OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 1: The Last Straw

The rain had a particular way of mocking Edwin Carter.

It wasn't the gentle, poetic kind of rain that romantic movies loved to feature during dramatic reconciliation scenes. No, this was the angry, spiteful kind—the type that came down in sheets so thick you could barely see three feet ahead, the type that somehow found its way into your shoes no matter how carefully you stepped, the type that seemed specifically engineered by the universe to ruin what was supposed to be the most important night of his life.

Edwin stood outside La Maison Belle, the city's most exclusive French restaurant, clutching a velvet box in his pocket like a lifeline. His reservation had been made three months in advance. His suit—a charcoal gray Armani that had cost him two months' salary—was now plastered to his body like a second skin. His carefully styled hair had transformed into what could only be described as a drowned rat's aesthetic.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the woman inside the restaurant. The woman he had spent two years loving, two years planning a future with, two years believing was *the one*.

Victoria McCall.

Beautiful, sophisticated, ambitious Victoria, with her razor-sharp wit and her laugh that sounded like wind chimes. Victoria, who had held his hand through his father's health scare and his promotion anxiety. Victoria, who had whispered *"I love you"* against his lips just last week.

Victoria, who was currently sitting at *their* table—the corner booth by the window, the one he had specifically requested—with another man's tongue down her throat.

Edwin blinked.

Perhaps the rain was distorting his vision. Perhaps this was some sort of stress-induced hallucination. He had been working long hours lately, after all. Maybe his brain had finally decided to stage a revolt.

He wiped his eyes and looked again.

Nope. Still there. Still kissing. Still very much not a hallucination.

The man was tall, blond, and possessed the kind of chiseled jawline that belonged on magazine covers. He wore a suit that probably cost more than Edwin's car. His hand was resting possessively on Victoria's waist—the same waist Edwin had held while slow-dancing in their apartment just three nights ago.

Something inside Edwin cracked.

It wasn't a dramatic shattering, not yet. It was more like the first fracture in ice before a lake gives way—a small, quiet *snap* that promised greater destruction to come.

His feet moved before his brain could catch up. The restaurant's glass door swung open, and suddenly he was inside, dripping a small ocean onto the pristine marble floor, drawing the horrified gazes of every patron in the establishment.

Victoria looked up.

For a split second—one tiny, infinitesimal moment—Edwin saw something flicker across her face. Guilt? Fear? Surprise? He couldn't tell. It vanished too quickly, replaced by an expression he had never seen her wear before: cold, calculating annoyance.

"Edwin." She said his name like it was an inconvenience. Like *he* was the intruder here. "What are you doing?"

The blond man had the audacity to look amused. He leaned back in his chair, one arm still draped over Victoria's shoulders, and regarded Edwin with the kind of lazy interest one might show a particularly entertaining street performer.

"This is him?" the man asked, his voice carrying a hint of a European accent. French, maybe. Or Swiss. Something expensive-sounding. "The boyfriend?"

"Ex," Victoria corrected smoothly. "Or at least, he will be after tonight."

Edwin felt the second crack spread through his chest.

"Ex?" His voice came out rougher than intended, scraping against his throat like sandpaper. "Victoria, what—I don't understand. We were supposed to have dinner. I made reservations. I—"

He stopped himself before he could mention the ring. The ring that suddenly felt like a lead weight in his pocket, dragging him down into the expensive marble floor.

Victoria sighed—actually *sighed*—as if his confusion was somehow exhausting to her.

"Edwin, darling, let's not make a scene." She gestured vaguely at the watching diners, some of whom had completely abandoned any pretense of minding their own business. An elderly woman at the next table was openly recording on her phone. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"*I'm* embarrassing myself?" The laugh that escaped him was bitter, foreign. "You're the one who's—who's—"

"Moving on?" Victoria supplied helpfully. "Growing? Choosing someone who can actually match my ambitions?"

She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that Edwin almost missed the cruelty buried in her words. Almost.

The blond man—Edwin refused to think of him as anything more specific—chuckled. "Victoria, mon cœur, perhaps we should take this somewhere more private?"

"No need." Victoria rose from her seat, smoothing down her designer dress—the red one Edwin had bought her for their anniversary. "I was planning to end things tonight anyway. Edwin just saved me a phone call."

The third crack. The fourth. The fifth.

"Two years," Edwin heard himself say. "We've been together for two years, Victoria. You said you loved me. You said—you talked about our future. Kids. A house. You said—"

"People say a lot of things." Victoria collected her clutch purse with perfectly manicured fingers. "Surely you're old enough to know that words don't always mean what you want them to mean."

She walked past him without another glance, the blond man following with a patronizing pat on Edwin's shoulder that made him want to commit acts of violence.

"Better luck next time, friend," the man said, and then they were gone, disappearing into a sleek black car that had materialized at the curb like some sort of villain's chariot.

Edwin stood in the middle of La Maison Belle, dripping, broken, and very much the center of attention.

The elderly woman was still recording.

A waiter approached cautiously, the way one might approach a wounded animal. "Sir? Sir, are you alright? Can I get you... a towel? Some water? A taxi?"

Edwin reached into his pocket.

His fingers closed around the velvet box.

Slowly, mechanically, he pulled it out and opened it. The diamond caught the restaurant's chandelier light and sparkled mockingly—two carats of wasted hope, of naive dreams, of love that had apparently only ever existed in his imagination.

"Sir?" The waiter's voice had taken on a note of genuine concern. "Sir, I really think you should sit down—"

Edwin closed the box with a snap.

"I'm fine," he said, though they both knew it was a lie. "I'm absolutely fine."

He turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving a trail of water and dignity in his wake.

The apartment was dark when Edwin finally made it home.

He didn't bother turning on the lights. He knew every inch of this space—had memorized it over the year he'd lived here, first alone, then with Victoria's presence slowly creeping in. Her toothbrush in the bathroom. Her clothes in his closet. Her perfume lingering in the air like a ghost that refused to leave.

Now, standing in the darkness, he could see traces of her everywhere. The throw pillows she had insisted on buying. The abstract painting above the couch that he had never understood but pretended to love because it made her happy. The half-empty bottle of her favorite wine in the kitchen.

Two years.

Two *years* of his life, given to someone who had apparently been waiting for a better option to come along.

Edwin made his way to the couch and sat down heavily, still in his soaked suit, still clutching the ring box like it meant something. Water pooled beneath him, ruining the upholstery. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating.

This wasn't his first heartbreak. That was perhaps the worst part. He had been here before—not in this exact apartment, not with this exact ring, but in this emotional wasteland where love had led him and then abandoned him without a map.

There had been Sarah, his college sweetheart, who had decided that "finding herself" required finding herself in bed with his roommate.

There had been Michelle, the marketing executive he'd dated for eight months, who had ghosted him so completely that he sometimes wondered if she had been a figment of his imagination.

There had been Jennifer, the "perfect match" from the dating app, who had seemed wonderful until she revealed that she was still married and had no intention of changing that status.

And now Victoria.

Beautiful, treacherous Victoria, who had taken his heart and used it as a stepping stone to something better.

Edwin's phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, half-expecting a message from Victoria—an apology, an explanation, something to make this make sense. Instead, he found a notification from his social media.

*Victoria McCall has updated her relationship status.*

With morbid curiosity, he clicked on it.

*Victoria McCall is in a relationship with Laurent Dubois.*

Laurent Dubois. So the blond man had a name. A quick scroll revealed that Laurent was the CEO of a French tech startup valued at approximately three hundred million dollars. His profile picture showed him standing in front of a yacht. An actual yacht.

Of course.

Of *course* Victoria had traded up. That was what she did, wasn't it? Climbed ladders, social and otherwise. Edwin had just been a rung on her way to somewhere better.

More notifications flooded in. Friends reacting with shocked emojis. Acquaintances sending carefully worded messages of false sympathy. His mother calling, then calling again, then sending a text that read: *"Edwin James Carter, I just saw Facebook. Call me immediately."*

He turned off his phone.

The silence returned, somehow heavier than before.

Edwin sat in the darkness for a long time, letting the weight of his failure settle over him like a wet blanket. Three relationships. Three betrayals. Three times he had given his heart to someone, only to have it handed back in pieces.

There was a pattern here, and he was tired of being too stupid to see it.

Love, he decided, was a scam.

A beautiful, seductive scam designed to make fools of people who should know better. It promised happiness and delivered misery. It whispered sweet nothings and screamed bitter everythings. It was a drug, and he was done being an addict.

No more.

No more first dates filled with nervous hope. No more late-night phone calls that made his heart race. No more planning futures with people who had no intention of showing up for them.

He was done.

*Done.*

The decision settled into his bones with a finality that felt almost peaceful. It was the peace of surrender, of giving up a fight he had never been equipped to win.

But giving up required going somewhere. Staying here, in this apartment full of memories, in this city full of opportunities for his heart to be stupid again—that wasn't surrender. That was torture.

He needed to leave. To go somewhere so far removed from romance that the very concept couldn't find him.

His phone buzzed again.

He had turned it off. He was sure he had turned it off.

And yet, there it was, lighting up with a name that made something complicated twist in his chest.

*Grandma.*

Despite everything, Edwin answered.

"Edwin? Edwin, honey, is that you?"

His grandmother's voice crackled through the speaker, warm and worried in equal measure. Martha Carter had never quite mastered the art of the smartphone—she still held it six inches from her ear and spoke at a volume appropriate for shouting across a football field—but the love in her voice came through crystal clear.

"Yeah, Grandma." Edwin's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, it's me."

"Your mother called. She's worried sick. Something about Facebook and a French man and—oh, honey, are you alright?"

