Chapter Text
Penny nudges open the door to the farmhouse, closes it, and turns around to see the farmer. They’re emptying their pockets on the table, dropping fish, a couple of forageables, and one prismatic shard which lands with a clink.
They turn and see Penny, standing at the door.
They stare at each other for one long moment. “We need to talk,” Penny says finally, and the farmer nods.
Then their daughter begins to whimper from Penny’s shoulder, and the two set about putting the children to bed. It feels almost normal, for a moment, as they both tuck them in, turning off the lights with a whispered goodnight. Then they sit at the table.
The prismatic shard sits between them.
“You spoke to the wizard,” starts the farmer.
“Again.”
They take a sharp breath. “Right.”
“I…” Penny thinks for a long moment. Her hands are shaking, under the table. She hadn’t realized her hands were shaking. “How long have you been here?”
The farmer hesitates. “What do you mean?”
“In the valley. I feel like—it doesn’t feel like it’s been long. A few years. How long have you been here?”
“Only 18 years.”
“Only?!”
“I—oh.” They duck their head down. “I guess that’s a lot. I’m—I’m sorry.”
18 years. 18 years of her life, gone, and she didn’t even notice. Nearly as long as she had lived before. She should be in her 30s, now. She should feel like she's in her 30s. What does growing older feel like? Will she ever know?
Will her children?
“Why?” she asks, her voice somehow even.
The farmer laughs, strained. “I don’t know how to explain.”
“Do you want to be immortal?”
“No.” The vehemence in the farmer’s voice takes her aback. They shake their head. “But I didn’t get a choice.”
There's more to unpack there, but Penny gets the feeling that, on this, the farmer knows as little as she does. She lets out a long breath, piecing what she does know together. “You didn’t want to be alone. So you made the valley immortal, too.”
“I don’t know how far it goes,” they admit, “how far beyond the valley. And I didn’t know—it wasn’t intentional, at first. I just didn’t want to outlive everyone.”
There’s something left in the silence, some natural continuation the farmer has left out. One more secret they’re keeping close to their chest. Penny is sick of secrets, sick of silence.
“Not again.”
The farmer stills.
“Not again, you mean,” Penny repeats. “Not like in the previous timeline, where you married Shane.”
“Did—did the wizard figure it out?”
“No.” Penny knots her hands firmly together. They shake less. “I did.
“When you erase something, it doesn’t completely go away. I remember feeling deja vu when restarting the day you erased, the day I spoke to Rasmodius. And Shane feels the same thing. You never wipe the record clean. You never can.”
“I—” The farmer seems to be at a loss for words. They stare down at the table. “I’m sorry,” they say again, and they look up. Even now, Penny is struck by the sadness in their eyes. She shoves down any instinct to regret. She did this. She had to. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the farmer continues, “but I don’t know what other option there is. I don’t have the answers. What do you want me to do?”
Penny takes a deep breath.
She thinks about this person she loves, this person who became a stranger over what feels like such a short time. She still loves them, she thinks, in some small way, but she thinks back to their wedding, to her confession, to the day they first met, and she finds she cannot summon the love she had before. She loves them like she has already been mourning them. She can’t remember when she started. She doesn’t know if she could stop.
Her love cannot be an obstacle here. She thinks about what is best for the townsfolk. What is best for the children.
What is best for herself.
And she tells the farmer to leave.
——
They leave that night. They take no tools nor fanfare; they don’t even take the bus. They tell Penny that they’ve done this once before, that they think they know how to do it again. Then they start walking, out the door, down the path. She sees them turn at the bus stop, though the bus does not start. She does not see them again.
They hand her two things before they leave. The farmer takes the prismatic shard off of the table and a heavy bag of gold from their backpack and puts them both in Penny’s hands. They’ll store the rest in the shed, they say, but this is in case you want to start completely fresh.
“Have you ever been to the witch’s hut?” they ask.
Penny says no.
“It’s your choice to make.”
And then they’re gone.
Somehow, the farmhouse feels no less empty.
——
The next day, Penny follows the farmer’s instructions. It’s a few days before folks begin to ask questions, a few days before Rasmodius realizes what’s happened. It’s still a few days.
She goes to the witch’s hut.
The swamp is eerie and humid, the trees entirely still. She walks the sickly green path slowly, afraid of what lies in the water. Penny is relieved to find that there is no witch in the witch’s hut, at least in the present moment. There are, however, three statues. Three bowls.
The Dark Shrine of Night Terrors she pays no mind to; she only has two offerings. It sounds like nothing good, anyway. She tries to understand what the Dark Shrine of Greed must do; as she faces it, the prismatic shard seems to hum in her hands. She does not consider it for very long; instinctually, subconsciously, she feels repulsed by it. She steps away. She avoids thinking about why the farmer was carrying this shard.
The Dark Shrine of Memory calls out to the gold in her hands; it glimmers unnaturally in response. This shrine, she understands. The calling on memory seems to make it clear.
Would this shrine erase all memory of her years with the farmer, the pleasant memories turned bitter by the pain of conflict? Would it erase Penny from the farmer’s mind instead? Or would it cause the whole town to forget the farmer, though their contributions remain? Would the townsfolk be haunted by an unknown ghost who built the community center, built the theater, brought them all together in its escape from itself?
At the very least, the shrine would surely take care of the questions the townsfolk will soon have about their missing friend.
But when you erase something, it doesn’t completely go away.
Penny doesn’t hate the farmer for giving her this choice. For offering her the chance to be selfish. She understands the need to run away. She understands it well. She ran away to the farmer, after all.
A part of her still wants to run. She thinks of early mornings on the dirty riverside, clutching flower stems in her hand. A part of her is small and afraid and wants everything to go back to normal, whatever normal may be. A part of her just wants things to be stable, if only for a moment.
The rest of her is lost and worn and tired of running.
She turns and walks back out of the swamp, gold and shard still in hand.
——
Penny wakes up.
The sun has not yet risen. Of course, her children have. They run about, giggling and babbling, as she sets about a quick breakfast for the three of them. She swears her daughter is already an inch taller, her son’s hair an inch longer. They grow so fast.
She finishes her cooking and sits down, listening to her children’s morning stories. She laughs and talks and laughs again, basking in the warmth of the rising sun through their window. For a moment, Penny sits there, a wide smile across her face, and takes in the pure delight of her children.
And then the moment passes, and she sets about washing the dishes. She washes out the vase sitting on the windowsill, gently plucking the dying dandelions from the few still living. She thinks she’ll go foraging today, and make a salad and a bouquet for her mother. It’s been far too long since they’ve continued their little tradition. She finishes up quickly and gets her children dressed. By the time they’re done, she hears nature’s greeting to the sun: the rooster’s crow. Penny ushers the children outside, picks up a couple tools, and positions her straw hat over her head. She takes one more moment, breathing in the sweet scent of wildflowers on the wind.
And then Penny goes outside and gets to work.