THE COUNTRYSIDE WELCOME

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 4: The Countryside Welcome

It was Harold's idea.

"You can't spend your whole visit on this property," he said over breakfast, three weeks into Edwin's countryside exile. "There's a whole village out there. Mountains. Forests. A lake that's actually swimmable. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"

Edwin considered the question. When *was* the last time? In the city, "fun" had meant networking events disguised as parties, or expensive dinners meant to impress clients, or the occasional night out that was really just an excuse to drink away the stress of work.

Actual fun? The kind with no agenda, no purpose, no return on investment?

He couldn't remember.

"I've been helping with the farm," he offered weakly.

"That's work. Good work, but still work." Harold pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. "I made you an itinerary."

"You made me an *itinerary*?"

"I'm a planner. It's in my blood." Harold tapped the paper with evident pride. "Day one: tour of the village. Day two: hike up Miller's Peak. Day three: camping by the lake. I've included notes on landmarks, difficulty levels, and where to find the best pie in a fifty-mile radius."

Edwin unfolded the paper and found himself looking at what could only be described as a professional-grade travel document. Maps, bullet points, even little hand-drawn icons indicating points of interest.

"Grandpa... this is incredibly thorough."

"I had time. Your grandmother's been hogging you for gardening duty, so I've been planning." Harold leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression. "You'll thank me later."

Martha appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "What's this about an itinerary?"

"I'm sending Edwin on an adventure."

"Without me?"

"You hate camping. You've said so approximately four hundred times since 1972."

"I hate *your* camping. All that sleeping on the ground and eating canned beans. But I do enjoy a good village tour." Martha peered at the itinerary over Edwin's shoulder. "Oh, you included Mrs. Patterson's bakery. Good. Their apple turnovers are better than anything I've ever made, though I'll deny saying that if you repeat it."

Edwin looked between his grandparents—Harold's eager enthusiasm, Martha's barely concealed excitement—and felt something warm bloom in his chest. They were trying so hard to help him. To show him that life could be good, even after everything.

"Alright," he said. "I'll do it. The whole itinerary."

Harold clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I'll pack you a lunch for the village tour. Martha, where did we put that old hiking pack?"

"The one with the broken zipper or the one that smells like mildew?"

"The... third one."

"We don't have a third one."

"Then we need to go shopping."

What followed was two hours of preparation that Edwin suspected was wildly disproportionate to a simple day of sightseeing. By the time his grandparents were satisfied, he had a backpack full of supplies, three different maps (in case he lost the first two), a first aid kit, emergency snacks, and a whistle.

"The whistle is for if you get lost," Harold explained.

"In the village?"

"You never know."

Edwin decided not to argue. He accepted the whistle, pocketed the maps, and set off down the road with the distinct feeling that he was embarking on an expedition to uncharted territory rather than a tour of a small farming community.

Willowbrook Village was not, technically speaking, impressive.

It consisted of one main street, approximately two dozen buildings, and a population that Edwin estimated at somewhere between "small" and "everyone knows everyone's business." The general store anchored one end of the street, the single restaurant anchored the other, and in between was a collection of shops that seemed to exist more out of tradition than economic necessity.

And yet, walking down that main street for the first time, Edwin felt something he hadn't expected.

Charm.

It wasn't the polished, manufactured charm of tourist destinations. It was something more organic—the natural result of generations of people making their lives in the same place, layering history upon history until every building seemed to tell a story.

The hardware store had a hand-painted sign that was clearly older than Edwin's parents. The library—a converted house with a wraparound porch—had rocking chairs set out front and a cat sleeping in the window. The barber shop displayed photographs of every high school graduation class since 1952.

People noticed him as he walked. Not with the indifferent glances of city strangers, but with genuine curiosity. An older man sitting on a bench raised his coffee cup in greeting. A woman sweeping her storefront smiled and said, "You must be the Carter grandson. Welcome to Willowbrook!"

"Word travels fast," Edwin observed.

"Honey, word is the primary export around here." She laughed and returned to her sweeping. "Enjoy your tour!"