The question broke something in him.

Maybe it was the genuine concern, so different from Victoria's cold dismissal. Maybe it was the reminder that somewhere in the world, people actually cared whether he was okay. Or maybe he was just exhausted, wrung out, completely emptied of any ability to pretend.

Whatever the reason, Edwin found himself telling her everything.

The restaurant. The rain. The kiss that wasn't meant for him. The ring still heavy in his pocket. The pattern of failures that made up his romantic history. The decision he had just made, still fresh and raw.

His grandmother listened without interruption—a minor miracle, given her usual conversational style—and when he finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.

"Edwin," she said finally, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it, "come home."

Home.

He hadn't thought of the countryside house as home in years. It was where he had spent his summers as a child, chasing fireflies and learning to fish and getting spectacularly sunburned because he refused to wear sunscreen. It was where his grandparents had retired to when they decided that city life wasn't for them. It was a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a vegetable garden and absolutely zero cell phone reception.

It was, he realized, exactly what he needed.

"Come home," Grandma repeated. "Your grandfather and I have plenty of space. You can stay as long as you like. Help with the garden. Learn to make my famous apple pie. Forget about all those city girls who don't know a good thing when they see it."

"Grandma—"

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Edwin James. You've been running yourself ragged in that city, chasing after people who don't deserve you. It's time to stop. Come home. Rest. Heal."

She said it with such conviction that Edwin almost believed healing was possible.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"You'll do more than think," Grandma replied firmly. "I'll have your room ready by Friday. Your grandfather's already excited—he's been wanting someone to play chess with."

"Grandma, I haven't agreed—"

"Friday, Edwin. We'll have pot roast."

She hung up before he could protest further.

Edwin stared at his phone, a small, unwilling smile tugging at his lips. Martha Carter had never been one to take no for an answer. His grandfather liked to joke that she had proposed to *him* because she got tired of waiting for him to work up the courage.

Friday.

Could he really do it? Pack up his life and run away to the countryside like some character in a bad rom-com?

*Rom-com*, he thought bitterly. There would be no romance in his future. He had made that decision, and he intended to keep it. What he needed was a com—comedy, companionship, something to distract him from the gaping hole in his chest.

His grandparents could provide that. The countryside could provide that. A life without dating apps and fancy restaurants and women who were always looking for someone better—that sounded like paradise.

Edwin stood up.

He was still soaking wet, still wearing his ruined Armani suit, still holding a ring box that represented thousands of dollars and countless shattered dreams. But for the first time since walking into that restaurant, he felt something other than pain.

He felt *decided*.

The apartment could be sublet. His job—corporate consulting, soul-crushingly boring but well-paying—offered remote work options. His lease was up for renewal next month anyway. The logistics weren't impossible.

The only thing holding him here was inertia. And the faint, foolish hope that maybe Victoria would change her mind, would realize she had made a mistake, would come running back to him with apologies and explanations.

He looked at the ring box.

Then he walked to the window, opened it, and threw the box into the night.

It arced through the rain, glinting once under a streetlamp, and then disappeared into the darkness below. Probably landed in a puddle. Probably would be found by some homeless person who would pawn it for cash. Probably a massive waste of money.

Edwin didn't care.

He closed the window, stripped off his wet clothes, and got into the shower. The hot water pounded against his back, washing away the remnants of the worst night of his life.

When he emerged, he felt different. Emptier, but also lighter. Like he had finally stopped carrying a weight he hadn't even known was there.

He dried off, put on sweats and an old college t-shirt, and sat down at his laptop.

*How to sublet an apartment in 30 days.*

*Remote work policy checklist.*

*Bus tickets to Willowbrook County.*

The search results populated his screen, each one a step toward a new life. A quieter life. A life where his heart would be safely locked away, protected from anyone who might try to break it again.

He booked the bus ticket for Friday.

Then he opened a new document and began to type.

*RULES FOR EDWIN CARTER'S NEW LIFE:*

*1. No dating. Ever. Under any circumstances. Not even if the woman seems perfect. ESPECIALLY if the woman seems perfect.*

*2. No romantic entanglements of any kind. This includes "casual" relationships, "friends with benefits," and "just seeing where things go."*

*3. No watching romantic movies, reading romantic books, or listening to love songs. These are gateway drugs to stupidity.*

*4. No believing in "the one," "soulmates," "fate," or any other romantic nonsense designed to make people ignore red flags.*

*5. No exceptions to rules 1-4.*

*6. Seriously, NO EXCEPTIONS.*

He saved the document and closed his laptop.

Outside, the rain was finally beginning to ease. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—a last complaint from the storm that had ruined his evening.

Edwin lay down on his couch, too tired to make it to the bedroom, and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would start packing.

Friday, he would leave.

And love—that beautiful, terrible, treacherous thing—would never hurt him again.

He fell asleep with that certainty wrapped around him like a shield, completely unaware that fate had very different plans.

Willowbrook County was exactly as Edwin remembered it: small, green, and approximately fifty years behind the rest of civilization.

The bus dropped him off at what generously could be called a "station"—really just a covered bench outside the general store—at three in the afternoon on a Friday so sunny it felt like a personal insult. After the dreary gray of the city, all this cheerful brightness seemed almost aggressive.

His grandfather was waiting in the old pickup truck, the same one he'd been driving since Edwin was a child. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

"There he is!" Harold Carter hopped out of the driver's seat with an energy that belied his seventy-three years. He was a tall man, still built like the farmer he'd been all his life, with a shock of white hair and a smile that crinkled his entire face. "The prodigal grandson returns!"

"Hey, Grandpa." Edwin accepted the crushing hug with a wince. His grandfather had never learned the concept of "gentle." "Thanks for picking me up."

"What, and make you walk five miles with all those bags? Your grandmother would have my hide." Harold grabbed the largest suitcase before Edwin could protest. "Besides, I've been looking forward to this. Do you know how long it's been since I've had someone to argue with about politics?"

"Grandma doesn't argue with you?"

"Your grandmother *agrees* with me. Very boring. I need opposition to keep my mind sharp."

Edwin found himself smiling despite everything. This was why he had come—this easy warmth, this unconditional welcome.

They loaded his luggage into the truck bed and climbed inside. The cab smelled like hay and engine grease and the peppermint candies his grandfather always kept in his pocket. Familiar. Safe.

"So," Harold said as he pulled onto the main road—a winding two-lane that cut through fields of corn and wheat—"your grandmother told me what happened."

Edwin's smile faded. "Grandma told you?"

"She tells me everything. Fifty-two years of marriage, no secrets." Harold glanced at him sideways. "You okay, son?"

The question was simple, direct. No prying, no judgment. Just genuine concern.

"I will be," Edwin said. "That's why I'm here."

Harold nodded slowly. "Good. That's good. You know, I had my heart broken once. Before your grandmother, there was a girl named Rosie who decided she preferred the fellow who owned the next farm over. Prettier cows, apparently."

"How did you get over it?"

"Time. Work. And then Martha showed up and Rosie became a distant memory." Harold chuckled. "Life has a way of working out, Edwin. Even when it feels like everything's falling apart."

Edwin didn't respond. He appreciated the sentiment, but he wasn't interested in "life working out" if that meant opening himself up to another Rosie. Or Sarah. Or Michelle. Or Jennifer. Or Victoria.

His list of rules was still fresh in his mind. No exceptions.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the countryside rolling past in waves of green and gold. Edwin had forgotten how beautiful it was here—how vast the sky looked without buildings crowding it, how clean the air smelled without exhaust and garbage competing for dominance.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe he could actually find peace here, far from the chaos of dating and relationships and women who wanted French billionaires instead of him.

"Oh, before I forget," Harold said suddenly, "the Kims moved into the old Peterson place about six months ago."

Edwin dragged his attention back from the window. "The Kims?"

"Korean family. Nice folks. The father's starting an organic farm—does all sorts of fancy vegetables the city restaurants pay big money for. The mother makes these incredible dumplings." Harold's eyes lit up at the memory. "And they have a daughter about your age. Kim Su Han, I think. Goes by Kimsoo."

Something cold prickled at the back of Edwin's neck. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Just being informative,you know! New neighbors, that's all. Your grandmother's already invited them to dinner next week."

"Grandpa..."

"What? It's a dinner. Neighbors do that here. Welcome people to the community. Very wholesome. Very innocent."

"If Grandma is trying to set me up—"

"Your grandmother would never," Harold said, in a tone that suggested his grandmother absolutely would.

Edwin groaned. He had been in Willowbrook County for approximately fifteen minutes, and already his resolution was being tested.

"I'm not interested," he said firmly. "In meeting anyone, in dating anyone, in *anything* related to—"

"—romance, love, relationships, et cetera," Harold finished. "Your grandmother mentioned that too. Said you've sworn off women entirely."

"That's right."

"Like a monk."

"If necessary."

Harold was quiet for a moment. Then he burst out laughing—a big, booming laugh that filled the truck cab and echoed off the windows.

"Oh, Edwin," he said, wiping his eyes, "you really are Martha's grandson. Stubborn as a mule and twice as convinced you're right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Harold said, turning onto the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, "that life has a funny way of ignoring our plans. You can build all the walls you want, son. But sometimes, fate sends someone with a sledgehammer."

Edwin crossed his arms. "Then I'll build thicker walls."

"Mm-hmm."

"I will. I'm serious."

"I believe you."

Harold's tone suggested he didn't believe anything of the sort. But before Edwin could argue further, the farmhouse came into view, and his grandmother was running down the porch steps with her arms already open for a hug.

