Chapter Text
John “Soap” MacTavish had never been good at sitting still. The military had kept him moving – one deployment after another, new deserts, new jungles, new cities left scarred by conflict. But somewhere along the line, the thrill had burned out. What remained was exhaustion, like a weight he carried in his bones.
He sat at the small table in his flat, the official discharge papers folded neatly to one side, and a letter in his hands. His grandfather’s. He had given the sealed envelope it was in to Soap on his deathbed and had Soap promise to open it when he was ready to start a new life. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting uneven but steady.
If you’re reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I’d lost sight of what mattered most in life: real connections with other people and nature. I dropped everything and moved away to a place where I truly belonged. I’ve enclosed the deed to the place where I found peace, my pride and joy: the old farm in Pelican Town. It’s located in Stardew Valley, on the southern coast. It’s the perfect place to start your new life. This was my most precious gift to all, and now it’s yours. I know you’ll honour the family name, John.
P.S. If Shepherd is still alive, say hi to the old guy for me.
Soap let out a huff of laughter through his nose. His grandfather had always had a knack for understatement. He could only imagine the state of the place after years without care. Still, the thought of green fields instead of battlefields, of building something instead of tearing things down… that had a pull he couldn’t ignore.
“Guess it’s time I learned how to grow something other than a beard,” Soap muttered.
By the next morning, his bag was packed. He didn’t need much – he’d lived out of rucksacks and duffle bags long enough to know how to travel light. The bus ride was long, winding through hills and forests, until the air itself seemed fresher, cleaner, like it hadn’t yet learned the taste of smoke and gunpowder.
When the bus hissed to a stop at Pelican Town’s tiny stop, Soap slung his pack over his shoulder and stepped off.
Waiting for him was a woman in a toolbelt, hair tied back under a cap, arms crossed as if she’d been standing there a while. She looked him up and down with a curious tilt of her head.
“You MacTavish?”
“Aye, that’s me,” Soap said, grinning. “Don’t tell me I’ve already got a reputation.”
She smirked. “Name’s Laswell. I’m the local carpenter. Mayor Shepherd asked me to show you around while he tidies up the old farmhouse.”
Soap followed her down the dirt road, his boots crunching on gravel. The town was small but charming – flower boxes in windows, a few folks waving as they passed, the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing from somewhere near the river. Beyond the cluster of shops and cottages, the road sloped down toward overgrown fields hemmed in by broken fences.
The farm.
Waiting at the gate was a stout man in a neat coat, his moustache far too tidy to belong in the countryside. He greeted them with a politician’s smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Mr. MacTavish!” the man declared, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “Mayor Shepherd, at your service. Welcome to Pelican Town!”
Soap shook his hand firmly. “Cheers, Mayor. Can’t wait to see what I’ve got myself into.”
Mayor Shepherd’s eyes twinkled, but his tone was careful. “Well, I’d say the land has… potential. Yes, plenty of potential.”
Soap looked out at the so-called ‘farm’. The fields were a jungle of weeds and tangled grass, rocks jutting up like gravestones. At the far edge, a crooked chicken coop leaned to one side, boards sagging, the roof patched with rusted tin. A loud squawk erupted from inside, followed by a flurry of feathers as two wild-eyed chickens darted out, flapping their wings furiously at the intruders.
Soap raised his brows. “Are those… feral?”
Laswell smirked. “They’ve been left to their own devices for a while. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”
One of the chickens charged him, pecking at his boot with surprising ferocity. Soap laughed, stepping back.
“Well then,” he said, “looks like the ladies aren’t too keen on new management.”
Mayor Shepherd chuckled diplomatically. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. After all, Pelican Town could use someone with your… determination.”
Soap looked back at the fields, hands on his hips. Overwhelming? Absolutely. But for the first time in years, he felt something other than weariness.
He felt possibility.
~*~
The next morning dawned bright and clear, sunlight spilling over the farm like it hadn’t seen hope in years. Soap stood in the middle of the field with a rusty hoe in his hand, staring at the sea of weeds as if he were about to lead an assault on an enemy bunker.
“Well, ladies,” he muttered to the chickens pecking suspiciously near the coop, “time to see if I cannae kill plants the same way I kill everything else.”
It didn’t take long to realize farming was less about brute force and more about rhythm. Swing, clear, sweat. Swing, clear, sweat. His arms burned, his shirt clung to his back, and his so-called ‘field’ looked only slightly less wild than before.