His grandfather's itinerary led him first to the general store—the one Harold's father had owned, the same one where Harold had met Martha all those years ago. It had changed hands several times since then, but the bones were the same: wooden floors worn smooth by decades of foot traffic, shelves packed with an eclectic mix of necessities and nostalgia, and a counter manned by someone who clearly had no intention of rushing anything.

"Help you?" The man behind the counter was approximately ninety years old and moved at a speed that suggested time itself was just a suggestion.

"Just looking around. My grandfather used to own this place."

"Harold Carter? Good man. Overcharged for flour, though." The old man winked. "I'm Ernie. Been running this place since Harold's daddy sold it in '75. You need anything, you let me know. No rush."

There was definitely no rush. Edwin spent twenty minutes browsing aisles that contained everything from canned goods to fishing tackle to a surprisingly extensive collection of romance novels. He ended up buying a bag of locally made beef jerky and a postcard featuring a sunset over Miller's Peak.

"Good choice," Ernie said, ringing him up at a pace that suggested the cash register was a complex piece of machinery requiring careful consideration. "Peak's beautiful this time of year. You hiking it?"

"Tomorrow, according to my grandfather's plan."

"Harold's plans." Ernie chuckled. "That man could plan an invasion of a small country. Probably has, somewhere in that head of his. Tell him Ernie says hello."

The next stop on the itinerary was Mrs. Patterson's bakery, which turned out to be worth every superlative Harold had written in the margins. The apple turnover was flaky, buttery, and filled with apples that tasted like they had been picked approximately ten minutes ago.

Mrs. Patterson herself was a round, cheerful woman who insisted on giving Edwin a second turnover "for later" and extracted a promise that he would come back before leaving town.

"Your grandmother's a wonderful woman," she said, "but she doesn't come to the bakery nearly often enough. I think she's afraid of the competition."

"She did mention your turnovers were better than hers."

Mrs. Patterson's face lit up like Christmas morning. "She *said* that? Oh, I'm going to remind her of that for the next twenty years."

The library was quieter—literally, as libraries tend to be, but also in the sense that it felt like a different world entirely. The cat in the window turned out to be named Hemingway, and he deigned to let Edwin pet him for approximately thirty seconds before returning to his nap.

The librarian, a young woman with purple-streaked hair and glasses that seemed slightly too large for her face, looked up from her book with mild interest.

"New in town or just visiting?"

"Staying with my grandparents. The Carters."

"Ah, the heartbreak recovery." She said it so casually that Edwin almost missed the implication. "Martha mentioned you might come by. She said you like reading?"

"I... yes. How does everyone know everything about me?"

"Small town. Also, Martha talks." The librarian—her nametag read "Zoe"—gestured toward the stacks. "Take your pick. We've got a decent fiction section and an extensive collection of local history if you're into that sort of thing. Returns are on the honor system. Don't steal anything."

"I wouldn't—"

"Everyone says that. Then they 'forget' to return the good mystery novels." Zoe's expression was deadpan. "I'm watching you, Carter."

Edwin wasn't entirely sure if she was joking.

He browsed the stacks for a while, eventually selecting a worn paperback mystery and a book on the history of Willowbrook County. Zoe checked them out with minimal commentary, though she did raise an eyebrow at the mystery choice.

"That one's good. The butler did it."

"Did you just spoil the ending?"

"Consider it a test. If you still enjoy the book knowing the ending, you're a true reader." She stamped his library card with unnecessary force. "Welcome to Willowbrook."

By afternoon, Edwin had covered most of the village proper and was making his way toward the outskirts, where the buildings gave way to farms and fields and the occasional picturesque barn.

His grandfather's itinerary included a note about a scenic overlook at the top of a small hill just past the Henderson property. *"Good views of the valley. Also, Mrs. Henderson usually has lemonade if you stop by. Tell her I sent you."*

Edwin followed the directions, passing Mrs. Henderson's dairy farm with its distinctive red barn and the aforementioned cows grazing peacefully in the fields. He was just cresting the hill when he heard a sound that made him freeze.

Barking. Enthusiastic, rapidly approaching barking.

He turned just in time to see a golden blur launching itself at him with the joyful abandon of a creature who had never met a stranger in its life.

"Butterscotch, NO—"

Too late. The dog hit Edwin square in the chest, sending them both tumbling backward into the tall grass. A warm, wet tongue immediately began attacking his face with aggressive affection.