"You're here! You're finally here! Oh, let me look at you—have you been eating? You look thin. Come inside, I've made pot roast, just like I promised—"

She swept him into the house in a whirlwind of fussing and feeding, exactly as he remembered, exactly as he needed.

And for a few hours, as he ate pot roast and played chess with his grandfather and listened to his grandmother's gossip about everyone in town, Edwin almost forgot about his broken heart.

Almost forgot about his rules.

Almost forgot that somewhere nearby, there was a Korean girl named Kimsoo who was apparently about his age and who his grandmother had already plotted to introduce him to.

He was here to hide from romance.

He was here to heal.

He was here to never, ever fall in love again.

And absolutely *nothing* was going to change that.

**End of Chapter 1**

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 2: Running Home

Edwin woke to the sound of a rooster.

Not a gentle, melodic crow from some respectable distance. No, this was a full-throated, aggressive assault on his eardrums that seemed to originate approximately three inches from his window.

He jolted upright, heart pounding, and squinted at the clock on the nightstand.

5:47 AM.

*5:47 AM.*

In the city, 5:47 AM was the hour when clubs were finally closing and the truly dedicated night owls were stumbling home. It was not, under any circumstances, a time for conscious humans to be awake.

The rooster crowed again, somehow louder than before.

Edwin grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his ears, but the damage was done. His brain, now rudely awakened, refused to return to sleep. It began instead to helpfully replay the events of the past week: Victoria's cold dismissal, the bus ride through increasingly rural landscapes, his grandmother's suffocating affection.

He groaned and threw off the covers.

The guest room—*his* room now, apparently—was exactly as he remembered it from childhood summers. Faded floral wallpaper that his grandmother had been promising to replace since 1995. A creaky wooden bed frame that announced every movement with theatrical enthusiasm. A window that looked out over the back garden and, beyond it, miles of farmland stretching toward a horizon that seemed impossibly far away.

And, apparently, a rooster who had chosen the fence post directly below as his personal stage.

Edwin dragged himself to the window and glared down at the offending bird. It was a magnificent specimen, he had to admit—all iridescent green-black feathers and an impressive red comb. It stared back at him with the beady, unrepentant eyes of a creature who knew exactly what it was doing and felt no remorse whatsoever.

"I will eat you," Edwin threatened through the glass.

The rooster crowed a third time, directly at him, and strutted away with what could only be described as contempt.

"I see you've met Bartholomew."

Edwin spun around. His grandmother stood in the doorway, already fully dressed in her gardening clothes, holding a cup of something steaming.

"That thing has a name?"

"Of course he has a name. He's been with us for three years." Martha crossed the room and pressed the cup into Edwin's hands. Coffee, black and strong enough to strip paint. "Bartholomew keeps the hens in line. Very important job."

"He also seems to think his important job includes waking me up before dawn."

"Early to bed, early to rise." Martha patted his cheek with the casual affection of grandmothers everywhere. "Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. You could use all three."

Edwin took a long sip of coffee and decided not to argue. He had been here for less than twenty-four hours; it was too soon to start fighting battles he was destined to lose.

"Breakfast in twenty minutes," Martha continued, already heading back toward the door. "Your grandfather's making pancakes. After that, you can help me in the garden."

"I'm not really a gardening person—"

The door closed on his protest.

Edwin sighed, looked at Bartholomew's retreating form through the window, and resigned himself to his new reality.

Breakfast was, objectively speaking, incredible.

Harold Carter might be seventy-three years old, but the man could cook pancakes like they were an Olympic sport and he was going for gold. They were fluffy, perfectly golden, and served with real maple syrup and fresh butter that had apparently been acquired from a neighbor's cow.

"Mrs. Henderson," Harold explained, sliding another stack onto Edwin's already-overloaded plate. "She keeps dairy cows. Lovely woman. Widowed about five years back, but she runs that farm better than her husband ever did."

"She also makes cheese," Martha added. "I'll take you to meet her this weekend. She's been wanting to sell some of her cheddar at the farmer's market, but she needs someone to help with the business side."

Edwin paused mid-bite. "Why would I help with the business side?"

"You're a consultant, aren't you? Isn't that what you do? Help businesses?"

"I'm a *corporate* consultant. I work with Fortune 500 companies on merger acquisitions and market positioning strategies. I don't know anything about selling cheese at farmer's markets."

Martha waved a dismissive hand. "Business is business. You'll figure it out."

"I'm on vacation."

"You're *healing*," Martha corrected. "And nothing heals the soul like helping others. Speaking of which—" She exchanged a glance with Harold that Edwin immediately recognized as dangerous. "—the Kims are coming to dinner tonight."

Edwin's fork clattered against his plate.

"The neighbors you mentioned yesterday? The Korean family?"

"Lovely people," Harold said, suddenly very focused on his pancakes. "Very excited to meet you."

"How can they be excited to meet me? They don't know me."

"Oh, we've told them all about you." Martha's smile was the picture of innocence. "How successful you are, how smart, how handsome. Mr. Kim was particularly interested when I mentioned you work in consulting. He's been having some trouble with his business plan—"

"I am not consulting for a vegetable farm."

"Of course not, dear. Just some friendly advice over dinner. Neighbor to neighbor."

Edwin looked between his grandparents, searching for an escape route and finding none. The dinner was clearly already arranged. His presence was clearly already expected. Any attempt to back out would be met with guilt, disappointment, and probably a detailed recounting of all the sacrifices Martha had made throughout her life, starting with the eighteen hours of labor she'd endured to bring Edwin's father into the world.

"Fine," he said. "Dinner. But I want to be clear: I'm not interested in meeting their daughter."

"Their daughter?" Martha blinked with theatrical confusion. "Did we mention a daughter?"

"Grandpa told me yesterday. Kim Su Han. About my age."

"Did I?" Harold's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "I don't recall. Getting old, you know. Memory's not what it used to be."

"Your memory is fine."

"Is it? Can't even remember what day it is."

"It's Saturday."

"See? Completely slipped my mind."

Edwin gave up. There was no winning against these two. They had been married for over half a century; their ability to coordinate schemes was practically telepathic.

"I'm just saying," he continued, determined to make his position clear even if it was pointless, "I didn't come here to meet women. I came here to get away from—" He gestured vaguely. "—all of that."

Martha's expression softened slightly. "We know, sweetheart. And we're not trying to push you into anything. The Kims are genuinely nice people, and it would be rude not to welcome them properly. That's all this is."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

Harold nodded solemnly. "Just a friendly dinner between neighbors."

Edwin wanted to believe them. He really did.

But he'd seen the way they looked at each other. The tiny smile Martha tried to hide. The conspiratorial glint in Harold's eyes.

They were up to something.

He just had to survive dinner without giving them any ammunition.

The garden, as it turned out, was less of a garden and more of a small agricultural operation.

Martha led Edwin past the neat rows of tomatoes and cucumbers, past the herb section that she claimed was "just for cooking" but which included several plants he suspected had medicinal purposes, past the fruit trees and the berry bushes and the flowers that attracted approximately ten thousand bees.

"Your grandfather built that irrigation system himself," she said proudly, pointing to a complex arrangement of hoses and sprinklers. "Took him three years to get it right. The first version flooded the entire back half of the property."

"Impressive."

"It keeps us busy. That's the point, really." Martha handed him a pair of gardening gloves and a small spade. "When you're our age, you need something to do. Something that makes you feel useful."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, Edwin following Martha's instructions on which weeds to pull and which plants to leave alone. The sun rose higher, warming his back. Birds sang in the nearby trees. Bartholomew occasionally crowed from somewhere behind the barn, reminding everyone of his continued existence.

It was... peaceful.

Edwin hadn't expected that. He'd thought he would miss the city—the noise, the energy, the constant stimulation. But there was something soothing about the rhythm of physical work, about watching his grandmother's weathered hands move with practiced efficiency through the soil.

"Your grandfather was heartbroken once," Martha said suddenly, not looking up from the tomato plant she was pruning. "Before we met."

Edwin paused. "He mentioned. Rosie something?"

"Rosie O'Brien. Pretty girl. Red hair. Terrible taste in men, obviously." Martha's lips quirked. "Harold was devastated when she chose the farmer next door. Swore he'd never love again. Sound familiar?"

"It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

"I've been hurt three times, Grandma. Four, if you count the one who ghosted me completely. At some point, you have to recognize a pattern."

Martha sat back on her heels and looked at him—really looked, with the penetrating gaze of someone who had seen too much of life to be fooled by surface-level explanations.

"The pattern," she said slowly, "isn't about love. It's about the people you've been choosing."

"So I should choose better? That's your advice?"

"My advice is to stop choosing at all." She returned to her pruning. "Harold didn't choose me. He wasn't looking for anyone. He was too busy nursing his wounded pride and pretending he'd never been hurt. And then one day, I walked into his father's general store looking for flour, and that was that."

"That was what?"

"That was *that*." Martha smiled at the memory. "We argued for ten minutes about whether his flour was overpriced—it was, by the way—and by the end of it, we were both hopelessly smitten. Not that we admitted it for another six months. Harold was too stubborn, and I was too proud."

Edwin tried to imagine his gruff, teasing grandfather as a young man, wounded by love and determined to never try again. It was surprisingly easy.

"What changed?"

"Nothing changed. Everything changed." Martha shrugged. "We stopped fighting what was meant to be. Once you do that, the rest falls into place."

"What was meant to be," Edwin repeated flatly. "So you believe in fate?"

"I believe that some things are bigger than our plans. Bigger than our fears." She patted his knee and rose to her feet with a grace that belied her years. "I'm not saying you have to fall in love, Edwin. I'm just saying that if you spend all your energy building walls, you might miss something wonderful trying to find its way in."