Soap wiped his brow and laughed. “This is harder than a bloody training run.”
By midday, his stomach growled loud enough to draw the chickens’ attention. He slung his pack over his shoulder and wandered into town, following the smell of grilled food and spilled ale until he found the pub – a sturdy building with lanterns hung by the door and the sound of laughter drifting through the open windows.
Inside, behind the bar, stood a man with a warm grin and sharp eyes.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “You must be the new farmer. The name’s Kyle Garrick – but everyone calls me Gaz.”
“Soap,” he replied, sliding onto a stool. “Though I suppose folks here will start calling me Farmer John if I’m not careful.”
Gaz laughed. “Farmer Soap’s got a nice ring to it. Pint?”
“Aye, and whatever’s hot from the kitchen. Haven’t eaten since sunrise.”
It didn’t take long before the two were chatting like old friends. Soap told stories of city life (leaving out the bits that involved firefights and classified missions), and Gaz filled him in on the local gossip – how the blacksmith spent too much time arguing with his furnace, how the doctor was convinced everyone had rickets, and how the fisherman at the docks swore the sea was hiding something ancient.
Soap’s eyes lit up. “A fisherman, eh? Always did like a quiet day with a line in the water.”
Which was how, the following morning, he found himself trudging down the beach, boots sinking into sand. The salt air stung pleasantly in his lungs.
A man with a heavy beard and a weathered hat was mending nets near a shack that leaned against the pier. He looked up as Soap approached, pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Price,” the man said simply, as if names were introductions enough.
“Soap,” he replied with a grin. “Heard you’re the man to see if I want to try my hand at fishing.”
Price eyed him, then rummaged in the shack. He came out holding a simple rod, worn but sturdy. He pressed it into Soap’s hands.
“Every farmer needs to know the tides. You’ll catch dinner before you catch gold, but it’s honest work.”
Soap tested the weight of it, impressed. “Cheers. Just don’t laugh if I hook my own trousers.”
Price’s beard twitched, which Soap suspected might be his version of a smile.
Later that week, with aching muscles from both farming and fishing, Soap wandered into the General Store. The place smelled faintly of sawdust and old fruit, crates stacked neatly by the windows. Behind the counter stood Phillip Graves, all charm and teeth, his accent polished like his shoes.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Pelican Town’s newest farmer,” Graves said smoothly. “You’ve come to the right place. Seeds, tools, fertilizer – you name it, I’ve got it. For a fair price, of course.”
Soap picked up a packet of parsnip seeds and nearly choked. “Fair? At this rate, I’ll be eating dirt instead of growing it.”
Graves leaned on the counter, unbothered. “Quality doesn’t come cheap, my friend. Think of it as an investment. Spend now, profit later.”
Soap raised a brow. “Or maybe I’ll just steal cuttings from the wild and hope for the best.”
Graves chuckled. “You’re welcome to try. But you’ll be back.”
Walking out with only a handful of seeds and a lighter wallet, Soap shook his head. “Man’s got more nerve than a drill sergeant.”
Still, despite the sore back, the high prices, and the feral chickens eyeing him like prey, Soap couldn’t help but smile as he looked out over the valley. The town was rough around the edges, the people odd but welcoming, and the land – though stubborn – was his.
For the first time in a long while, Soap felt like he was right where he belonged.
~*~
By the end of his first week, Soap had blisters on his palms, dirt under his nails, and an ongoing feud with the chickens. They still eyed him like he was some kind of intruder, but at least they’d stopped outright charging him every time he brought them feed. Progress, however minor.
“See, ladies?” he said one morning, scattering grain in the mud. “We’re learning to get along. You don’t bite me, I don’t eat you. That’s a fair deal.”
The days settled into a rhythm – swinging the hoe, planting seeds, hauling water from the small river running through the field, then dragging himself into town for a pint with Gaz or a word of advice from Laswell. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept his hands busy, and for the first time in years, he didn’t wake up to the sound of shouting.
One evening, as Soap returned from the fields, he noticed an envelope tacked to the front door of his farmhouse.
To all villagers,
I am pleased to inform that the clearance of the landslide caused by a local drilling operation has been completed. I apologize for any inconvenience the landslide may have caused to the local mining community.