"Get—off—please—"

"Butterscotch! Come here, boy!"

The dog was eventually extracted by a young man who looked about Edwin's age and was clearly trying very hard not to laugh.

"Sorry about that. He gets excited about new people." The man offered a hand to help Edwin up. "I'm Jake. Jake Henderson. You must be—"

"Covered in dog drool?"

"I was going to say 'the Carter grandson,' but that works too." Jake grinned. He was tall and athletic-looking, with the kind of easy confidence that suggested he had never been awkward a day in his life. "You okay?"

Edwin accepted the hand and hauled himself upright, brushing grass and dog hair off his clothes. "I'll survive. Your dog is... enthusiastic."

"That's a polite way to put it. Aunt Patricia says he has boundary issues." Jake grabbed Butterscotch's collar before the dog could launch a second assault. "Down, boy. We've traumatized the new neighbor enough."

"Is this the part where you tell me the dog is usually well-behaved and I just caught him on a bad day?"

"God, no. He's a menace. Has been since he was a puppy. Last week he knocked over the mailman and stole a package. We had to apologize with a pie." Jake shrugged cheerfully. "But he's also the best boy in the world, so we keep him anyway."

Butterscotch, as if understanding he was being discussed, sat down and gazed up at Edwin with an expression of pure, innocent adoration. His tail swept the ground in wide arcs, scattering dust in all directions.

It was, Edwin had to admit, hard to stay annoyed at something that looked that happy to exist.

"I was heading to the overlook," he said, gesturing vaguely at the hill. "My grandfather said there were good views."

"Oh, the views are great. I can show you if you want? I was just about to take Butterscotch for his afternoon walk anyway." Jake's offer seemed genuine, uncomplicated. "Fair warning, though: you'll probably get tackled at least twice more before we get there."

Edwin considered his options. He could continue alone, following the itinerary in peaceful solitude. Or he could accept the company of this stranger and his weaponized dog.

The old Edwin—city Edwin, guarded Edwin—would have made an excuse and walked away.

But he wasn't that Edwin anymore. Not entirely.

"Sure," he heard himself say. "Lead the way."

Jake Henderson, it turned out, was exactly what he appeared to be: uncomplicated, friendly, and almost aggressively normal.

He was visiting his aunt for the summer, taking a break between finishing college and starting a job at an engineering firm in the fall. He loved the outdoors, tolerated the slow pace of rural life, and had approximately zero ulterior motives for anything.

"It's peaceful out here," he said as they climbed the hill, Butterscotch bounding ahead of them with tireless energy. "No pressure, no expectations. Just... existing."

"That's what I'm going for too," Edwin admitted. "The existing part. Without the pressure."

"Aunt Patricia mentioned you had a rough time. Breakup or something?"

The question was casual, nonjudgmental. Just making conversation.

"Something like that."

"Been there. My ex dumped me three months ago. Said I was 'too nice' and she needed someone with 'more edge.'" Jake made air quotes with his fingers. "So now I'm here, petting cows and questioning my entire personality."

Edwin laughed despite himself. "Did you find the edge?"

"I'm considering getting a tattoo. Maybe learning to ride a motorcycle. Very dangerous stuff." Jake's eyes twinkled with self-deprecating humor. "Or I'll just accept that I'm a golden retriever in human form and find someone who appreciates that."

"Like Butterscotch."

"Exactly like Butterscotch. Loyal, enthusiastic, and occasionally knocking people over with affection." He paused. "That last part might need work."

They reached the overlook, and Edwin had to admit his grandfather hadn't exaggerated. The view was spectacular—rolling hills carpeted in green, farmhouses scattered like toy buildings, and in the distance, the purple-gray silhouette of Miller's Peak rising against the sky.

"Tomorrow's hike," Edwin said, nodding toward the mountain.

"You're doing Miller's Peak? Nice. The trail's not too hard, but the last mile's a killer. Bring water." Jake sat down on a flat rock, letting Butterscotch range freely across the hilltop. "You want company? I've done it a few times."

"My grandfather made me an itinerary. I think he wants me to have a 'solo journey of self-discovery' or something."