She headed back toward the house before he could respond, leaving him kneeling in the dirt with a spade in one hand and too many thoughts in his head.

Fate.

*Fate.*

He didn't believe in fate. Fate was a convenient excuse people used to justify bad decisions. "It was meant to be," they said, when what they really meant was "I didn't think this through but it worked out anyway."

Victoria had talked about fate too. About how they were "destined" to be together. Look how that had turned out.

Edwin stabbed the spade into the soil with more force than necessary and resumed weeding.

He was here to heal. Not to fall in love. Not to believe in cosmic nonsense.

And nothing—not his grandmother's stories, not his grandfather's knowing looks, not some mysterious neighbor girl who may or may not exist—was going to change that.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of domestic activity.

Harold enlisted Edwin's help in fixing a loose board on the porch ("just takes two hands and five minutes, you'll see"), which turned into replacing three boards, which turned into repainting the entire porch railing because "well, we're already out here."

By the time they finished, Edwin's arms ached, his back was protesting, and he had discovered muscles he didn't know existed.

"Good work," Harold said, surveying their handiwork. "You've got a natural talent for this."

"I have paint in my hair."

"Character. Adds character."

They shared a beer on the newly-repaired porch, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. The sky turned shades of orange and pink that no city sunset could match.

"About tonight," Harold said carefully, "your grandmother means well."

"I know."

"She just wants you to be happy."

"I know that too."

"The Kims really are good people. Mr. Kim—David, he goes by—is a former software engineer. Made his money in Silicon Valley, got tired of the rat race, decided to try something different." Harold took a sip of his beer. "His wife, Sun-hee, is a retired professor. Art history, I think. Very cultured woman."

Edwin waited for the inevitable addition.

"And their daughter—"

"Here we go."

"—is apparently quite something. We haven't met her properly yet. She keeps to herself mostly. Helps on the farm, goes into town occasionally, but she's not what you'd call social."

This was unexpected. Edwin had been bracing for a sales pitch—beautiful, smart, perfect for you—not a description of a recluse.

"Why does she keep to herself?"

Harold shrugged. "No idea. The parents don't talk about it much. Sun-hee mentioned once that Kimsoo went through something difficult before they moved here, but she didn't elaborate."

Something difficult. Edwin knew all about going through something difficult. He felt an unwilling flicker of kinship with this girl he'd never met.

"Maybe she just doesn't like people," he offered.

"Maybe." Harold's tone suggested he didn't quite believe it. "Anyway, she's supposed to come tonight. Sun-hee said she promised to make an appearance."

"I'm not interested."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

Harold finished his beer and stood up with a groan. "Well, let's get cleaned up. Your grandmother will have my hide if I show up to dinner covered in paint."

Edwin followed him inside, trying not to think about the mysterious Kim Su Han.

She kept to herself. She'd gone through something difficult. She didn't like people.

In other circumstances, those might have been qualities he'd find intriguing.

But these weren't other circumstances.

These were the circumstances of a man who had sworn off romance entirely.

And he was going to stick to that, no matter how curious he might accidentally become.

The Kims arrived at exactly 6:30 PM.

Edwin watched from the living room window as a modest blue sedan pulled up the driveway. Two figures emerged from the front seats—a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, and a petite woman in an elegant but understated dress.

No one emerged from the back seat.

His grandparents were already at the door, greeting the new arrivals with the enthusiastic warmth of people who had spent too long without company. Edwin hung back, suddenly awkward. He had spent years navigating corporate dinners and networking events, but something about this felt different. More personal. More consequential.

"Edwin!" His grandmother's voice cut through his hesitation. "Come meet the Kims!"

He took a breath and stepped onto the porch.

David Kim was exactly as Harold had described: the kind of man who looked like he'd spent decades in front of computer screens before discovering the outdoors. His handshake was firm but not aggressive, and his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth when he smiled.

"The famous Edwin Carter. Your grandparents have told us so much about you."

"All terrible things, I hope."

David laughed. "Mostly glowing praise. You'll have to work hard to live down their expectations."

Sun-hee Kim was small and elegant, with the kind of natural grace that made every movement look choreographed. Her English was impeccable, with just the faintest hint of an accent that spoke of years spent moving between languages.

"It's wonderful to meet you," she said, taking both of Edwin's hands in hers. "When Martha told us her grandson was coming to stay, we were so happy. Young people bring such energy to a place."

"I don't know about energy." Edwin gestured to his still-aching muscles. "Your definition of 'young' might need some recalibrating."

Sun-hee's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, you'll adjust. A few weeks of country air and country work, and you'll feel twenty again."

They all moved inside, Martha herding them toward the dining room where an impressive spread of food had been laid out. Pot roast again, but also several Korean side dishes that Sun-hee had brought—kimchi, japchae, something with tofu that smelled incredible.

Edwin found himself seated next to David, across from Sun-hee, with his grandparents at either end of the table.

There was an empty chair next to Sun-hee.

Everyone noticed. No one mentioned it.

"So, David," Harold said, passing the pot roast, "how's the farm coming along?"

What followed was an animated discussion about organic farming techniques, soil composition, and the surprising difficulty of convincing local restaurants to pay premium prices for premium vegetables. David, it turned out, had the passionate enthusiasm of a convert—someone who had discovered a new calling later in life and threw himself into it completely.

"The biggest challenge is certification," he explained. "Getting the organic label requires three years of documented chemical-free farming. We're in year two, so we're still operating at a loss."

"But the quality is there," Sun-hee added. "You should see the tomatoes. They're extraordinary."

"I'd love to see the farm sometime," Edwin found himself saying. "My grandfather mentioned you're working on a business plan?"

David's face lit up. "Harold said you're a consultant? Yes, we've been trying to put together something coherent, but neither of us has a business background. Silicon Valley was all about building products and hoping someone else figured out how to sell them."

"I could take a look at what you have. No promises, but fresh eyes sometimes help."

"That would be incredible. Thank you."

Martha caught Edwin's eye across the table and smiled with barely concealed triumph. He had walked directly into her trap and hadn't even noticed.

*Damn it.*

The conversation flowed easily after that. Sun-hee asked about Edwin's work in the city, and he found himself explaining corporate consulting in the most digestible terms possible. David shared horror stories from his startup days. Harold told increasingly exaggerated tales of farming mishaps that made everyone laugh.

It was nice. Normal.

Edwin almost forgot about the empty chair.

Almost.

Halfway through dessert—Martha's famous apple pie, which lived up to every memory Edwin had of it—Sun-hee's phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, and something flickered across her face. Worry? Frustration? It was gone too quickly to identify.

"Please excuse me for a moment." She rose from the table with practiced grace and stepped into the hallway.

The rest of them continued eating, but the mood had shifted. David's smile seemed more strained now. His eyes kept darting toward the hallway where his wife had disappeared.

"Is everything alright?" Martha asked gently.

"Oh, yes. Fine." David's voice was a little too bright. "Just some farm logistics. You know how it is."

Edwin didn't buy it, and judging by the look his grandparents exchanged, neither did they. But they were all too polite to push.

Sun-hee returned a few minutes later, her expression carefully neutral.

"I'm so sorry," she said, reclaiming her seat. "Kimsoo sends her apologies. She's not feeling well and won't be able to join us tonight."

The empty chair seemed to grow more prominent.

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Harold asked.

"No, no. Just a headache. She gets them sometimes." Sun-hee's smile was flawless, but Edwin had spent years reading corporate executives trying to hide bad news. She was lying—or at least not telling the whole truth. "She was looking forward to meeting everyone. She's just... she has difficult days sometimes."

"We completely understand," Martha said warmly. "Please tell her we hope she feels better. There will be other dinners."

"Yes. Other dinners." Sun-hee nodded, but something in her voice suggested uncertainty.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. They finished dessert, moved to the living room for coffee, and spent another hour in easy conversation. But Edwin couldn't shake the feeling that something was off—that the Kim family was carrying a weight they hadn't disclosed.

*Kimsoo went through something difficult before they moved here.*

Harold's earlier words echoed in his mind. What kind of difficult? What kind of something? And why would a young woman fake illness to avoid meeting neighbors at a simple dinner party?

Not his business, Edwin reminded himself. Not his problem. He was here to avoid romantic entanglements, not to solve mysteries about reclusive neighbor girls.

But curiosity had always been his weakness.

It was nearly ten when the Kims finally left, with many promises to have dinner again soon and repeated assurances that Edwin would come by the farm to look at their business plan.

Edwin helped his grandparents clean up, carrying dishes to the kitchen while they washed and dried with the efficiency of long practice.

"They're nice people," he said, setting down a stack of plates.

"Told you." Harold accepted a dish from Martha and began drying it. "Good neighbors are hard to find."

"What do you think is going on with the daughter?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Martha and Harold exchanged one of their wordless communication glances.

"We don't know," Martha admitted finally. "We've only met her once, and very briefly. She came by to drop off some vegetables when they first moved in. Seemed sweet, if a bit... reserved."

"Sun-hee mentioned something about her having anxiety issues," Harold added. "But I got the sense there was more to it."

"She seemed upset about the phone call," Edwin observed. "More than just 'our daughter has a headache' upset."

Martha sighed. "Whatever it is, it's their private business. We can be good neighbors without prying."

"I wasn't going to pry."

"No, but you were curious." She gave him a knowing look. "I saw your face when they mentioned her. You wanted to know more."

Edwin opened his mouth to deny it and then closed it again. What was the point? His grandmother had been reading him like a book since he was three years old.

"Just natural curiosity," he said instead. "She sounds like an interesting person."

"Mm-hmm."