– Mayor Shepherd
Soap snorted. “The local mining community, eh? That sounds like something I should check out.”
The next morning, clouds rolled in heavy and dark, rain drumming on the farmhouse roof. The fields would water themselves, which meant – for once – he had the day free. Soap rummaged through the toolshed, pushing past broken shovels and rusted nails, until his hand closed around the handle of an old pickaxe. The wood was splintered, the metal dulled with age, but it would do.
By midday, Soap found himself trudging up the path into the hills, rain soaking his jacket, mud clinging to his boots. The mine entrance loomed ahead – an old wooden frame braced against stone, lanterns swinging faintly in the wind.
Before Soap could enter, a voice called out to him from under the eaves of a nearby hut. “Hey! You there! You must be the new farmer.”
Soap turned to see a broad-shouldered man with a sharp jaw, a confident smile, and a sword strapped across his back. He extended a hand. “Alejandro Vargas. I run the Adventurer’s Guild here in the valley.”
Soap shook his hand firmly. “John MacTavish, call me Soap. Thought I’d try my luck in the mines. Maybe dig up something shiny, aye?”
Alejandro chuckled. “You’ll find more than shiny stones down there, amigo. The mines have a habit of testing those who enter.”
A second man stepped out of the hut, quieter, his expression softer. “Rodolfo Parra,” he said by way of introduction, giving Soap a polite nod.
Alejandro disappeared back inside the hut and returned with a blade, worn but serviceable. He held it out to Soap. “Here. An old rusty sword. Nothing special, but better than swinging a pickaxe at what lurks below.”
Soap took it carefully, weighing it in his hand. “Lurks below? Sounds ominous.”
Alejandro’s grin widened. “If you survive long enough, maybe we’ll let you into the Guild. Consider it a test. The mines will show you what you’re made of.”
Rodolfo’s eyes narrowed with quiet warning. “Be careful, señor. Not everything down there is eager to be found.”
Soap glanced from the yawning black entrance of the mine back to the rusty sword in his hand. He felt the old familiar thrum of adrenaline – half dread, half excitement. He hadn’t expected to feel it again, not out here among parsnips and chickens.
“Well then,” Soap said with a grin, rain dripping from his hair as he stepped toward the darkness, “let’s see what the mines have got for me.”
~*~
The air inside the mine was cool and damp, carrying the faint tang of stone dust and something… older. Soap rested the rusty sword across his shoulder, lantern light flickering against rough-hewn walls as he descended the first set of steps.
“Right,” he muttered to himself, voice echoing in the darkness. “How hard can it be? Swing a sword, crack a rock, don’t die. Easy.”
The first chamber was littered with boulders and scattered patches of ore glinting faintly in the lamplight. Soap swung his pickaxe, the sound ringing sharp in the cavern. Chips of copper clattered to the ground.
He was just thinking this might be more boring than dangerous when something wet and green launched itself at his boots.
“Bloody hell!” Soap yelped, stumbling back as a slime – round, translucent, and unnervingly cheerful – bounced toward him.
He swung the rusty sword, which connected with a squelchy thwack. The slime quivered, then split into two smaller blobs that came after him twice as fast.
Soap groaned. “Oh, that’s just unfair!”
By the time he skewered the last of them, he was covered in goo and breathing hard. He leaned on his sword, laughing despite himself. “Guess that answers the question on what ‘lurks below.’”
Deeper in, the tunnels grew stranger. He swatted away buzzing insects the size of his fist, their wings a grating drone in the darkness. A rock shifted underfoot – only it wasn’t a rock at all. Two eyes snapped open, and the thing scuttled sideways on crab legs, claws snapping.
Soap stared at it flatly. “Aye, because fighting rocks is exactly what I wanted today.”
The crab lunged, and Soap kicked it like a football, sending it skittering against the wall. He finished the job with the flat of his pickaxe.
After an hour of swinging, sweating, and cursing, Soap noticed a strange contraption tucked against the wall: an old, iron-wrought elevator. Its gate groaned as he pulled it open, the mechanism sputtering to life.
A lever beside the panel was marked crudely: ‘B0 – B5 – B10 – …’
“A working elevator?” Soap muttered, running a hand over the rust. “Guess I won’t be climbing ladders back to the top.”
He pressed the lever, and sure enough, the whole thing shuddered but held steady, like it still remembered its purpose.
