The farm in early spring was a living, breathing world that seemed to hold its own quiet secrets in every blade of grass and curl of leaf. Mornings began in a soft haze, a delicate mist clinging to the low fields like a translucent veil. Droplets shimmered on the tender green shoots of wild garlic and young grass, each reflecting the pale light of dawn like tiny jewels scattered across the earth. The hedgerows surrounding the pasture were alive with movement — the sharp trill of blackbirds calling to one another, the skittish flutter of sparrows chasing through tangled branches, and the first tentative buzz of bumblebees as they found the first primroses blooming beneath the old oak tree.
It was a world that, for most people, might seem ordinary, but to Percy it was a constant reminder of the fragile beauty that stitched his life together. Here, each season marked a cycle of beginnings and endings, of hope and hard work. The orchard's ancient apple trees, their gnarled limbs twisted and knotted with age, stood like silent sentinels, patiently waiting for the warmth of summer to burst forth in blossoms and later, heavy fruit.
For the past few weeks, Percy had stepped into the rhythms of this land in a new way. Where before he had been a helper—fetching tools, feeding lambs, following his father's instructions—now he was taking the lead in small but significant ways. It was his voice that decided when to move the sheep to fresh pasture, when to check the moisture levels in the soil, and how to balance the needs of the crops with the health of the animals. Every morning, before the sun fully rose, he was out in the fields, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, breath visible in the crisp air.
The responsibilities were both heavy and humbling.
His father, Matthew, still handled the bulk of the hardest labor—ploughing, repairing broken gates, managing machinery—but it was clear the farm's future was passing into Percy's hands. The old tractor, the creaking barn, the silos filled with last year's harvest—all these were no longer just the backdrop of childhood memories, but the living components of a livelihood Percy now felt bound to protect and grow.
And yet, beneath the growing confidence that settled in his bones, there was an ache—a quiet, gnawing emptiness that made the early mornings feel colder, the fields less alive.
Snow, his faithful dog and constant companion since he was a boy, had passed just weeks before the first crocuses pushed through the frost. The memory of that final morning was sharp and vivid, like a splinter lodged deep in his heart.
Snow's muzzle had grown peppered with grey over the past year, and her once tireless energy had slowed to careful steps and long naps by the fire. Percy had known the signs, but still, the ache of impending loss hit with the suddenness of a storm.
That chilly late winter morning, Snow had refused breakfast and spent the day curled in her favourite corner near the hearth, breathing shallow and uneven. Percy had sat beside her, his voice low and steady, telling her stories of the farm—the rolling hills, the wide fields shimmering with gold under the summer sun, the secret trails through the woods they'd found together.
When Snow closed her eyes for the last time, Percy felt as if the ground had opened beneath him, swallowing all the light and warmth he'd known.
The house was quieter now, a hollow echo replacing the familiar clatter of paws on the floor. The fields, once alive with the rustle and bark of his four-legged friend, felt unbearably still.
At first, he wandered the land in silence, the familiar crunch of his boots on frost-hardened soil his only company. Slowly, the cold air filled with the scent of fresh earth and wild thyme, and he found small comfort in the quiet promise of dawn.
His mother, Elise, kept Snow's memory alive in gentle ways—a batch of oatcakes baked on a chilly morning, one placed each day on the windowsill, as if to invite the dog's spirit back to their home.
Matthew's grief was quieter but no less real. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees, he stood with Percy on the porch, watching the fields turn from gold to shadow.
"Animals live as hard and full a life as we do," Matthew said, his voice low and steady. "They teach us what matters. Snow's taught you that, lad."
Percy nodded, but the weight in his chest didn't ease. It was as if a part of the farm itself had been taken away.
School was a distant world now, less urgent than the fields and fences. His grades held steady, but his heart was tethered to the land and the rhythms of life and death there. Instead, he immersed himself in farm work and the college's mentorship scheme, where he shadowed agricultural specialists. He learned about drone technology for crop monitoring, soil restoration techniques, and renewable energy integration—new ways of farming that felt both thrilling and essential.
His tutors noticed the change. Percy's questions grew sharper, his focus deeper. He began to see the land not just as dirt and crops, but as a complex, living system—one that demanded respect, understanding, and care.
But despite this progress, the loss of Snow lingered like a shadow.
