I always believed the farm would remain my refuge. I just never expected I’d have to defend my place on it the same week we buried my grandfather. When my parents were killed in a car accident on a rainy October night, I was twelve. I remember the sterile hospital corridor, the sharp scent of disinfectant, and a caseworker gently talking about “arrangements” and “temporary care.” Then I heard Grandpa’s voice. “She’s coming home with me.” That was all. His rough hand on my shoulder. The familiar mix of hay and peppermint on his jacket. The calm certainty that meant…
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