Feeling bold, Soap pushed onward, descending further into the gloom. He’d just cleared another chamber of bugs when something caught his eye: movement, quick and deliberate, at the edge of his lantern light.
He froze.
“Oi! Who’s there?”
But the figure – if it had even been a figure – was already gone, swallowed by shadows between the rocks. Soap hurried over, heart hammering, but found nothing: just broken stone, the drip of water, and silence.
He stood there a long moment, staring into the dark. His instincts prickled. For years they’d kept him alive, and they weren’t wrong now. Something – or someone – had been watching.
Soap exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on the sword. “Aye, I’ve had enough fun for one day.”
The climb back up to a floor where the elevator stopped was slower, the weight of the mines pressing down on his shoulders. When he finally emerged into the rain-washed night, the valley air felt sweeter than ever. He wiped goo off his sleeve, shaking his head with a rueful laugh.
“Parsnips are looking a lot safer now.”
Still, as he trudged home, Soap couldn’t shake the feeling that the mines weren’t done with him – and neither was whoever he’d almost seen down there.
~*~
The morning after his dive into the mines, Soap found a letter waiting in his mailbox. The handwriting was bold and steady.
MacTavish,
Word travels fast in the valley. You survived your first trip into the mines. Consider yourself worthy of an introduction to the Adventurer’s Guild. Come by when you’re ready, we could use another sword arm.
– Alejandro Vargas
Soap grinned, folding the letter into his pocket. “Not bad for a farmer, eh?”
Still, the fields came first. He spent the next few days tending parsnips, mending the leaky roof of the chicken coop (while fending off the chickens’ vicious pecking), and even managing to fish up more than driftwood thanks to Price’s lessons. His body ached in new ways, but it was the good kind of ache – the sort that came from building something instead of tearing it down.
Finally, on an afternoon after a morning filled with watering his crops, he dusted off the rusty sword, slung it across his back, and made for the Adventurer’s Guild.
The hut stood sturdy on the cliffside, lanterns burning outside even in daylight. Soap had just reached the steps when the door swung open and someone stepped out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A dark cloak wrapped tight around him, hood pulled low. A skull mask stared out from beneath it, painted bone-white and expressionless.
Soap blinked.
The man adjusted the strap of his pack and strode past without a word.
“Eh- hello there!” Soap called, plastering on his friendliest grin. “Name’s Soap! New farmer in town.”
The man didn’t so much as glance at him. He kept walking, boots crunching on gravel, and within moments had disappeared into the winding mountain path, swallowed by trees and fog.
Soap stood frozen, eyebrows raised. “…friendly fella.”
Inside, Alejandro was sharpening a blade while Rodolfo polished armour in the corner. Both men looked up as Soap entered.
“You came,” Alejandro said warmly. “Good. The Guild always needs new blood.”
Soap leaned against the counter, still distracted. “Aye, before we get into that… who was the lad in the mask? Skull face, dark cloak, no time for manners?”
Alejandro and Rodolfo exchanged a glance.
“That,” Alejandro said at last, “would be Simon Riley. The folks around town call him Ghost.”
Rodolfo added quietly, “He lives in a cabin high in the mountains. Alone. He doesn’t come down often, except to visit the Guild or… the mines.”
Soap’s mind flicked back to the flicker of movement in the tunnels, the sense of being watched. He rubbed the back of his neck, connecting the dots.
“So that’s who I saw skulking about down there.”
Alejandro gave him a long, measuring look. “Ghost has his reasons for keeping to himself. Don’t take it personally. If he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him.”
Soap only grinned wider, interest piqued rather than dulled. “We’ll see about that.”
As the two Guild leaders went on to explain rules, monster classifications, and the fine print of membership, Soap’s thoughts drifted back to the silent figure in the skull mask vanishing into the fog.
The recluse of the mountains, haunting both cabin and cavern. A ghost indeed.
Unfortunately for the man, Soap had never been one to leave a mystery unsolved.
~*~
A few days later, Soap knelt in the dirt, tugging at the stubborn green tops of parsnips. The sun was high, the soil warm, and for once the field looked more like a farm than a battlefield. One by one, he pulled the vegetables free, brushing the dirt off with a satisfied grin.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said to the chickens, who were watching him from their coop like suspicious overseers. “Didn’t think I’d manage it, but here we are – the first harvest!”
