The sun beat down hard on the golden wheat fields. The wind swept dry leaves across the ground, as if trying to clear the silence between the men. Near the barn, Jonathan Kent adjusted a rope over a bale of hay when he noticed the three workers gathered by the tractor.
"Shall we take a break?"
Mark turned his cap backward and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy rag.
"If it's for a coffee, I'm in."
John crossed his arms, his expression ever calm.
"Heard your place has strong coffee and quiet. Both sound good right now."
Ben finished trimming the grass around the fence, his arms tense, still finding the day's rhythm.
"We only stop if the boss says so."
Jonathan approached slowly, his steps steady on the earth. The smell of oil and wood was strong in that part of the farm.
"The boss here is Martha. I just follow orders."
Mark let out a dry chuckle.
"That's marriage, Jon. When you think you're in charge, you realize you're just carrying out orders with love."
John nodded toward the house.
"So it was love that let that girl in?"
Jonathan stopped walking. His eyes sought the shadow of the roof where Emily, inside, was washing something at the sink. The window's reflection showed little more than the outline of her tied-up hair.
"Martha asked. Said she needed help around the house. I… made an exception."
Mark cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders.
"You're not the type to make exceptions easily. Especially for strangers."
Jonathan looked out at the open field.
"I don't trust her. Not like I trust you guys. But Martha saw something in her. And when the woman carrying your child says something's right… sometimes you gotta listen."
John adjusted his shirt sleeve, his eyes drifting back to the house.
"Takes courage."
Ben raised an eyebrow.
"Courage for what? She seems so… normal. Just a bit sad."
Mark looked at him carefully.
"Ben, you're new in town. You haven't heard the stories. Emily… went through something rough. Thinks she lost a baby. But the doctors say she was never pregnant."
Ben took a step back.
"What? But… she talks like she had a kid."
Mark nodded, his eyes cautious.
"And she talks with certainty. The mind… sometimes tricks the heart."
Ben fell silent. His fingers tightened around the leather glove he held. His face grew more serious, his eyes lost between the house and the field.
'That's… too sad.'
He stepped away from the others slowly, his gaze fixed on the packed dirt.
'Poor thing.'
'A woman shouldn't have to go through that.'
'The emptiness of a child that never existed. The pain of something only she feels.'
'The world's cruel to people like that. And she's still trying to help.'
'Even though she's broken inside.'
'That… isn't weakness. It's strength.'
He glanced at the house. The kitchen window was slightly ajar. The smell of baking bread wafted through the breeze.
'At least now she has a place to be.'
---
Inside, the daylight streamed through the windows like a silent blessing.
Emily rinsed her hands at the sink, the lavender soap mingling with the scent of dough rising on the counter.
Martha folded napkins near the table.
"The bread's about to go in the oven. After that, we'll start on the upstairs rooms."
Emily nodded. Her still-damp fingers brushed the apron lightly.
"I like simple things. Washing, folding, preparing."
Martha smiled, her eyes resting on her with care.
"There's something good about putting your hands to work. Stops you from thinking too much."
Emily looked up.
"That's what I'm after."
The two fell silent for a while. Only the ticking of the old clock and the distant sound of the men in the field filled the air.
Martha adjusted a flower in the table's vase.
"You know… some days I feel like that too. Like my head wants to run faster than my heart can keep up."
Emily gripped a mug, her eyes lowered.
"You're lucky, Martha. You've got a husband who listens. A home. A baby growing inside you."
Martha approached, sitting down slowly.
"I've had losses too. Before Clark, I tried to get pregnant for years. Sometimes… all we have is hope."
Emily held the mug tighter. The steam rose slowly. Her voice came out softer.
"I know what it's like to wait for something that doesn't come."
Martha didn't reply. She just stayed there. Present. Aware.
---
Outside, Ben rejoined the others. The conversation had cooled. Mark was jotting notes in a small notebook. John watched the sky, as if predicting rain.
"She seems nice."
Mark grumbled without looking up from the paper.
"Too nice to be true, that's what."
John let out a low sound, something between a short laugh and agreement.
