A man in his late thirties sat on the porch with a chipped mug cupped between both hands, watching his tiny farm try its best.
The fields weren't impressive. A strip of stubborn, half-starved soil. A crooked fence held together by nails older than he was. A chicken coop leaning too far on one side.
Still. It was quiet.
No sirens.
No shouting.
No fists against his door.
Just the dry hiss of morning wind across the grass.
Behind him, the radio whispered.
"…more and more people disappeared around– beep"
He leaned back and turned it off.
He didn't like news anymore. They always spoiled his mood.
His hand drifted away from the knob and brushed against the strip of fox fur nailed to the arm of his rocking chair. The hair was rough and stiff, his brittle trophy.
"That's what you get for pestering my chickens," he murmured, the words sliding out with a tired chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.
It hadn't always been like this—slow mornings, a stupid radio, a failing farm that was his anyway. There had been debt he couldn't outrun and nights that tasted like cheap alcohol he would rather not remember.
But all of that was "behind him."
He told himself that a lot.
The porch boards creaked as he pushed himself to his feet. His joints popped in a way he pretended not to hear. The sun wasn't even over the treetops yet, but work didn't care. Work never cared.
He crossed the yard toward the old workshop.
Light crept through the pinholes in the roof, thin beams that barely counted as sunlight. But somehow it was enough to see everything clearly: every rust-blistered tool on the wall, every crooked nail, every stain on the workbench.
The feed bag leaned there. Nearly a meter long. Thick as his torso. Should've been heavy enough to make him grunt.
He bent, grabbed it by the knot, and hauled it up.
It felt light.
Too light.
It hasn't always been like that, he thought. Ever since that nightmare…
"Trial," a voice corrected him from inside his skull. Calm, patient, a little tired of answering the same question.
He froze.
"Right. Trial," he said. "Whatever you say."
He carried the feed out to the enclosure.
The moment he poured it out:
Clack clack clack clack.
The chickens stormed the trough like tiny feathery demons, trampling each other for grain. He leaned against the fence and watched them, weirdly proud.
He'd done everything by the book this time. The right feed, right lamps, right hours. And they actually grew.
Behind the enclosure, a narrow opening led into the nests. He ducked down and began collecting eggs with a gentleness that didn't match his scarred hands. Cradling each one as if it might break from a breath. One by one into the cold steel cauldron beside him.
"Eighty-one… eighty-two… eighty-three…" he muttered.
From the kitchen, something was frying—oil popping sharp and steady.
The farm smelled alive.
He closed the hatch and hefted the heavy cauldron. His shoulders strained under the weight, but he welcomed it. Honest work hurt in familiar ways.
He walked back toward the house.
Behind him, the fox fur on the porch chair stirred against the wind.
The hair lifted in the wrong direction. Just for a breath.
He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing.
Then it settled.
Probably just the wind.