"Ah, the Harold Carter treatment. My aunt warned me about him. Said he's got plans for everything." Jake grinned. "But solo hikes can be boring. The offer stands if you change your mind."

Edwin filed the offer away. It was strange, making a potential friend so easily. In the city, friendships required careful cultivation, shared professional interests, mutual benefit. Here, apparently, you just needed to survive a dog attack and walk up a hill together.

"I'll think about it."

"Cool." Jake stretched out on the rock, utterly relaxed. "So what's the deal with the Kim girl? The one who lives near your grandparents?"

The question caught Edwin off guard. "I haven't actually met her yet. She's... kept to herself."

"I tried to introduce myself the other day. She basically ran away from me." Jake didn't sound offended, just curious. "Is she okay? Like, is there something I should know about?"

Edwin remembered his grandfather's words. *She went through something difficult.* The worried glances her parents exchanged. The empty chair at dinner.

"I don't know the details," he said carefully. "Just that she's dealing with some stuff."

"Fair enough. I didn't mean to be nosy." Jake sat up, brushing grass off his shirt. "I just felt bad, you know? Like maybe I did something wrong."

"I'm sure it wasn't you. From what I've heard, she's like that with everyone."

"Okay. Good to know." Jake whistled for Butterscotch, who came bounding back immediately. "We should head back. Aunt Patricia's making dinner and she gets cranky if we're late."

They walked down the hill together, Butterscotch weaving between them in patterns that seemed designed to maximize tripping hazards. By the time they reached the Henderson farm, Edwin had agreed to consider the hiking invitation and promised to stop by sometime for the famous lemonade.

"Nice meeting you," Jake said, extending a hand. "And sorry again about the whole tackling thing."

"It's fine. Gave me a story to tell."

"The best stories involve dog-related trauma. Proven fact." Jake grinned and disappeared into the farmhouse, Butterscotch at his heels.

Edwin walked back toward the Carter property as the sun began its descent, feeling unexpectedly light. He had made a potential friend. He had survived a dog attack. He had seen views that no city skyline could match.

Maybe his grandfather's itinerary wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Day two: Miller's Peak.

Edwin woke before dawn—partly from habit (Bartholomew had permanently damaged his sleep schedule), partly from anticipation. He packed his hiking bag with the meticulous care of someone who had consulted three different "beginner hiking tips" websites the night before: water bottles, energy bars, first aid kit, emergency whistle, extra socks.

His grandmother added sandwiches, fruit, and what she called "hiking cookies" but which were clearly just regular cookies in a different container.

"Call us when you reach the top," she instructed. "If you can get signal."

"And if I can't get signal?"

"Then call us when you can get signal." She kissed his cheek. "Be careful. Don't do anything stupid."

"Define 'stupid.'"

"Anything that ends with you in the emergency room. Or dead. Don't do anything that ends with you dead."

"I'll try my best."

The trailhead was a twenty-minute drive from the farm, at the end of a dirt road that seemed specifically designed to test the structural integrity of his grandfather's pickup truck. Harold had insisted on lending it, claiming the fresh air would do the old vehicle good.

"She needs to stretch her wheels occasionally," he'd said, patting the truck's hood with genuine affection. "Don't let her stall on the mountain."

The trail itself was well-marked and, for the first hour, almost pleasant. Edwin fell into a rhythm—left foot, right foot, breathe, repeat—and let his mind wander in ways the city had never allowed.

He thought about Victoria. Not with the sharp pain of fresh betrayal, but with something more like... analytical distance. Looking back, he could see the warning signs he'd missed: her ambition that bordered on ruthlessness, her way of making everything about advancement and opportunity, the subtle disappointment in her eyes whenever he did something that didn't serve her goals.

He had loved her. Or thought he had. But maybe what he'd actually loved was the idea of her—the fantasy of a perfect partnership that had never really existed.

It was a sobering realization.

Around mile three, the trail got steeper. Edwin's analytical musings gave way to more immediate concerns, like the burning in his calves and the growing suspicion that he was not as physically fit as he'd believed.

At mile four, he stopped for a water break and seriously considered turning back.

*The last mile's a killer,* Jake had warned.