"Some people fake sweetness like they fake an accent. Comes from within, but it's practiced."
Ben stopped.
"You guys don't even know her."
Mark looked up from the notebook, surprised by the tone.
"And you do?"
"No. But… I'm not making stuff up just because she's quiet."
John looked at him calmly.
"Ben, we're just talking. No need to take it seriously."
"It feels like judgment. Like… just because she looks slow or talks soft. That doesn't mean something's wrong."
Mark closed the notebook.
"You're still young, kid. You'll get it with time."
Ben clenched his fists. The gloves creaked under the pressure.
"Young doesn't mean stupid. Or blind."
John raised an eyebrow.
"And sensitive now, is that it?"
Ben felt heat rise to his ears.
"It's not sensitive. It's respect. She lost a baby, damn it."
Mark crossed his arms.
"She thinks she lost one. There's a difference."
"She feels she lost one. That's enough."
John turned to face Ben fully.
"Nobody's laughing at her, kid. Just… we've seen a lot around here. Good people. Broken people. And some who are a bit of both. We're just saying to keep an eye out."
Ben took a step back, breathing deeply.
"Sometimes… people just need someone to believe in them."
Mark huffed.
"And sometimes, what they need is a doctor. Or a wall between them and what they can't control."
Silence fell for a full second.
The sound of the wind through the fields swept away the unspoken words.
Ben looked away. Clenched his fingers. Bit his tongue.
He wanted to say more. But the weight of the others' age—and his own inexperience—settled over him like a damp blanket.
---
Emily was drying her fingers on the cloth tied to her waist when she passed the hallway window. The glass was slightly fogged from the kitchen's steam, but a quick wipe with the back of her hand gave her a clear view of the side yard.
The three men were still out there.
She didn't know their names exactly, but their faces were starting to stick in her mind like clippings from a magazine she never wanted to read.
The older one—the gray-haired man who smiled too much—stood with his arms crossed, facing the youngest. The one in the blue shirt, who seemed as quiet as an ancient tree, watched them with a patience too deliberate to be innocent.
But the young one…
The youngest among them was agitated. His hands moved tensely, and he spoke quickly, his body leaning forward, as if trying to impose an idea with his shoulders.
His fists were clenched. A slight tremor in his jaw betrayed his effort to control his tone—without success.
Emily narrowed her eyes.
Her smile vanished completely. The air around her seemed to thicken, and the dish towel slipped from her hand without her noticing.
'He's angry.'
The other two had more restrained expressions. The gray-haired man seemed to respond with something that called for calm. The other just watched, but not with fear—with curiosity. As if testing how far the youngest would go.
The kid didn't seem to be winning the debate. But he also didn't seem ready to stop.
'He's the youngest. The most impulsive.'
Emily squinted. Her mouth formed a rigid line.
'The kind of young guy who talks loud to make up for what he doesn't understand.'
One of the men crossed his arms. The other shook his head.
The young one took a step back. Stiff. Breathing hard. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed to hold something back—anger, maybe. Or wounded pride.
His body trembled slightly. His jaw still tense.
Emily stepped back from the window as if she'd seen an armed shadow.
'No.'
'Not this one.'
'This one can't be near my baby.'
She took a deep breath, trying to slow her heartbeat. But it was useless. Adrenaline was already coursing.
'This is the type who starts with arguments in the field and ends up breaking furniture inside the house.'
'A fuse disguised as a worker. A wolf trying to be a lamb.'
She returned to the kitchen with light steps, but her eyes remained fixed—even if now they only saw the memory of the angry young man outside.
Martha was turned away, kneading the bread dough.
"Want to put this second batch in the oven, Emily? I've got the tray ready."
"Sure."
The reply came firm. Precise.
But inside, Emily was already drawing the lines of a decision.
'The house isn't safe with him around.'
She didn't know he was defending her. Didn't know his eyes were filled with compassion for her. That his tension came from hating to hear criticism about someone who, to him, deserved protection.
Emily only saw a threat.
And threats… needed to be eliminated.
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