The chickens blinked. One squawked. Soap took that as approval.
By afternoon, he’d bundled the lot into crates and marched them into town. Graves was leaning on the counter at the General Store when Soap arrived, all polished smiles as always.
“Well, if it isn’t farmer MacTavish,” Graves drawled, counting the parsnips with a calculating eye, “seems you’re settling in nicely. Fine-looking produce. I’ll take them off your hands for a fair price.”
Soap raised a brow at the coins Graves offered. “Fair, he says. At this rate, I’ll be sleeping in the coop with the chickens.”
Graves’ grin widened. “You have to choose your battles wisely, my friend. I gladly will take your harvest off your hand, the town’s hungry for fresh vegetables this time of year.”
Soap sighed, shaking his head but handing the crate over anyway. “You’re robbing me blind, Phillip. If I find out your parsnips are reselling for triple, I’ll sic the chickens on you.”
Graves chuckled but said nothing, already tucking the vegetables into neat baskets for display.
Two mornings later, a letter from Mayor Shepherd awaited Soap in the mailbox.
Dear John,
Tomorrow everyone will gather in the town square for the Egg Festival. It starts at 9 AM sharp. There will be food, games, and the annual egg hunt!
– Mayor Shepherd
Soap grinned. “An egg festival. Now that sounds like my kind of party.”
The town square was alive with colour the next day – streamers hung from lampposts, tables laden with food, children darting between everything in excited packs. Soap wandered through, shaking hands, trading smiles, and learning names. There was Farah, who ran the clinic with calm authority; Alex, the blacksmith who smelled permanently of smoke and metal; and König, the towering but shy guard who patrolled the town.
But as Soap mingled, his curiosity got the better of him. He asked here and there about the man he’d met outside the Guild.
“Ghost?” Farah said with a frown. “He comes to the clinic only when it’s unavoidable. Hardly speaks. Keeps to himself.”
“I heard he’s a hunter,” said Alex, seated beside Farah. “Keeps the wild animals in check up in the mountains.”
“Nonsense,” said an elderly woman arranging flowers. “He only comes down at night, skulking about. Mark my words, no good comes from a man who hides his face.”
No one seemed to agree on who Ghost was – or what lay behind that mask. Soap found himself grinning at the contradictions. Each rumour only made him more intrigued.
When it came time for the egg hunt, Gaz elbowed him playfully. “Partner up? Think we can beat the kids?”
Soap smirked. “Mate, I’ve outsmarted men with guns. Surely I can handle a few wee bairns with baskets.”
The hunt was chaos – Soap and Gaz dashing between barrels and bushes, scrambling to scoop up painted eggs while children shrieked and dove into hiding places faster than soldiers on patrol. By the end, Soap had leaves in his hair, mud on his boots, and six brightly painted eggs clutched in his hands.
“Ha! Beat that!” he crowed, though a sharp-eyed little girl with a basket twice as full gave him a victorious grin as she skipped by.
“Think we lost,” Gaz admitted between laughs.
Soap only laughed louder. “Aye, but we went down fighting!”
At the prize stall, Mayor Shepherd handed him a straw hat, which Soap immediately plopped onto his head at a jaunty angle. Graves, of course, had set up a little side table stacked with little nicknacks, including strawberry seed packets, which Soap couldn’t resist buying despite muttering about the prices.
As he headed home with the hat shading his eyes and the seeds tucked under his arm, Soap felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring sun. The valley was beginning to feel like home.
But beneath the laughter and music of the day, the whispers about the man in the mask lingered. A hunter. A shadow in the night. A ghost.
Soap adjusted the brim of his new hat and smirked to himself. “Watch out, Ghost. I’ll figure you out.”
~*~
By late spring, Soap’s fields were finally starting to look respectable. Where once there had been nothing but weeds and rocks, neat rows of crops now stood tall and green.
Potatoes swelled fat beneath the soil, green beans climbed carefully tied stakes, and cauliflowers – with their massive white crowns surrounded by wide leaves – sat proudly in the morning sun.
Soap crouched low, brushing dirt off his hands as he pulled up a hefty potato. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Graves is going to choke when he sees the size of these.”
The chickens clucked nearby, sounding – for once – almost approving.