But turning back felt like defeat. And Edwin Carter, despite his recent romantic failures, was not a quitter.

He pushed on.

The final mile was, indeed, a killer. The trail became a series of switchbacks carved into increasingly rocky terrain. Every step required attention. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His lungs burned with the thinner air.

And then, finally, mercifully, he reached the top.

"Holy..." Edwin dropped his pack and stared.

The view from Miller's Peak was extraordinary. Not just beautiful—*extraordinary*. He could see for miles in every direction: the patchwork of farms below, the dark green swath of forests, the glittering ribbon of a river he hadn't known existed. The village was a tiny cluster of buildings, almost invisible from this height.

He sat on a flat rock, drank water, and let the accomplishment wash over him.

He had climbed a mountain.

Nothing metaphorical about it. He had literally, physically climbed a mountain, and he had done it alone.

For the first time in weeks—maybe months, maybe longer—Edwin felt genuinely proud of himself.

He pulled out his phone and found, miraculously, one bar of signal. Enough to send a text to his grandmother: *Made it. View is incredible. Don't let Grandpa say I can't handle physical labor anymore.*

Her response came a few minutes later: *Proud of you. Come home safe. Also your grandfather says to tell you he never doubted you which is a lie because he was worried all morning.*

Edwin laughed and tucked the phone away.

He stayed at the summit for an hour, eating his sandwiches and his hiking cookies and watching clouds drift across a sky that seemed impossibly vast. At one point, a hawk circled overhead, riding the thermal currents with effortless grace.

The descent was easier, though his knees protested every step. By the time he reached the trailhead, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that no photograph could capture.

Day two: complete.

Tomorrow: camping.

Day three started with a crisis.

"The tent's been eaten," Edwin announced, holding up what remained of the old canvas shelter his grandfather had promised was "perfectly good, just needs some airing out."

Harold squinted at the tattered remains. "Those look like mouse holes."

"There are also some larger holes that I'm choosing not to speculate about."

"Ah." Harold rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I may have underestimated the storage conditions in the barn."

What followed was an impromptu shopping expedition to the general store, where Ernie moved at his customary glacial pace and eventually produced a small, modern tent that had apparently been in stock since "sometime in the '90s."

"Should work fine," Ernie assured them. "Only been opened once. Someone bought it, set it up in their backyard, got attacked by raccoons, and brought it back the next day."

"That's... not reassuring."

"It's got character now. Battle-tested." Ernie rang up the purchase. "That'll be forty-seven dollars. Cash or check, I don't trust those card machines."

Tent acquired, Edwin set off for Willow Lake—the camping destination Harold had marked with three stars on the itinerary.

The lake was about an hour's hike from the nearest road, following a trail that wound through dense forest before opening onto a small, pristine body of water surrounded by birch trees. It was the kind of place that belonged in nature documentaries, complete with bird calls and the gentle lap of water against the shore.

Edwin set up his "battle-tested" tent with minimal difficulty (only three attempts and one instance of swearing), gathered firewood, and settled in for an evening of what he mentally termed "aggressive relaxation."

Cooking over a campfire turned out to be more challenging than anticipated. His grandfather had provided detailed instructions ("Roast the hot dogs until they look like hot dogs, not charcoal"), but translating theory into practice while simultaneously battling smoke and uncooperative flames was another matter entirely.

The first hot dog caught fire.

The second one fell into the ashes.

The third one was, technically, edible. Edwin ate it with a sense of hard-won achievement, followed by a handful of hiking cookies for dessert.

As darkness fell, the forest came alive with sounds. Crickets, mainly, but also the occasional hoot of an owl and mysterious rustlings that Edwin firmly told himself were small, harmless creatures and definitely not bears.

He lay in his tent, staring at the canvas ceiling, and felt something he couldn't quite name.

Peace? Maybe. But also something more.

A sense of possibility. Like the walls he'd built around himself had developed tiny cracks, and through those cracks, light was starting to filter in.

He wasn't ready to love again. He might never be ready for that.

But maybe—just maybe—he was ready to stop being afraid of everything.

It was a good thought to fall asleep to.

Edwin returned to the village the next afternoon, tired but satisfied, with a backpack full of dirty clothes and a camera roll full of landscape photos that he would probably never share with anyone but couldn't stop taking.