"That's not—I'm not interested in her like *that*."

"Of course not."

"I'm not. I'm just saying—if someone is avoiding social situations to the point of faking illness, there's usually a reason. And as a human being, I'm naturally curious about the reasons other human beings do things."

"Very logical."

"It is logical. It's completely logical."

Martha patted his cheek with a damp hand. "You should get some sleep, sweetheart. Bartholomew waits for no one."

Edwin groaned at the reminder. "Isn't there something we can do about that rooster?"

"What, get rid of Bartholomew? He's been with us for three years!"

"I wasn't suggesting getting rid of him. Just... relocating him. To the back of the property. Where sound doesn't travel."

"Bartholomew likes his spot by your window."

"Of course he does."

"He's very particular."

"I can tell."

Harold clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it. City boys always do, eventually."

Edwin sincerely doubted that. But he was too tired to argue.

He said goodnight to his grandparents and trudged up the stairs to his room. The bed creaked its familiar greeting as he sat down. Through the window, he could see the dark shapes of trees against the star-filled sky, and beyond them, the faint lights of what must be the Kim farm.

Kim Su Han was over there somewhere. Hiding in her room. Avoiding people. Carrying some secret that made her parents exchange worried glances when they thought no one was watching.

Not his business.

Not his problem.

He pulled out his phone and opened the document he'd created on that miserable night in his apartment.

*RULES FOR EDWIN CARTER'S NEW LIFE:*

*1. No dating. Ever. Under any circumstances.*

*2. No romantic entanglements of any kind.*

*3. No romantic movies, books, or songs.*

*4. No believing in fate, soulmates, or romantic nonsense.*

*5. No exceptions.*

*6. SERIOUSLY, NO EXCEPTIONS.*

He should add a seventh rule, he thought. *No becoming curious about mysterious neighbor girls.*

But that would require admitting he was curious, which he absolutely wasn't.

He was just... aware. That was all. Aware that there was a person nearby who seemed to be struggling with something. As a fellow human being who was also struggling with something, he felt a natural empathy.

That was it.

Nothing more.

Edwin turned off his phone, lay back on the creaky bed, and stared at the ceiling.

He wondered what Kim Su Han looked like. Whether she really had headaches or if that was just an excuse. What "something difficult" meant in her family's coded language. Whether she ever looked out her window at night and saw the lights of the Carter farmhouse in the distance.

*Stop it,* he told himself firmly. *You don't even know her. You've never met her. She's probably completely ordinary and your imagination is just running wild because you're bored.*

The thought wasn't particularly convincing.

He rolled onto his side and forced his eyes closed.

Tomorrow, he would help his grandmother in the garden. He would fix whatever else needed fixing on the porch. He would maybe go into town and see what passed for civilization in Willowbrook County.

He would not think about Kim Su Han.

He would not wonder about her secrets.

He would not imagine scenarios in which they might accidentally meet—at the general store, perhaps, or on the road between their farms, or at some local event that his grandmother would inevitably drag him to.

He would not.

He *would not*.

Edwin fell asleep still telling himself that, with the conviction of a man who was already losing a battle he didn't know he was fighting.

The next few days settled into a rhythm.

Edwin woke at dawn (thanks to Bartholomew), ate breakfast (thanks to Harold's cooking), worked in the garden or around the house (thanks to Martha's endless list of tasks), and fell into bed exhausted each night (thanks to muscles that had apparently never been used before).

It was physical labor in a way his office job had never been. His hands developed calluses. His back learned to bend without complaining. His skin turned a shade of tan that would have required three weeks of beach vacation to achieve in the city.

And slowly, despite his best efforts, he found himself thinking less about Victoria.

Not forgetting—the wound was too fresh for that. But the constant ache had dulled to something more manageable. The moments between thinking about her grew longer. The anger that had burned so hot in those first days cooled into something more like resignation.

She had made her choice. He had made his.

What was done was done.

"You're smiling more," Martha observed one morning, as they knelt side by side in the herb section. "I like it."

"Must be all the rosemary. Isn't that supposed to improve mood?"

"That's for memory. You're thinking of lavender."

"Then it must be the lavender."

Martha laughed and swatted his arm with her gardening glove. "It's the fresh air and honest work. That's what it is. Nothing heals a heart like getting your hands dirty."

Edwin looked at his hands—dirt under his fingernails, small cuts from rose thorns, the beginnings of calluses on his palms. A week ago, he would have been horrified. Now, they just felt like evidence of a life being lived.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right. Your grandfather figured that out about forty years ago."

"Heard that," Harold called from the porch, where he was allegedly fixing a squeaky step but appeared to be mostly drinking coffee and supervising. "And for the record, it was closer to forty-five years."

Martha rolled her eyes with the affection of long practice. "My point is, you're doing better. And I'm proud of you."

The simple words hit Edwin harder than he expected. He'd spent so many years trying to prove himself in boardrooms, to clients, to women who ultimately didn't care. He'd almost forgotten what unconditional pride felt like.

"Thanks, Grandma."

"Now." She brushed off her hands and stood up with the energy of a woman half her age. "Speaking of doing better—have you thought any more about visiting the Kim farm?"

And there it was. The inevitable pivot back to the neighbors.

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding."

"I've been productively avoiding."

Martha gave him a look that said she wasn't fooled for a second. "David called yesterday. He's got his business plan ready for you to look at. Sun-hee invited us all for dinner on Friday."

"All of us?"

"All of us. Dinner at their place. They're insisting on returning our hospitality." A pause. "Kimsoo will be there this time. Sun-hee promised."

Edwin felt something complicated twist in his chest. Anticipation? Anxiety? Curiosity?

None of the above, he decided firmly. He felt nothing. He was an emotional void.

"I don't want any matchmaking," he said.

"No matchmaking."

"I mean it, Grandma."

"So do I. It's just dinner. You'll look at the business plan, we'll eat Sun-hee's cooking—which is apparently extraordinary—and you'll meet the neighbors properly. Nothing more."

She said it with such perfect innocence that Edwin almost believed her.

Almost.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "Friday. Dinner. But if there's any hint of matchmaking—"

"There won't be."

"—I'm leaving immediately."

"Understood."

They shook on it, there in the garden, with the morning sun warming their backs and Bartholomew crowing triumphantly from his fence post.

Edwin had a feeling he was going to regret this.

But then again, he'd regretted a lot of things lately.

What was one more?

Friday arrived with alarming speed.

Edwin spent the day in a state of low-level agitation that he refused to examine too closely. He changed his shirt three times before settling on a simple blue button-down. He actually combed his hair. He even considered shaving but decided that was a step too far into "trying to impress someone" territory.

"You look nice," Martha said when he came downstairs.

"I look normal."

"You look like you made an effort. Same thing."

Harold was already waiting in the pickup truck, wearing what appeared to be his version of formal wear—clean jeans and a shirt with buttons. He gave Edwin a knowing look as they climbed in.

"Nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous? It's just dinner."

"Right. Just dinner." Harold started the engine with a cough and a rumble. "That's why you changed your shirt four times."

"Three times."

"Martha counted four."

"Martha should mind her own business."

"Martha's been minding other people's business for seventy years. Don't expect her to stop now."

The Kim farm was about a ten-minute drive down winding country roads. As they approached, Edwin could see why David had fallen in love with organic farming. The property was beautiful—rolling hills covered in neat rows of vegetables, a charming farmhouse with a wrap-around porch, and a large barn that had been painted the quintessential red.

Sun-hee was waiting on the porch when they arrived. She looked elegant as ever in a simple sundress, her smile warm and welcoming.

"You came! We're so happy. Please, come in—David's just finishing something in the kitchen."

The inside of the Kim house was a blend of Korean and American aesthetics—modern furniture mixed with traditional artwork, family photos alongside landscape paintings. It felt lived-in and comfortable in a way that expensive city apartments never managed to achieve.

David emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Farmer" and carrying a tray of appetizers.

"Edwin! Good to see you. I hope you're hungry—Sun-hee made enough food for an army."

"I learned to cook for Korean grandparents," Sun-hee explained. "They were deeply suspicious of any meal that didn't involve at least fifteen dishes."

The appetizers were indeed incredible—dumplings that David proudly announced were made with vegetables from their own farm, along with various pickled items and something crispy that Edwin couldn't identify but immediately loved.

They settled into the living room with drinks, and David produced a thick folder that Edwin recognized as a business plan.

"I know this is supposed to be a social dinner," David said, "but I couldn't resist. Just take a look when you have a chance. No pressure."

Edwin flipped through the first few pages. The plan was detailed, if a bit unfocused—the passion was evident, but so was the lack of business experience.

"I can work with this," he said. "You've got good instincts. Just need some structure."

David's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

They spent the next half hour discussing target markets and pricing strategies, with Harold and Martha occasionally interjecting with local knowledge about who bought what at the farmer's market. Sun-hee excused herself to check on dinner, but not before shooting David a look that clearly communicated *don't overwhelm the poor boy*.

It was during a pause in the business discussion that Edwin finally asked the question that had been hovering at the back of his mind all evening.

"Is your daughter joining us tonight?"

The mood in the room shifted subtly. David's smile became a little fixed. Harold suddenly found his drink very interesting.

"She's getting ready," David said. "She'll be down for dinner."

"Is she still not feeling well?"

"She's... better." The hesitation was almost imperceptible. "Kimsoo has her good days and bad days. Today is a good day."

Something about the way he said it—*good days and bad days*—made Edwin think again about Harold's words. *She went through something difficult.* What kind of difficult created good days and bad days?

Before he could wonder further, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Everyone in the room turned toward the doorway.

