The dawn pressed itself thinly against the farmhouse windows, a pale wash of light that looked more like hesitation than morning. Ethan lay awake long before the rooster called, listening to the boards creak and settle, each groan of timber sounding like a memory trying to surface. Ten years, and still the day arrived with the same weight. His mother’s absence clung to the rooms the way the cold clung to the glass—visible, inevitable, never leaving.
He pushed the quilt aside and sat up slowly, the wooden floor biting at his bare feet. The smell of hay drifted faintly through the cracked window, mingling with the damp musk of soil outside. Whisper Creek always smelled like this in October: earth and frost, the promise of rot buried beneath the harvest.
On the chair by the bed lay one of Dan’s old flannel shirts, softened by years of wear. Ethan pulled it on, the fabric loose at the shoulders, the cuff still marked by his mother’s careful stitching. She had mended the tear a lifetime ago, her needle steady, her hands sure. The threads had outlasted her—stubborn as the land itself.
Downstairs, a pan clattered. His father’s voice carried—low, steady, a word or two aimed at no one in particular. Ethan listened to the cadence, not the words. Dan talked that way in the mornings, as though the silence needed filling before it turned into something heavier.
The stairs groaned under his weight as he descended. In the kitchen, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of coffee and toasted bread. Dan stood with his back to him, spatula in hand, shoulders squared in the way men hold themselves when pretending there’s no reason to remember.
“Morning,” Ethan said. His voice sounded thin in the kitchen.
Dan turned—a quick glance, eyes bright and unreadable. “You’re up,” he said, setting the spatula down.
“Yeah.” Ethan slid into the chair at the table. His plate was already waiting—eggs and toast, the kind of meal his father insisted on no matter how empty the pantry grew at month’s end.
Dan sat across from him, folding his arms. For a moment the silence stretched, not hostile but charged, like the air before a storm. Then his voice came steady, practical.
“School lets out early today. I’ll see you at the diner after. We’ll head over to the square and get our stall set up.”
Ethan nodded, though the thought of the festival knotted something in his chest. “Okay.”
Dan picked up his fork but didn’t eat, jaw set as if every bite required effort. Ethan watched him, wanting to speak—about her, about the ache that never left—but the words stalled in his throat.
Outside, a crow called from the fence line, its voice sharp enough to cut through the walls. Ethan’s gaze flicked toward the sound. A shadow moved across the window—just the bird shifting its wings, but something about it lingered in his chest. A watching presence. A reminder.
He looked back at his father. Dan was staring at his plate, fork in hand, eyes fixed on the food as though eating were another chore to endure. The smell of coffee and toast filled the kitchen. Ethan’s own meal cooled untouched.
The day pressed forward.
The yard was silver with frost when Ethan stepped outside. His breath puffed white, vanishing into the dim air. A crow flapped up from the fencepost and wheeled into the pale sky, its caw splitting the silence. The farm always sounded different in late October—less buzzing, more hollow. Even the wind carried a brittle edge, rattling what leaves clung to the trees.
He pulled his jacket tighter and crossed to the barn. The old boards creaked as he shoved the door wide, hinges squealing in protest. Inside, the dark smelled of hay and manure, sweet and sour together. The sheep shifted at his arrival, woolly bodies pressing against the pen rails. Their eyes reflected the pale dawn, ghostly but alive. Their breath steamed too, soft clouds drifting above the straw.
“Morning,” he muttered, as though the animals expected greeting. They blinked at him, unbothered.
Ethan hefted the grain bucket. The metal was cold against his palms, rim biting into skin. He scattered the feed, and the sheep pressed in, hooves clattering, ears twitching. For a moment he watched them eat, the rhythmic sound filling the barn, steady and simple. He tried to let it anchor him.
Memory flickered there, uninvited: his mother’s laugh echoing off these same beams. She had carried him on her hip once, a scoop of grain in her free hand, telling him the sheep liked their breakfast as much as he liked his. He couldn’t remember the words clearly anymore, only the way her voice wrapped the place in warmth. The details slipped—was her hair tied back, or loose? Did she wear her red scarf? He chased the answers and found only blur.
He shook his head and set the bucket down hard, metal ringing against the packed dirt.
When the sheep settled, he moved to the water trough, breaking the thin ice film with a stick. The crack was sharp, like glass shattering. He scooped the chunks out, breath steaming heavier with the effort.
From the barn he carried bales of hay to the cattle pen, muscles straining under the scratchy weight. The cows huffed as he dropped the feed, their hides giving off a heavy, warm smell that fought with the cold air. The simple strength of their presence—solid, alive, dependable—comforted him more than he liked to admit.
Outside again, the fields stretched under a weak sun. Stubble from the harvested corn poked through the frost like broken teeth. The land smelled of rot and damp earth, the scent of endings. A few crows picked at what scraps were left, black against the pale field, their wings beating the quiet air. Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets and watched them lift as a group, wheeling away.
His gaze wandered to the garden plot by the side of the house. Once it had been neat rows of beans and squash. Now it was little more than frost-bitten vines and collapsed stakes. He walked over, toeing a shriveled tomato vine still clinging to its cage.
Here the memories pressed hardest. His mother had worked these rows with her sleeves rolled, humming a tune while dirt streaked her hands. He remembered kneeling beside her, handed a tiny spade just his size. The sun had been hot then, the smell of tomato leaves sharp and green. A child’s memory—fragmented, sticky with sensation more than shape. He clutched it like a secret treasure, though it blurred each year.
Now the soil was cold, the vines brittle. He crouched and let the frost nip through his jeans at his knees. He pressed a hand to the earth, almost expecting warmth. There was none. Only damp chill and silence.
The farmhouse door creaked behind him. His father’s voice carried:
“Don’t dawdle too long, Ethan. You’ll be late.”
“Coming,” he called back, though he lingered one moment more, staring at the ruin of vines.
Then he stood, brushed his palms on his jacket, and turned toward the house. His boots crunched the frosted ground, crow calls trailing him. The kitchen windows glowed with lamplight, promising warmth, sound, motion. He squared his shoulders and stepped back inside.
He didn’t look up at the window again, but the crows hadn’t moved far.
They watched from the fence line, dark and patient, as though waiting for him to notice.
End of Episode 1.
Companion music: Three Crows Waiting