One afternoon, after helping to fence off a new paddock near the brook—a project to protect a wildflower meadow from stray sheep—Percy sat down on the step of the old tractor. The metal was cold against his palms, but the familiar grooves offered a strange comfort.
The light was soft, golden with the late afternoon sun filtering through the budding branches of nearby ash and hawthorn. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves.
He pulled Snow's worn leather collar from his pocket, the brass tag catching the light and throwing tiny reflections on the tractor's paint.
A single tear escaped down his cheek. He pressed the collar to his lips, whispering a goodbye that felt both too small and too vast.
But after a long moment of quiet, he wiped the tear away, stood up, and squared his shoulders. There was work to do. Life on the farm didn't wait for grief to pass.
The weeks slid into months. Spring unfolded fully, bringing with it the busy season and a new sense of purpose.
Percy's days were filled with lambing—careful attention to new life struggling into the world—and planting barley in neat, measured rows. He managed water irrigation schedules with precision, balancing nature's unpredictable whims with the need for steady growth. He tracked the health of the soil, adjusted fertilizer inputs, and mapped out rotations to keep the land fertile.
He found joy in the small victories—the surprise of a healthy lamb born against the odds, the satisfaction of spotting a pest infestation early, the steady rise of organic matter in soil tests.
Confidence grew alongside the crops.
He developed a close working relationship with Mrs. Edgerton, a seasoned agronomist with a sharp wit and encyclopedic knowledge of native plants. She introduced him to the wildflowers and grasses that thrived on their own in the hedgerows and meadows: cowslips brightening the pasture edges, the delicate bluebells carpeting the woodlands in spring, tough brambles tangled with blackberries that fed the nesting thrushes.
"Know your plants, Percy," she said one afternoon as they walked a field. "They tell you how your farm breathes, how the soil's holding up. They're the best indicators you'll find."
Her words struck a chord deep in him.
Socially, life at college was more complicated. Rivalries between cohorts bubbled beneath the surface; the friendly banter of fellow apprentices was often punctuated with undercurrents of competitiveness. Callum, once a rival, had mellowed but still eyed Percy with a mixture of respect and challenge. Megan was fiercely intelligent, often collaborating with Percy on projects, though their approaches sometimes clashed.
Outside school, the world shifted too. Isla's laughter no longer rang across the farmyard—she'd moved on to grammar school, drifting into new circles. George, once a steady friend, drifted in and out, shadows flickering between them—an echo of friendships lost to time and change.
But on the land, in the open air thick with the scent of wildflowers and fresh manure, Percy found clarity. He began planning agroforestry patches along the west boundary—planting hazel and oak saplings that, in years, would become shelter belts and wildlife corridors. The future of the farm would be not just fields and animals, but a richer ecosystem.
His father watched silently, pride and hope flickering in his eyes.
"Elise and I talked," Matthew said one evening over a hearty dinner of stew and fresh bread. "You're ready to take the lead next year. We'll ease back. You've earned it."
Relief and pressure tangled inside Percy. The weight of expectation pressed on him like the heavy skies before a storm, but so did a new, fierce determination.
Then came the day that shattered the steady rhythm.
The weather had turned crisp and clear, a sharp cold snap making the orchard's bare branches crackle with frost.
Percy was walking the northern paddock, checking fence lines for the new electric wire installation meant to protect the wildflower meadow from wandering sheep. His boots sank slightly into the soft earth, the smell of moss and leaf mould thick in the air.
Snow had once trotted beside him during these chores, ears perked and tail wagging, but now the farm was quieter, her absence a hollow ache in every moment.
Lost in thought, Percy moved backwards along the fence line, eyes scanning the wires and insulators, talking himself through the technical details as he adjusted the tension.
Then, without warning, a low growl rumbled from behind.
The old Massey Ferguson tractor, Matthew's pride and workhorse for decades, crept over the rise in the field, its engine steady and slow but relentless.
Percy spun around, heart pounding, but the machine was too close—too fast—and there was no time to react.
The impact was sudden and crushing, a heavy weight pressing him down, the world tipping sharply and then slipping into darkness.
The tractor's engine droned on, oblivious to the small, broken figure beneath.
A solitary crow cried in the distance, wings cutting through the cold air.
The earth held its breath.