Edwin held his breath without quite knowing why.

A moment passed. Then another.

And then Sun-hee appeared, alone, her expression carefully neutral.

"Kimsoo sends her sincere apologies," she said, each word measured and precise. "She's having one of her... episodes. She won't be able to join us tonight."

The disappointment in David's eyes was obvious, even as he tried to hide it. "It's alright. These things happen."

"I'm so sorry," Sun-hee continued, turning to Martha and Harold. "She was really trying this time. She was dressed and ready and then..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Please don't apologize," Martha said warmly. "We understand. Whatever she's going through, she shouldn't push herself on our account."

Harold nodded in agreement. "Tell her we're thinking of her. And that there's no pressure. We're patient people."

Sun-hee looked genuinely moved by their kindness. "Thank you. You don't know how much that means."

Edwin didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say.

But something had sparked in his chest—something that felt uncomfortably like concern. This girl, this Kim Su Han, was clearly struggling with something significant. Something that made her unable to face a simple dinner with neighbors. Something that made her parents exchange those careful looks and speak in those measured tones.

*Not your problem,* he reminded himself. *Not your business.*

But the spark didn't go away.

Dinner was excellent, as promised.

Sun-hee had prepared a feast—Korean BBQ with all the accompaniments, multiple banchan dishes, rice, soup, and a dessert involving sweet rice cakes and red bean paste that made Martha ask for the recipe three times.

The conversation flowed easily, carefully avoiding the topic of the absent daughter. They talked about the farm, about the adjustment from city to country life, about the various characters who populated Willowbrook County.

"Have you met Mrs. Henderson yet?" Sun-hee asked Edwin. "The woman with the dairy cows?"

"Not officially. Grandma's planning an introduction."

"She's wonderful. Very direct. The first time I met her, she told me my hairstyle was wrong for my face shape and offered to fix it."

"Did you let her?"

"I did. She was right." Sun-hee touched her hair self-consciously. "She's right about most things. It's infuriating."

They laughed, and for a moment, it felt like just any normal dinner between neighbors. Easy. Uncomplicated.

And then David said, "Kimsoo liked her too. Mrs. Henderson, I mean. They had a nice conversation about art once. Apparently Mrs. Henderson used to paint."

The name hung in the air.

"Kimsoo likes art?" Edwin asked, before he could stop himself.

"She loves it." Pride crept into David's voice. "She was an art history minor in college. Her room is full of prints and books. She can tell you everything about any painting from any period."

"She was going to be a museum curator," Sun-hee added. "Before..."

She stopped. The sentence trailed off into loaded silence.

"Before you moved here?" Harold prompted gently.

"Yes." Sun-hee's smile was brittle now. "Before we moved here."

The conversation moved on, but Edwin filed away the information. Art history. Museum curator. A life interrupted by something that had brought the whole family to this remote corner of the country.

The mystery of Kim Su Han was growing deeper.

It was nearly nine when they finally left, with many thanks and promises to do it again soon. Sun-hee pressed containers of leftovers into their hands, insisting that they would go to waste otherwise.

The drive home was quiet.

Harold focused on the dark road. Martha stared out the window. Edwin sat in the back seat, thinking.

"Something's wrong with that girl," Harold said finally. "Really wrong."

"Harold." Martha's voice was gently warning.

"I'm not gossiping. I'm observing. Did you see David's face when she didn't come down? And Sun-hee—she looked like she was about to cry."

"Whatever it is, it's their business."

"I know it is. I'm just saying... something's wrong."

Edwin leaned forward between the front seats. "Have you heard any rumors? About what happened before they moved here?"

"Nothing specific." Harold shook his head. "Mrs. Henderson might know more—she has a way of finding things out—but she's never said anything."

"Maybe there's nothing to find out. Maybe she just has anxiety."

"Maybe." Harold didn't sound convinced.

They pulled up to the Carter farmhouse, and everyone climbed out in silence. The stars were brilliant tonight, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled a jar of diamonds.

"I liked them," Martha said as they walked to the door. "The Kims. Whatever they're dealing with, they're good people trying their best."

"They are," Harold agreed.

Edwin thought about the look on Sun-hee's face when she'd announced that Kimsoo wouldn't be coming down. The careful control. The hidden devastation.

He thought about David's pride when talking about his daughter's love of art. A life that had been heading somewhere before it wasn't.

He thought about a girl he'd never met, hidden somewhere in that farmhouse, unable to face the simple act of meeting neighbors.

*Not your problem.*

*You're here to heal, not to solve other people's mysteries.*

He said goodnight to his grandparents and climbed the stairs to his room. Bartholomew had apparently gone to sleep for once, leaving the night peacefully quiet.

Through his window, Edwin could see the distant lights of the Kim farm.

Somewhere over there, Kim Su Han was probably in her room too. Looking at her art prints. Reading her books. Waiting for morning to bring another good day or another bad one.

He didn't know her.

He'd never met her.

He shouldn't care.

And he didn't.

***** end of chapter 2******

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 3: Grandma's Remedy

---

Martha Carter had a philosophy about heartbreak.

It wasn't complicated. It didn't require therapy or medication or any of the modern solutions that people seemed to rely on these days. It was simple, time-tested, and—in her humble opinion—absolutely foolproof.

*Keep them so busy they don't have time to think.*

This was why Edwin found himself, at seven o'clock on a Monday morning, standing in the middle of the chicken coop with a bucket of feed and absolutely no idea what he was doing.

"Just scatter it," Martha instructed from the doorway, where she stood with her arms crossed and an expression of barely concealed amusement. "They're not complicated creatures. They see food, they eat it."

"They're looking at me."

"They're chickens, Edwin. They look at everything."

"They're looking at me *specifically*. That one—" He pointed at a particularly aggressive-looking hen with rust-colored feathers. "—I think she wants to kill me."

"That's Henrietta. She's the alpha. Just show her who's boss."

"How do I show a chicken who's boss?"

"Confidence. Chickens can sense fear."

Edwin took a deep breath, reminded himself that he had once negotiated a multi-million-dollar merger under intense pressure, and scattered the feed with what he hoped was an authoritative gesture.

Henrietta immediately charged at him.

What followed was approximately thirty seconds of pure chaos. Edwin stumbled backward, tripped over a water trough, and landed in a pile of hay that was—thankfully—relatively clean. The chickens swarmed around him, pecking at the spilled feed with complete disregard for his dignity. Henrietta stood on his chest and stared directly into his eyes with what could only be described as contempt.

From the doorway, Martha was laughing so hard she had to hold onto the frame for support.

"Confidence!" Edwin shouted from his position on the ground. "You said confidence!"

"Well, clearly you don't have any!" She wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, Edwin. I haven't laughed like that in months. Thank you."

"Happy to provide entertainment," he grumbled, gently moving Henrietta off his chest and climbing to his feet. Hay clung to his clothes, his hair, and somehow the inside of his shirt. "What's next on your agenda? Wrestling a pig? Sword-fighting a goat?"

"Nothing so dramatic. We're going to clean out the attic."

Edwin paused in his attempts to remove hay from uncomfortable places. "The attic?"

"It hasn't been properly sorted in twenty years. Your grandfather keeps saying he'll do it, but he never does. I figure you could use the distraction."

She said it casually, but Edwin caught the underlying message. *The attic was full of memories. Sorting through it would be hard. But hard work was good for healing hearts.*

Martha Carter's philosophy in action.

"Fine," he said, brushing off the last of the hay. "But if I find anything weird up there, I'm not responsible for my reaction."

"Define weird."

"Taxidermy. Old love letters from secret admirers. A skeleton."

Martha's expression flickered—just for a moment—before returning to its usual warmth. "You won't find anything like that."

The way she said it made Edwin immediately suspicious.

---

Across the fields, in the Kim household, a different kind of chaos was unfolding.

Kim Su Han—Kimsoo to anyone who knew her—sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the outfit laid out before her. A simple blue dress. Comfortable shoes. Minimal jewelry.

It was the outfit her mother had chosen for Friday's dinner.

The dinner she hadn't been able to attend.

*Again.*

She could still remember the moment it had happened. She'd been ready—actually ready, for once. Hair done. Makeup applied. Determination firmly in place. She'd walked to the top of the stairs, heard the voices below, and...

And the feeling had started.

That cold, creeping dread that wrapped around her chest like a vice. The whisper in the back of her mind that said *if you go down there, something terrible will happen*. The certainty—irrational but unshakeable—that meeting the Carter grandson would somehow trigger the curse.

She knew it didn't work that way. The curse didn't activate just because she was in the same room as a man. It required something more specific. Something more dangerous.

But tell that to her anxiety.

"Kimsoo?" Her mother's voice came through the door, gentle but concerned. "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake."

Sun-hee entered without waiting for further invitation—a habit that Kimsoo had long since stopped protesting. Her mother needed to see her, needed the constant reassurance that she was still there, still alive, still surviving another day.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Really fine? Or 'I'm saying fine so you'll stop asking' fine?"

Kimsoo managed a weak smile. "Somewhere in between."

Sun-hee sat down on the bed beside her, smoothing the blue dress with absent fingers. "I'm not upset about Friday, you know. Neither is your father."

"I know."

"We understand. We've always understood."

"I know, Eomma."

"I just want you to know that the Carters were very kind about it. They didn't push or pry. They said—" Sun-hee's voice caught slightly. "—they said there's no pressure. That they're patient people."

Something complicated twisted in Kimsoo's chest. Gratitude? Shame? A combination of both?

"They sound nice," she said.

"They are nice. All three of them." Sun-hee paused, and Kimsoo braced herself for what was coming. "The grandson—Edwin—he seemed particularly understanding. He's been through some difficulties himself, apparently. A bad breakup."

