"There's no IRS, Jonathan."
"Just a few little problems—I've already handled them."
Locke shook his head, then asked, "Where's Clark? How's he doing?"
"Over here."
Martha turned toward the pickup's backseat and carefully helped out a frail figure.
Clark's face was still pale, but there was a faint spark back in his blue eyes. Wrapped in Martha's plaid shawl, he walked a little unsteadily but insisted on standing on his own.
"Uncle Locke…" Clark's voice was softer than usual. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Silly kid."
With Dio in one arm, Locke stepped forward and pulled Clark in with the other. He could feel how thin the boy's body was, trembling like a stalk of wheat in the wind.
Maybe it was hearing about his future from Giorno, or maybe just the guilt of being a burden tonight—either way…
"This isn't your fault," Locke said gently. "It's not any of our fault."
"What matters is that everyone's okay."
Martha wiped at her eyes, then suddenly noticed a cigarette butt on the ground.
But Locke didn't smoke.
"This is…?"
"A wolf."
Locke brushed it off, pressing it under his boot. "He helped deal with the trouble."
Jonathan raised a skeptical brow, but when his wife shot him a warning look, he wisely stayed quiet. His brother already had enough secrets.
The night wind stirred the charred boards of the ruined barn.
"Let's go," Locke said, one hand on Dio's shoulder, the other steadying Clark. "We've still got supper waiting at home."
"Oh no!" Martha gasped. "Lord have mercy—my blueberry pie's still in the oven!"
---
The kitchen smelled sweet with blueberry pie, and the table was a mess of plates and cups.
Dio leaned back in his chair, satisfied, a bit of jam still at the corner of his mouth. Clark sipped Martha's hot cocoa, his cheeks looking far healthier than before.
"It's getting late."
Locke stood, slipping Jonathan's cowboy hat over his head, the brim casting a shadow across his face. "Dio."
With a pout, Dio slid off his chair, slipping the last cookie into his pocket.
Clark watched him, blue eyes hesitant. He opened his mouth, closed it, then lowered his head, nervously twisting the fringe of his shawl.
Hmm…
Martha didn't miss it. Wiping her hands, she pulled a foil-wrapped pie from the oven. "Locke, wait."
She pressed the warm pie into Dio's arms, then knelt to fix Clark's messy curls.
"Sweetheart, is there something you want to say?"
Clark's ears flushed red. He glanced nervously at Dio and Locke, then whispered, "I—I want…"
"Clark should stay with you tonight," Martha suddenly said to Locke, her tone firm. "He has to help you check the fields tomorrow anyway."
Jonathan nearly choked on his coffee.
"Wait, honey, Clark just—"
One look from his wife's eyes, and he swallowed the rest of the sentence, staring hard at the night outside the window instead.
"Really?"
Clark's eyes lit up, then dimmed just as quickly. "But… my body—"
"Quit whining," Dio cut him off, his red eyes flashing with impatience. "If you're coming, hurry up. Don't drag your feet."
Locke couldn't help smiling at the two boys.
He ruffled Clark's hair. "Your mom's right. The three of us have work tomorrow—and you could use some sunlight."
"Yeah!"
Clark cheered, nearly bouncing out of his chair—only to stumble, almost falling flat.
Martha rushed to steady him, torn between worry and laughter.
"Careful, sweetheart."
Jonathan finally spoke, his rough hand patting Clark's shoulder. "Remember to listen to your Uncle Locke."
"I will!"
Clark nodded hard, his curls bouncing with the motion. Then he hugged Martha tight. "Thanks, Mom!"
Martha's eyes glistened as she kissed his forehead. "Don't forget—pancakes tomorrow morning."
Locke left the house holding both boys' hands, their shadows stretching long across the dirt road.
Dio tried to pull his hand away, embarrassed, but Locke only held on tighter. On the other side, Clark bounced along, pointing excitedly at the night sky.
"Dio, look! That's the Big Dipper!"
"Idiot. That's Cassiopeia."
"What? No way—"
Listening to their bickering, Locke lifted his eyes to the stars above.
The Milky Way stretched across the sky, countless stars quietly flickering. Somewhere unseen, maybe countless parallel worlds were turning too—
In some, Clark became a tyrant. In others, Dio fell to darkness.
But here, on this quiet Kansas night, Locke was just a farmer walking home with two kids.
And that was enough.
"Hurry up, boys," Locke said, tightening his grip on their hands. "We've still got half a tub of ice cream waiting."
"I want chocolate!"
"Pineapple's the best, you idiot Clark!"
Their playful arguing carried through the night, startling an owl from the fencepost. It flapped toward the moon, leaving the three shadows fading into the farm road.
Behind them, the Kent farmhouse glowed softly, steady as a star that would never burn out.
---
At the window, Martha's fingers absently traced the curtain's folds, the way Clark had played with his shawl earlier.
Moonlight spilled across her tired face.
Out in the distance, the boys' flashlights had dwindled to a single speck at the edge of the fields.
"Mm…"
Her sigh was barely audible, but Jonathan paused in the middle of cleaning dishes.
He set down the soapy plate, wiped his hands on his apron, and stepped behind his wife.
"The kids are growing up, honey."
Jonathan's broad hand rested gently on her shoulder. "They're bound to have secrets."
"But…" Martha turned, her blue eyes full of worry. "Locke hides everything inside. Just like when he suddenly left town years ago… and just as suddenly came back."
"He just doesn't want us to worry, that's all," Jonathan said. "We have to trust him."
He picked up a picture frame—the family photo from last year's harvest festival. Locke stood in the middle, grinning, with one hand on each boy's head, the smile brighter than the sun behind him.
"There's nothing wrong with that."
Martha traced the photo with her fingers. "But he's always been that way… leaving alone, returning alone. You know, I was already married to you when Locke was only twelve?"
"He's stronger than we think."
Jonathan wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her hair.
"Don't worry. We're Kents. Family trust speaks louder than words."
"And that's enough."
The wind chimes tinkled outside as Jonathan looked into the night.
The memory rose—
Twenty-one years ago, on a rainy afternoon.
Newly married, he opened the farmhouse door to find young Locke, soaked through, dragging a suitcase, silent as a stray wolf cast out of its pack.
A lone wolf.
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