By afternoon, crates of produce were stacked outside his farmhouse, ready to be hauled into town. Every aching muscle, every bead of sweat, felt worth it. Slowly but surely, he was turning this wild patch of earth into a true farm.
And yet, as the skies darkened a few days later and rain hammered against the roof, Soap found himself restless. The fields were watered for him. The chickens were content in their patched-up coop. Which left one option.
“The mines,” he muttered, slinging the rusty sword across his back. “Time for round two.”
~*~
The deeper levels of the mine were darker, colder. Soap’s lantern cast long shadows that danced along jagged walls. He’d gotten better at swinging his sword – slimes went down in two strikes instead of six – but today felt different. The tunnels seemed heavier somehow, the air charged.
It started with a tremor underfoot. Soap froze as stones tumbled from the wall. Then the rocks themselves began to shift, groaning as cracks glowed faintly from within. One by one, shapes pulled themselves free – stone golems, their massive bodies grinding as they lurched toward him.
Soap swallowed hard. “Well, that’s new.”
He charged the first, sword sparking off solid rock. The impact jolted up his arm. The golem swung a heavy fist – he barely dodged, stumbling sideways. Another loomed behind him. Then another.
“I don’t think a gun would be more helpful in this situation,” He swung again, but his blade clanged uselessly. A stone fist caught him in the side, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, vision swimming. His shirt got caught on a rock, cutting the fabric and the skin underneath.
The third golem raised both arms for a crushing blow.
And then it crumbled.
A blur of motion struck from behind, a heavy blade cleaving through stone like it was paper. Another golem fell in two strikes, sparks flying. The third collapsed under a precise crack of steel.
Soap blinked, gasping, as the dust cleared.
The skull mask stared back at him, dark eyes unreadable beneath the hood.
Ghost.
Soap sat back hard against the cavern wall, wincing as he clutched his ribs and spotted his bloody arm. “Bloody hell… remind me not to pick fights with boulders again.”
Ghost crouched silently beside him, pulling a roll of bandages from his pack. His gloved hands worked quickly, binding Soap’s arm and touching his side to check for fractures with surprising care.
“Watch yourself,” Ghost said at last, his voice low, gravelly, carrying an edge that brooked no argument. “The mines don’t forgive carelessness.”
Soap grinned despite the pain. “But lucky for me, seems they do send in cavalry.”
Ghost didn’t answer. He tied off the bandage with a sharp tug, then stood.
“Wait-” Soap pushed to his feet, wincing. “At least let me buy you a pint for saving my hide.”
But Ghost was already moving, silent as shadow. Within moments he vanished into the tunnels, leaving only the echo of boots on stone.
Soap stood there, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot despite the sting in his ribs.
“Well then,” he muttered to the empty cavern. “Guess I’ll just have to catch you next time, Ghost.”
~*~
Soap didn’t care to return to the mines for the next week. Not that he had much time to go anyway. Spring in Pelican Town had a way of sneaking up on him. One moment the fields were bare, the soil damp and heavy, and the next the valley was bursting with blossoms – white petals drifting on the breeze, wildflowers pushing up through the grass, bees humming over the edges of his rows of cauliflower.
When he opened the mailbox one morning, another neatly penned letter from Mayor Shepherd waited inside.
Dear John,
Tomorrow the whole town is getting together for the Flower Dance in the clearing of the forest west of town. Please join us for food, music, and dancing. If you can find a partner, you may even participate yourself.
– Mayor Shepherd
Soap read it aloud to the chickens, who blinked at him with indifference. “Find a partner, he says. Easy for him to write, not so easy when half the town thinks I’m daft.”
Still, when the day came, Soap donned his cleanest shirt, brushed the straw hat as best he could, and made the trek into the forest. The clearing was already bustling – garlands strung from trees, fiddlers tuning their instruments, the smell of roasted vegetables and sweet breads drifting through the air.
Soap made the rounds, laughing and greeting folk. He even screwed up his courage enough to approach Valeria, who was arranging flowers near the dance floor, a flower crown in her dark hair.
“So, eh… fancy a dance?” Soap asked with his most winning grin.
She didn’t even look up from her bouquet. “Ew… No.”
Soap blinked. “Right. That’s… clear, then.” He retreated with a chuckle and a shrug. “Guess that’s a no dancing for me today,” he muttered to himself.
As the music started and pairs lined up in their white shirts and flowing skirts, Soap found a spot by the refreshment table, plopping down beside Laswell and Price.