He was heading toward the general store for a cold drink when he heard a commotion from the direction of the restaurant.

Shouting. Laughter. The unmistakable sound of something glass breaking.

Curiosity propelled him forward.

The scene that greeted him was, in a word, chaotic.

Jake Henderson stood in the middle of the restaurant's outdoor seating area, covered head to toe in what appeared to be pie. Blueberry, from the color. Behind him, an older woman—presumably the restaurant's owner—was wielding a mop like a weapon. And in the corner, a familiar golden shape was enthusiastically eating something off the ground.

"I TOLD YOU," the woman was shouting, "NO DOGS IN THE EATING AREA!"

"He wasn't supposed to be here! He escaped from the car!"

"HE ATE MRS. MILLER'S BIRTHDAY PIE!"

"I'll pay for it! I'll pay for twelve pies! Just please stop trying to hit me with the mop!"

Edwin watched in fascination as Butterscotch, apparently satisfied with his illicit feast, noticed his presence and came bounding over with tail-wagging enthusiasm.

"No," Edwin said firmly, taking a step back. "Stay. Bad dog."

Butterscotch ignored these instructions entirely and launched himself at Edwin's legs, smearing pie remnants across his hiking pants.

"Oh god, not you too." Jake rushed over, still dripping blueberry. "I am so sorry. This is—this is the worst possible—"

"This is hilarious," Edwin heard himself say.

Jake stared at him. "What?"

"I mean—" Edwin gestured at the entire situation: the furious restaurant owner, the destroyed pie, the unrepentant dog, the blueberry-covered man in front of him. "This is objectively one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed."

There was a moment of silence.

Then Jake started laughing too.

It was the kind of laughter that fed on itself, growing until both of them were doubled over, tears streaming down their faces, while the restaurant owner continued to shout threats and Butterscotch attempted to lick the remaining pie off every available surface.

"I'm banning that dog!" the woman declared. "And you! And anyone who thinks this is funny!"

"That's fair," Jake gasped between laughs. "Very fair. I accept the ban."

"I'm just a bystander," Edwin added. "Please don't ban me. I haven't eaten here yet."

The woman—her nametag read "Dolores"—fixed him with a steely glare. "Are you friends with this menace?"

"We met two days ago. He tackled me with his dog."

"Then you should know better than to associate with him." But there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Get that animal out of here before I call animal control. And *you*—" She pointed at Jake. "—owe me thirty-seven dollars for the pie and twenty for emotional damages."

"Yes ma'am."

"And a formal apology to Mrs. Miller."

"Absolutely."

"And you're washing dishes next weekend as penance."

"I—wait, what?"

"I'm short-staffed. Consider it community service." Dolores retreated into the restaurant with the air of someone who had won a decisive victory.

Jake stood in the street, covered in pie, staring after her in disbelief.

"Did I just get conscripted into kitchen duty?"

"I think you did."

"Over a pie?"

"Over a *birthday* pie. For Mrs. Miller. That's important context."

Jake looked down at himself—at the blueberry stains, the sticky residue, the general disaster of his appearance—and started laughing again.

"This is the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to me. And I once got stuck in an elevator with a mime."

"There's a story there."

"It's not as good as this one." Jake grabbed Butterscotch's collar before the dog could cause any more destruction. "I need to go home and shower. And apologize to about fifteen people. And probably buy Mrs. Miller a new birthday pie."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks." Jake started walking away, then paused and turned back. "Hey—thanks for laughing. Most people would have just walked away."

"Most people didn't spend three days in the wilderness with nothing but hiking cookies and existential thoughts. My standards for entertainment have shifted."

Jake grinned. "Same time next week? I'm thinking we cause a scene at the library. Really shake up Zoe's world."

"She already thinks I'm going to steal her mystery novels."

"Perfect. We'll give her something real to worry about."

He disappeared around the corner, dog in tow, leaving a trail of blueberry footprints on the sidewalk.

Edwin stood alone in front of the restaurant, covered in pie remnants, grinning like an idiot.

A week ago, he would have been mortified. Would have hurried home to change, to wash away the evidence of chaos.

Now? Now he kind of wanted to frame this moment.