"Eomma..."

"I'm not saying anything! I'm just... making an observation."

"An observation with matchmaking subtext."

"There's no subtext. I'm simply noting that he's a kind young man who might understand what it's like to struggle. That's all."

Kimsoo closed her eyes. Her mother meant well—she always meant well—but she didn't fully grasp the impossibility of what she was suggesting. A kind young man who might understand. As if understanding would change anything. As if kindness could overcome a curse that had already claimed so much.

"I'm going to help Appa with the farm today," she said, changing the subject with the grace of long practice. "The tomatoes need checking."

Sun-hee accepted the redirect with visible reluctance. "Alright. But eat breakfast first. Real breakfast, not just coffee."

"I will."

"And maybe later we could go into town? There's a new art supply store that opened. I thought—"

"Maybe."

It was the best Kimsoo could offer, and they both knew it. *Maybe* meant *probably not, but I love you for trying*.

Sun-hee kissed her forehead and left without another word.

Kimsoo sat alone in her room, surrounded by art prints and books and all the remnants of a life she'd been building before everything fell apart. On her desk, a half-finished sketch of a landscape sat waiting for attention she couldn't muster.

Somewhere out there, on the neighboring farm, was a man named Edwin Carter who had been through difficulties. Who might understand.

But understanding wasn't the same as being able to help.

And nobody could help her.

---

The Carter attic was, in a word, terrifying.

Not in the haunted-house sense—there were no cobwebs or suspicious stains or inexplicable cold spots. It was terrifying in the way that all repositories of accumulated life are terrifying: boxes upon boxes of memories, stacked in precarious towers that threatened to topple at the slightest touch.

"Twenty years," Edwin repeated, surveying the chaos. "You haven't cleaned this in twenty years."

"Your grandfather has a strong attachment to... everything." Martha handed him a box cutter. "We're going to go through it systematically. Keep, donate, or trash. No sentimentality."

"You just said he's attached to everything."

"Which is why I'm having *you* do it. You have no emotional investment in—" She pulled out a random item from the nearest box. "—a broken lamp shaped like a flamingo."

"That's... a choice."

"Your grandfather won it at a carnival in 1987. He was very proud of himself."

Edwin took the flamingo lamp and placed it in what he designated as the "absolutely not" pile. It was the first item of many.

They worked through the morning, with Martha providing commentary on each discovered artifact. Old photo albums that made her smile and occasionally tear up. A box of records that Harold had sworn were valuable but were actually warped beyond usefulness. Christmas decorations from the 1970s that featured an alarming amount of tinsel.

And then, buried near the back, Edwin found something unexpected.

It was a small wooden box, plain and unassuming. But unlike everything else in the attic, it was clean—no dust, no cobwebs. As if someone had been handling it recently.

"Grandma? What's this?"

Martha's reaction was immediate and telling. She went very still, and something flickered across her face—a complex emotion that Edwin couldn't quite read.

"That's... personal," she said finally. "You can leave that one alone."

"Is it love letters from secret admirers?"

"Edwin."

The warning in her voice was gentle but firm. This was a boundary, clearly drawn.

"Sorry." He set the box aside without opening it. "I was just curious."

Martha took a breath, seeming to debate something internally. Then she sat down on an old trunk and gestured for Edwin to join her.

"When I was your age," she said, "I made a mistake. A big one. And that box... it contains the reminders of that mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

"The kind you never quite get over." She met his eyes with unusual seriousness. "Before your grandfather, before I was the woman you know, I was someone else. Someone who made bad decisions for what I thought were good reasons. And sometimes, when I need to remember why I became who I am, I look at what's in that box."

Edwin didn't know what to say. He had always thought of his grandmother as... complete. Fully formed. The idea that she had a past, a history of mistakes and regrets, was unexpectedly humanizing.

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."

"I know you didn't." Martha patted his hand. "I'm just saying—everyone has chapters they don't talk about. It doesn't make them bad people. It makes them *people*."

She stood up, brushing off her clothes with her characteristic efficiency. "Now. Let's see what other horrors your grandfather has been hoarding up here."

The moment passed, but Edwin couldn't quite shake the weight of it. His grandmother had secrets. His grandmother had made mistakes. His grandmother had been young and confused and imperfect, just like him.

It was strangely comforting.

---

Back at the Kim farm, Kimsoo was having a significantly worse morning.

It had started well enough. She'd managed to eat breakfast (real breakfast, as promised). She'd dressed in practical clothes for farm work. She'd walked out to the vegetable fields with something almost approaching purpose.

And then she'd seen the neighbor's dog.

Mrs. Henderson's golden retriever, to be specific—a friendly, enthusiastic creature named Butterscotch who had apparently escaped his yard and decided to explore the Kim property. He came bounding toward Kimsoo with his tongue out and his tail wagging, the picture of canine joy.

Kimsoo loved dogs. This should have been fine.

But Butterscotch wasn't alone.

Behind him, calling his name and running to catch up, was a young man. Tall, dark-haired, and—Kimsoo's heart sank—clearly headed straight toward her.

*It's fine,* she told herself. *It's just a neighbor retrieving his dog. Nothing dangerous about that. The curse won't—*

The young man got closer, and Kimsoo realized two things simultaneously.

First: this wasn't Edwin Carter. This was someone she'd never seen before—probably a farmhand or visiting relative.

Second: he was looking at her with the kind of expression that set off every alarm bell in her head.

Interest. Attraction. *Intent.*

"Hey!" he called out, slightly breathless. "Sorry about Butterscotch—he's an escape artist. I'm Jake, by the way. Jake Henderson. Mrs. Henderson's nephew. I'm visiting for the summer."

Kimsoo took an involuntary step backward.

"I'm—I have to go," she said, the words tumbling out too fast.

"Wait, I didn't catch your name—"

But she was already moving, walking as quickly as she could back toward the house without actually running. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweating. The familiar cold dread was spreading through her chest.

*He was looking at you.*

*He was interested.*

*You know what happens when someone is interested.*

She made it inside just as her father was coming out of his study, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Kimsoo? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. There was just—someone—the neighbor's nephew—"

David's expression shifted from puzzled to alert in an instant. "Did something happen?"

"No. He was just talking to me. That's all. But I couldn't—I didn't—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't explain the irrational terror that gripped her every time someone showed even the slightest romantic interest. The fear wasn't of them—it was of herself. Of what her curse would do if she let anyone get too close.

David pulled her into a hug, the way he had when she was a child and the world had seemed so much simpler.

"It's okay," he murmured. "You're okay. Nothing happened."

"I know nothing happened. That's not the point."

"I know it's not."

They stood like that for a long moment, father and daughter, united against a problem neither of them could solve. When Kimsoo finally pulled back, her eyes were dry but her hands were still shaking.

"I hate this," she said quietly.

"I know."

"I hate being afraid of *nothing*. Of normal conversations. Of friendly people."

"I know, sweetheart."

"It wasn't always like this. I used to be normal. I used to be able to—"

Her voice broke. David guided her to the living room couch and sat beside her, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder.

"You're still you," he said. "The curse took a lot, but it didn't take *you*. You're still the girl who can talk for hours about Renaissance paintings. You're still brilliant and funny and strong."

"I don't feel strong."

"Strong isn't about feeling strong. It's about getting up every morning when you'd rather stay in bed. It's about trying, even when trying is terrifying." He squeezed her shoulder. "You came outside today. You were going to work in the fields. That's strength."

Kimsoo leaned against her father's side, the way she had when she was small. He smelled like coffee and dirt and the organic fertilizer he was so proud of. Like home.

"The Carters' grandson," she said. "Is he..."

"Is he what?"

"Is he like Jake Henderson? Looking for..." She couldn't say the word. Couldn't even think it without the cold creeping in.

David was quiet for a moment. "From what your mother says, he's the opposite. He came here to get away from all that. Swore off romance entirely, apparently. Bad experiences."

Something in Kimsoo's chest loosened, just slightly. "Really?"

"Really. According to Martha, he has a whole list of rules about never falling in love again."

For the first time that morning, Kimsoo felt the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. A man who had sworn off romance. Who didn't want anything from anyone. Who was, in his own way, as closed-off as she was.

"That's... kind of funny, actually."

"How so?"

"Just—of all the neighbors we could have gotten. Someone who's actively avoiding exactly the thing I'm afraid of."

David chuckled. "Life has a strange sense of humor."

"Or irony."

"Or that."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension of the morning slowly bleeding away. Outside, Kimsoo could hear the distant bark of Butterscotch—presumably being wrangled back home by his owner's nephew.

She should probably apologize for running off. Jake Henderson was probably confused and possibly offended. It wasn't his fault that her entire existence was a complicated mess of supernatural curses and irrational fears.

But not today.

Today, she would stay inside. Read a book. Maybe work on that half-finished sketch. Tomorrow—or next week, or next month—she would try again.

That was how she survived: one day at a time, one attempt at a time, one small victory at a time.

And if those small victories never added up to anything bigger?

Well.

At least she was still alive to count them.

---

Edwin found the letters after lunch.

They were in a box labeled "MISC" in his grandfather's cramped handwriting—a catch-all designation that apparently included old receipts, broken watches, and a bundle of envelopes tied with faded ribbon.

He almost put them aside. The morning's conversation about his grandmother's secrets had made him wary of digging too deep. But curiosity was a powerful force, and the letters weren't in Martha's mysterious wooden box—they were in his grandfather's miscellaneous pile.

Fair game.

The first envelope was addressed to Harold Carter, dated 1968. The handwriting was elegant, feminine, and definitely not Martha's.

