his bones. It was almost time for him. He still hobbled around his farm, but he stopped working. Tulip was sold in the spring, and the field was slowly being taken over by weeds. Rick would be here next week to collect the chickens. His only solace was the grey cat that slept on his knees every night.

Summer came and went, and Old Man George sat by the table, staring at the open door. Waiting, waiting for Max Robbins to come visit soon.

The year was 1979.

A young man walked down the red cobblestone street, his eyes full of interest of his surroundings. He had been here before years ago, but the place had changed so much. There were a couple new buildings, and many of the old ones had a new coat of paint on them. And there was a festive air about the place, it was New Year's Day after all. A group of middle-aged ladies eyed him curiously as they walked towards in his direction but lost interest as soon as they had passed them. A tourist – there were a lot of them these days, one of them whispered as they headed to the town square.

He came across an all too familiar building. The inn. Of course, this was the place, and this was the road, where everything started. He picked up his pace, made a left at the T-junction and kept on going straight until he arrived at the farm entrance. The sign painted with the words Honey Tree Farm in blue was lying on the dusty ground, stained and faded in places. The young man furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Stepping across the wooden board, he entered the farm land.

The sight that greeted his eyes made his stomach lurch most uncomfortably. The field was overrun with weeds, and sticks and stones scattered the area. There was a lump in his throat as he slowly moved towards the old farmhouse. But the door was locked. Since when did Old Man George lock his doors?

For this young man was Max Robbins who had finally come to visit his old friend Old Man George. As he stood on the edge of the field, someone short and dressed in red came bustling forward.

"Hey! The owner of this farm died a while back. You can't just come waltzing in here!"

Died? Max refused to believe it. "You mean Old Man George is… d-dead?"

"What? You knew him?" The short man registered the use of the old man's moniker. He paused, staring up at the young man's shocked face. "And you didn't know that he had died…?"

"No, I didn't! Wh-when did this happen?"

"He died about… Oh, six months ago, I reckon. When I was cleaning out his place I found his will. In it, he said 'I'm leaving my farm to Maxwell Robbins.'" Max flinched slightly. He hadn't heard anyone call him by his full name since he was in kindergarten. "So until whoever that is shows up, I'm taking care of the farm." From his expression Max could tell the man wasn't too happy about this arrangement. He looked as though he didn't know the first thing about farming.

"Well, I'm Maxwell Robbins."

The short man was Thomas, the town mayor. He wanted to know how Max knew Old Man George. Then he asked if Max wanted to take over the farm.

Max wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. He had just inherited a big plot of land from someone Max thought was still alive until about six minutes ago. He had only stopped by in Mineral Town to pay the old man a visit because he stopped receiving letters from him and wanted to make sure he was alright. But he wasn't alright, he was dead. Old Man George was dead.

How did he die? Where was he when he died? Was he alone? Questions flooded Max's head.

"Well, what do you think?" Thomas was pressing him for an answer.

Max wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Why did George even leave him the farm? Like Thomas, he didn't know to manage a farm. Max was sure he didn't have what it takes. He would say no and return to the city. It was the start of a new year, so it wouldn't be too hard to find a new job. Maybe he could wait more tables. It was the logical thing to do.

But his thoughts kept straying to the old man. Old Man George had been his best friend all these years. If he left Max the farm, then shouldn't Max try his best to honour the man's last wish? He didn't have any family to leave the farm to, after all. And then he wondered what would happen to the farm if he didn't want it. The last thing he wanted was some idiot on a bulldozer to come and destroy the place. The place the Old Man George called home his whole life. Old Man George's memory needed to be preserved.

And of course, it made sense that Old Man George should pass the farm over to Max. The farmer didn't approve of Max's vagrant lifestyle. He obviously wanted Max to settle down somewhere, and what better place than the farm on which he spent his best summer ever.

Thomas was looking at him expectantly.

"I suppose… I suppose that would be the best thing to do."

"Great!" He clapped his hands joyously. "From here on out this place is yours!"

The words echoed in Max's head. He stared out into the vast stretch of land. From here on out this place is… mine. What had he gotten himself into?

Thomas seemed to read his mind. "It won't be easy, but if you try hard you can do a job to make him proud."

Max nodded. That was the basic idea, wasn't it? He would do this for George.

"Well, you should get settled in right away. I'll bring by the deed and other things tomorrow morning, but today just enjoy yourself, it's New Year's Day after all! There's a festival at Rose Square, and you can-" Thomas noticed Max's somewhat vacant expression. "But you must have had a long journey coming here," He said in a softer tone. "I'll announce the good news to everyone, but we'll understand if you don't want to join us just yet. You can meet the townsfolk later on. You'll need these."

Max reached for the keys. After waving Thomas goodbye, he shut himself in the farmhouse for the rest of the day.

At 2.00 pm he paced the length of the house, all the while muttering incoherently to himself. His left hand was balled into a fist, and his right hand clenched it furiously. Somehow, somehow he felt tricked. He was tricked into coming here with only 500G in his bag and he was tricked into accepting all this. Mayor Thomas had no right, Old Man George had no right!

At 3.21 pm he was curled up on the bed, repeating Old Man George is dead in his head.

At 5.48 pm he turned on the television. It was an older model from a few years ago, Max guessed it was one of the last things Old Man George ever bought. The news reminded viewers that the festival in Rose Square started at 6 pm and lasted throughout the night, but Mayor Thomas was right, Max didn't feel up to socializing right now. The weather forecast channel showed that tomorrow would be a fair day. There was a show called Life on the Farm and a strange New Year show where the guests were pounding rice cakes enthusiastically. The host didn't seem to have many things to say, at any rate, the pounding drowned out his hoarse voice. Max switched off the TV.

At 7.07 pm, he was fast asleep on the bed.

The next morning, Max woke up at six in the morning. Eleven hours of sleep later, he was feeling much better about everything. He took a good look at the interior of the house. Someone had rearranged some of the furniture, and the stove was missing. He breakfasted on some stale bread that he found in his backpack and left the house not a moment too soon.

He spotted Mayor Thomas walking briskly down the path. He sidestepped the fallen sign and stood before Max. "Good morning, Max. I trust you had a good sleep? I suppose the house needs some work done on it…"

"It's fine," Max said and smiled. He had to try and be nice to everyone in town now. He was the new kid, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. To be honest, he wasn't sure about most things lately.

"Here is the deed. And some documents for you to sign."

An hour later, with an old Pedometer clutched in his right hand, Max watched the retreating form of Mayor Thomas. He didn't have five minutes to himself before someone else came bustling down the path. This visitor was a tall and burly man.

"The name's Zack. I'm in charge of shipping for Mineral Town," The man said, all business-like. Once he explained the shipment details to Max, he loosened up a little and flashed a wide smile at him. "Work hard now, but not too hard! And remember, 5 pm every day!" He called out as he walked away.

Max stood at the edge of the field for several minutes, making sure no visitors were running down the lane to meet him. Mayor Thomas gave him the idea of gathering things from the mountain to sell. It was a good way to earn some quick money so that he could buy crop seeds later on. The next thing Max had to do was decide what he actually wanted to do. Clearing the field seemed like a good idea – Thomas mentioned there were some of Old Man George's tools in the toolbox inside the house. Of course, the polite and right thing to do was to go into town and introduce himself to everyone. Pocketing the Pedometer, he entered the house to take a bath. He could barely remember the last time he had a good soak in the tub. Was it yesterday morning?

...