Crossing the bridge to Vesta's Farm felt less like a neighborly visit and more like crossing a border between two hostile nations.
The contrast was violent. On Leo's side of the river, the world was grey, dusty, and silent. On Vesta's side, the air was thick with the smell of wet loam and chlorophyll. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees, cooled by the transpiration of thousands of healthy plants.
Rows of vegetables stretched out in perfect Euclidean geometry. Cabbages the size of basketballs sat in neat lines. The soil wasn't the concrete hardpan Leo struggled with; it was a deep, chocolate brown, crumbling into perfect aggregates that held moisture without drowning the roots.
Leo stopped at the gate, his hand resting on the wood. He felt like an impostor. He was wearing overalls, but he wasn't a farmer. He was a cosplayer standing on the edge of a factory.
"Can I help you?"
The voice was soft, carrying a melody that seemed out of place in the brutal efficiency of the fields.
Leo looked up. A young woman stood near the farmhouse porch, holding a basket of strawberries. Celia. She looked like the valley wanted to look—healthy, natural, and kind. She didn't have the exhausted slump of Takakura or the manic energy of Daryl.
"I'm Leo," he said, clearing his throat. "I took over the farm across the river."
Celia smiled, and for a moment, the anxiety in Leo's chest loosened. "We heard someone moved in. I'm Celia. Vesta is inside going over the shipping manifest."
"I... I need advice," Leo admitted, the shame burning his cheeks. "And maybe seeds. If you sell them."
"We sell them," a rasping voice cut in.
The mood shifted instantly. A man emerged from the rows of corn. He was thin, wire-taut, and moved with a stiffness that suggested chronic joint pain. He didn't look healthy; he looked spent, like a tool that had been sharpened until there was almost no steel left.
Marlin.
He stopped in front of Leo, wiping dirt from his hands with a rag. His eyes were dark, scanning Leo's clean boots and un-calloused fingers with undisguised contempt.
"Vesta sells seeds to farmers," Marlin said. "She doesn't sell them to tourists. It's a waste of good genetics."
"Marlin," Celia chided gently, but Marlin ignored her.
He stepped closer to the fence, looking across the river at Leo's desolate land. "I've seen your field. You cleared maybe three meters? And you did it wrong. You're stripping the topsoil."
"The ground is hard," Leo defended. "I can't break through."
"Because you're fighting it," Marlin said. He gestured to his own field. "You think we force this to grow? Farming isn't about power. It's about leverage. It's about biology. You have to feed the soil before it feeds you. You're trying to withdraw from a bank account with a zero balance."
Vesta stepped out onto the porch. She was a mountain of a woman, her presence commanding silence without a word. She looked at Leo, then at Marlin, then at the basket in Celia's hands.
"Let the boy breathe, Marlin," Vesta boomed. She walked down the steps, the ground seeming to stabilize under her heavy boots. She stopped at the gate and looked Leo up and down.
"You have no money," Vesta stated. It wasn't a question.
"No," Leo admitted.
"And you have no equipment besides that rusty hoe I saw you dragging around."
"No."
Vesta nodded. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small, crinkled packet. She tossed it over the fence.
Leo caught it. Turnip Seeds. Cycle: 4 Days.
"Turnips are forgiving," Vesta said. "They'll grow in bad soil if you water them. They don't sell for much, but they'll keep you alive."
"I can't pay you yet," Leo said.
"I know," Vesta replied. "Consider it a loan. But hear this: The valley eats dreamers. If those seeds die, don't come back asking for more. We run a business, not a charity."
"He's going to kill them," Marlin muttered, turning his back. "He doesn't know the first thing about drainage."
"Then he learns," Vesta said, turning back to the house. "Or he leaves. Lunch is in ten minutes, Celia."
Celia lingered for a moment. She looked at Leo with a mixture of pity and encouragement. "The soil here is... distinct," she whispered. "It responds to attention. Just don't give up."
She followed Vesta inside.
Leo stood alone at the gate, clutching the packet of seeds. He looked at the perfect rows of Vesta's farm, then back at his own grey, dead wasteland.
Marlin was right. He wasn't a farmer yet. He was just a man holding a bag of potential he didn't know how to unlock. But as he walked back across the bridge, he felt the first stirrings of something that wasn't despair. It was resolve. He had eighteen seeds. He would make them live, even if he had to bleed into the dirt to do it.