He walked into the restaurant, ordered a cold drink and a slice of apple pie (not blueberry—too soon), and sat at a table by the window.

Dolores brought his order with a skeptical expression.

"You're really not friends with that walking disaster?"

"We're potentially becoming friends. Is that a problem?"

"Depends. You got a dog that likes pie?"

"No dogs. Just a rooster who hates me."

Dolores considered this. "Roosters are acceptable. Welcome to Dolores's Diner. Don't cause trouble."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She walked away, muttering something about city folk and their strange ideas of humor.

Edwin ate his pie, drank his lemonade, and watched the village go by through the window. A woman walked past with a basket of eggs. Two children chased each other down the sidewalk. An elderly man sat on the bench outside the general store, reading a newspaper and occasionally waving at passersby.

Normal. Quiet. Absolutely ordinary.

And somehow, impossibly, exactly what he needed.

That evening, Edwin recounted the pie incident to his grandparents over dinner.

Martha laughed until she had to wipe her eyes. Harold nodded sagely and said, "That dog's been a menace since Patricia got him. Good to see he's maintaining his reputation."

"Is this what life is like here? Random chaos involving baked goods?"

"Not always baked goods," Harold said. "Sometimes it's livestock. Remember the goat incident of 2019, Martha?"

"I try not to. Poor Mrs. Patterson never recovered."

"What happened with the goat—actually, no. Don't tell me. I want to discover these things organically."

"Smart man." Martha patted his hand. "How was the camping?"

Edwin told them about the hike, the lake, the stars that had been so bright without any city lights to dim them. About the peace he'd found in solitude, and the strange hope that had started to take root.

"Sounds like you're healing," Martha said softly.

"Maybe. A little."

"That's all anyone can ask for. A little at a time." She stood and began clearing dishes. "Oh, before I forget—Sun-hee called. They want to have us over for dinner again next Friday. She said Kimsoo is doing better. Might actually make an appearance this time."

The name hung in the air.

Kimsoo.

The mystery girl. The one who kept to herself, who had run from Jake Henderson, who had secrets that made her parents exchange worried glances.

"That's... good," Edwin said carefully.

"Mm-hmm." Martha's tone was studiously neutral. "Very good. I'll tell Sun-hee we're coming."

"I'm not—"

"Not what?"

"Nothing." Edwin carried his plate to the sink. "I'm not nothing."

"That's a confusing sentence, dear."

"I just mean—" He turned to face both grandparents. "I'm not looking for anything. With anyone. I came here to heal, not to—"

"We know." Harold's voice was gentle but firm. "And nobody's pushing you. It's just dinner."

"Dinner with people who happen to have a daughter my age."

"Daughter who, according to everyone, also isn't looking for anything. With anyone." Martha raised an eyebrow. "You might be perfect for each other. In a strictly platonic, no-romance, nothing-complicated kind of way."

Edwin wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that this was exactly the kind of matchmaking he'd asked them to avoid.

But they looked so hopeful. So genuinely invested in his wellbeing.

And honestly? He was a little curious.

Not romantically. Just... curious.

"Fine. Friday. Dinner." He held up a warning finger. "But if anyone so much as hints at—"

"We would never."

"Ever."

The synchronized denial was not reassuring.

But Edwin was too tired to fight, and too full of pie to care.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. "Tomorrow I'm helping fix the fence in the north pasture, according to Grandpa's next itinerary."

"The fence is fine. I just want company."

"Then say that instead of pretending things need fixing."

"Where's the adventure in that?"

Edwin shook his head and headed for the stairs.

Bartholomew was already crowing from his fence post, apparently rehearsing for tomorrow's dawn assault.

Through his window, Edwin could see the distant lights of the Kim farm. Somewhere over there, a girl named Kimsoo was preparing for a dinner she may or may not attend.

They might finally meet on Friday.

Or she might disappear again, leaving behind another empty chair and more unanswered questions.

Either way, Edwin found himself caring about the outcome more than he wanted to admit.

He blamed the pie incident. It had clearly broken something in his brain.

With that thought, he fell asleep—and for the first time since arriving in Willowbrook, didn't dream about Victoria at all.

**End of Chapter 4**

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