“No luck finding a partner?” Laswell asked, smirking over her drink.
“Got shot down faster than a clay pigeon,” Soap replied cheerfully.
Price chuckled, pipe smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. First flower dance is always the hardest. Next year, maybe you’ll charm someone into saying yes.”
Soap leaned back, watching as the dancers twirled in neat circles, hands clasped, flowers woven into their hair. It was simple, maybe even a bit silly, but the joy was infectious.
And yet… as he scanned the crowd, his smile faltered.
Ghost wasn’t there.
He wasn’t mingling by the tables, wasn’t lurking on the edges of the clearing. No hood, no mask, no silent shadow.
Soap sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him at one of these gatherings. If Ghost isn’t coming down to me… maybe it’s time I went up to him.”
Laswell raised a brow. “Talking about the man in the mask again? Careful, Soap. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors.”
Soap only grinned. “Who can resist my charm? Maybe I’ll take him some fresh eggs, aye? Everyone likes eggs. A peace offering.”
Price gave him a look over the rim of his mug, half amusement, half warning. “If you come back down from the mountains with both legs still working, I’ll be more impressed than if you managed to catch a squid.”
Soap laughed, but his mind was already made up. Ghost could dodge him in the mines, and vanish into the mist, but even recluses had to eat.
And Soap wasn’t above delivering eggs to make a new friend.
~*~
By the last week of spring, Soap had worked himself into circles about the idea of bringing Ghost something.
“Eggs, aye, everyone likes eggs,” he muttered while pacing his farm, basket in hand. “But maybe bread, too? A few parsnips? Or is that too much? Don’t want to look desperate. Just a farmer being neighbourly. …Neighbourly with a man who wears a skull mask and skulks about caves, sure, but neighbourly all the same.”
The chickens clucked as if mocking him, and Soap scowled. “You ladies aren’t helping.”
~*~
On the final day of the season, Soap finally pushed the thought of Ghost aside long enough to handle real business. He loaded the last of the spring crops into crates, tugged his hat low, and hauled himself into town to run some errands.
After dropping off the spring crops at the General Store and getting some coin from Graves, Soap headed to the mountains. Laswell was already waiting when he found her near the carpenter’s shop, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
“You’re late,” she said, though her smirk gave her away.
Soap swung a bundle from his shoulder with a flourish. “Not without reason. Found this in the forest.” He held up a battered axe.
Her eyes lit up. “I thought I’d lost that forever.”
“Found it stuck in a tree root. Took me half the afternoon to wrestle it out.”
She took it back with a shake of her head. “Appreciate it, Soap. I’ll remember this. And about the barn you requested – you’ll have it by early summer. Seems like you’re starting to be serious about farming.”
Soap grinned. “Serious enough to keep chickens from trying to eat me alive. I’ll take it.”
They shook hands, and for a moment Soap considered heading home to plan summer planting. But the thought of the skull-masked figure retreating into fog, of the rumours circling at the festival, tugged at him.
Instead of turning back toward the farm, he found his boots carrying him uphill, higher into the mountains.
The cabin wasn’t hard to find once he knew where to look: a squat building tucked between pines, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. It looked solid, lived-in, but gave nothing away.
Soap stood at the door, heart hammering louder than he cared to admit. He set the basket down on the step – eggs nestled carefully alongside a loaf of bread he’d picked up from Gaz’s pub kitchen.
He knocked. Once. Twice.
The door creaked open just enough for the skull mask to appear in the gap. Ghost stared at him, silent.
Soap raised a hand in greeting. “Evening, neighbour. Thought you might like some fresh eggs. And bread. Figure a man can’t live on shadows alone.”
Ghost grunted, reached out one gloved hand, and pulled the basket inside. Then the door shut in Soap’s face.
Soap blinked at the weathered wood. “Right. Not much for small talk, then.”
He cupped his hands and shouted through the door, “I’ll be back in a week with more! If you’ve got requests – or allergies – best let me know before I poison you!”
No answer.
Soap chuckled to himself, tugging his hat lower as he turned to head back down the mountain. “Progress,” he muttered. “One grunt and a stolen basket at a time.”
Behind him, the cabin stayed silent, smoke still curling from the chimney, a ghost retreating back into his shadows.
And Soap? Soap was already planning what to bring next.