*Dear Harold,*

*I know you said not to write, but I can't help myself. Please understand—*

Edwin stopped reading.

Rosie O'Brien, he realized. This had to be from her. The woman who had broken his grandfather's heart before Martha came along.

He should put it back. This was private, personal, none of his business.

He kept reading.

*—I made a mistake. James is steady and his farm is successful, but he doesn't make me laugh the way you do. He doesn't look at me the way you do. Every day, I wonder what my life would have been if I'd chosen differently.*

*Please, Harold. If there's any part of you that still cares—*

The letter continued for two more pages, growing increasingly desperate. By the end, Rosie was practically begging Harold to take her back, to save her from the boring life she'd chosen.

But of course, he hadn't.

Because by 1968, Harold had already met Martha. Had already been swept up in arguments about flour prices and surprise proposals and a love that would last fifty-two years.

"Find something interesting?"

Edwin jumped, shoving the letter behind his back like a guilty teenager. Harold stood in the attic doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I wasn't—I mean, I was just—"

"You found the letters from Rosie."

There was no point in denying it. Edwin nodded, shamefaced.

To his surprise, Harold laughed.

"That's alright. I forgot those were up here." He made his way across the cluttered space and settled onto the old trunk with a sigh. "What year did you get to?"

"1968."

"Ah. That's when she got really persistent." Harold shook his head with something like fondness. "She wrote to me for almost three years after we broke up. Begging, pleading, making promises. I never answered."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd already met your grandmother. And once you've met someone like Martha, everyone else becomes background noise." Harold reached out and took the letter from Edwin's unresisting hands. "Rosie was beautiful and charming and she broke my heart into a thousand pieces. But the day I married Martha, I thanked her for it."

"Thanked her for breaking your heart?"

"For clearing the path. For making me ready to see what was standing right in front of me." Harold tucked the letter back into its envelope with careful, reverent movements. "Pain isn't meaningless, Edwin. It's preparation. Every person who hurts you, every relationship that fails—they're teaching you something. Showing you what you don't want. Getting you ready for what you do."

Edwin thought about Victoria. About Sarah and Michelle and Jennifer. About the parade of disasters that made up his romantic history.

"What if what they're teaching me is that I shouldn't try at all?"

"Then you've missed the lesson." Harold's eyes were kind but firm. "The lesson isn't 'give up.' The lesson is 'choose better.' And sometimes, choosing better means not choosing at all—letting life choose for you."

"Like it chose Grandma for you?"

"Exactly like that." Harold stood up with a groan, his knees protesting the movement. "I wasn't looking for anything when Martha walked into my father's store. I was closed off, bitter, determined to never let anyone hurt me again. Sound familiar?"

"...maybe."

"And then there she was, yelling at me about flour prices, and I forgot every single rule I'd made for myself." Harold grinned at the memory. "Don't underestimate life's sense of humor, Edwin. It has a way of finding the cracks in our walls."

He left Edwin alone in the attic, surrounded by decades of accumulated memories and one faded bundle of letters from a woman who had lost her chance.

---

That evening, Sun-hee Kim made a decision.

She was going to take Kimsoo to town.

Not tomorrow. Not "maybe." Today.

"I know you don't want to," she said, before Kimsoo could protest. "I know it's hard. But you haven't left the property in two weeks, and the art supply store is having a sale on watercolors."

It was a calculated move. Sun-hee knew her daughter's weaknesses, and art supplies ranked high on the list.

Kimsoo hesitated. "What if..."

"What if what? What if someone looks at you? What if someone talks to you?" Sun-hee's voice was gentle but unyielding. "Sweetheart, I'll be right there. We'll go in, get the watercolors, and come out. Fifteen minutes."

"You always say fifteen minutes."

"And it's usually closer to thirty. But you always survive, don't you?"

The logic was infuriatingly sound. Kimsoo had never actually died during a trip to town. The fear had always been worse than the reality.

Always.

"Fine," she said. "But if someone tries to ask for my number, I'm leaving."

"If someone tries to ask for your number, I'll beat them with my purse. It has a hardcover book in it."

Despite everything, Kimsoo laughed. Her mother had a particular talent for threatening violence in a way that was somehow comforting.

They drove into town as the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. Willowbrook's main street was quiet at this hour—most of the shops closed by five, except for the general store and the one restaurant that served as the town's entire dining scene.

The art supply store was new, tucked between the hardware store and what had once been a barbershop. It was small but well-stocked, with the kind of organized chaos that spoke of a passionate owner.

"Oh," Kimsoo breathed when they walked in.

The walls were lined with canvases of every size. Brushes hung in neat rows. Tubes of paint were arranged by color, creating a rainbow that stretched across an entire wall. And in the corner, displayed with obvious care, was a collection of watercolor sets that made Kimsoo's artist heart sing.

She forgot, for a moment, about curses and fear and the constant weight of anxiety. She was just a girl in a store full of beautiful things.

Sun-hee watched her daughter's face light up and felt something loosen in her chest. This was why they'd moved here. This was what they were fighting for—these moments, however brief, when Kimsoo could be herself again.

"Take your time," she said. "I'll look at the sketchbooks."

Kimsoo drifted toward the watercolors like a moth to flame. She picked up sets, examined color swatches, compared brush quality with the practiced eye of someone who knew what she was looking at.

She was so absorbed that she didn't notice the other person in the store until she literally bumped into them.

"Oh—sorry—I wasn't—"

She looked up.

It was an older woman, maybe seventy, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and eyes that sparkled with curiosity. She was holding a set of acrylic paints and studying Kimsoo with frank interest.

"You're one of the Kim girls, aren't you? From the farm?"

Kimsoo's heart rate spiked, then settled. An older woman. Not a threat. "Yes. Kim Su Han. Kimsoo."

"Martha told me about you." The woman extended a hand. "I'm Patricia Henderson. I live on the property east of the Carters."

Henderson. The woman with the cows. The one with the nephew.

Kimsoo shook her hand cautiously. "I think I met your nephew today. Briefly."

"Jake mentioned something about that. Said you seemed to be in a hurry." Patricia's eyes were shrewd but not unkind. "He's a good boy, but he can be a bit... eager. I hope he didn't bother you."

"No, he was fine. I was just..." Kimsoo trailed off, unsure how to explain.

"Having a difficult day?" Patricia nodded as if this was perfectly understandable. "We all have those. No need to explain."

The simple acceptance was unexpectedly disarming. Kimsoo felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders.

"My mother says you used to paint," she heard herself say.

"Still do, when the arthritis cooperates. Mostly landscapes these days. The hills around here are beautiful, especially in autumn." Patricia tilted her head, studying Kimsoo with renewed interest. "You're the one who studied art history, aren't you? Sun-hee mentioned it."

"I... yes. Before we moved."

"I've always loved art history. Never understood it, mind you, but loved it. Maybe you could come by sometime, tell me what I'm doing wrong with my paintings."

It was an invitation. A simple, friendly invitation with no romantic undertones whatsoever. An older woman asking a younger one for art advice.

And yet Kimsoo's first instinct was still to refuse.

She caught herself. Took a breath. Remembered her father's words: *Strong isn't about feeling strong. It's about trying.*

"I'd like that," she said.

The words felt foreign in her mouth. She hadn't agreed to see anyone outside her family in months.

But Patricia Henderson smiled, warm and genuine, and something in Kimsoo's chest loosened just a fraction more.

"Wonderful. I'm usually home in the afternoons. Just come by whenever you're ready." She patted Kimsoo's arm with grandmotherly affection. "Now, I'd better get these paints before my check bounces. Lovely to meet you, Kimsoo."

She was gone before Kimsoo could respond, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of having made a connection.

Sun-hee appeared at her elbow, sketchbooks in hand. "Who was that?"

"Patricia Henderson. The neighbor."

"The one with the cows?"

"And the nephew."

"Ah." Sun-hee's tone was carefully neutral. "And how was that?"

Kimsoo thought about it. Really thought, instead of defaulting to her usual anxiety-driven response.

"It was... okay," she said slowly. "She invited me to come see her paintings sometime."

"And will you?"

"Maybe."

But this time, *maybe* sounded a little less like *no* and a little more like *I'm thinking about it*.

Sun-hee hid her smile behind the sketchbooks and led her daughter to the register.

---

That night, Edwin lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

The letters from Rosie O'Brien were still floating through his mind—all that desperation, all that regret, sent to a man who had already found something better.

His grandfather's words echoed: *Don't underestimate life's sense of humor. It has a way of finding the cracks in our walls.*

Edwin's walls were thick. He'd built them that way on purpose. But he was starting to realize that walls weren't just keeping things out—they were keeping him in.

Trapped.

Isolated.

Safe, yes. But also alone.

He thought about the Kim family. About the daughter who couldn't come to dinner. About the worried glances her parents exchanged when they thought no one was watching.

Whatever she was dealing with, it was clearly bigger than his broken heart. And somehow, that put things in perspective.

His phone buzzed.

A text from his mother: *How are you doing? Your father and I are worried. Call when you can.*

He typed out a response: *Better. Actually better. Tell Dad I'm learning to wrangle chickens.*

He sent it before he could second-guess himself.

Outside, the countryside was quiet. No sirens, no traffic, no noise of other people living their separate, hectic lives. Just darkness and stars and the occasional distant hoot of an owl.

And somewhere, on a farm he could almost see from his window, a girl he'd never met was probably lying awake too.

For the first time since coming here, Edwin felt curious about someone.

Not attracted—he reminded himself firmly. Not interested in *that* way.

Just... curious.

It was a start.

---

**End of Chapter 3**