"Salatin…"
His eyes fluttered open, a shiver trickling down his spine as the voice wrapped around him.
It wasn't just any voice—it was hers.
His late wife.
The memory of her voice was so deeply embedded in his soul that he'd know it anywhere, even now. His heart, so used to its measured beat, began to race. He sat up, eyes scanning the dim room.
But there was no one there.
He stayed like that for a moment longer. Her presence faded slowly, leaving only the hollow quiet of afternoon light.
He looked at his finger, where the shiny silver ring still sat. A quiet weight. A reminder.
Tomorrow would have been their fiftieth anniversary.
He had waited for that day with quiet certainty, the way one waits for spring beneath snow. Everything was ready.
At last, the moment would come.
He threw off the covers and stood, stretching aching limbs against the lingering chill. He'd only meant to take a short nap after sending the boy to town.
"Guess I overslept a bit," he muttered.
Oh well. That came with age.
He stepped out into the afternoon light. The farm stretched before him — quiet, brittle. The dry landscape cracked beneath his boots.
"I hope it rains soon," he murmured.
He crouched beside the first sprout. Its leaves were shriveled and brown, barely clinging to the stem. He touched it gently.
And a memory stirred.
She had darted through fields, barefoot and wild, scaling trees. He'd stood back, grumbling. Watching.
His heart always raced when she teetered on a branch or leapt too far. She teased him for it — poking his arm, laughing, calling him too serious.
"Promise me," she'd said once, hands on her hips, eyes shining with mischief. "Promise you'll always protect me."
His face had gone red.
"Like hell I will!" he'd shouted.
And she laughed, sprinting off into the tall grass.
But in his heart, he had made that promise.
Now, as he looked down at the withered sprout, he felt that promise crumble beneath the weight of years.
He hadn't protected her.
He moved down the row to another plant, this one barely clinging to life. He pressed his fingers to the dry soil, trying to remember what it used to feel like — soft, rich, alive.
Another memory rose.
He was holding their daughter for the first time. His wife beside him, radiant, glowing with life. She had leaned close, brushing his cheek.
"Protect her, Salatin," she'd whispered.
And he had promised again, fiercely, his voice shaking with devotion.
But he had failed there, too. Not from lack of love, but from life itself — sharp, unpredictable, cruel.
A few steps later, he stopped beside a third sprout. Twisted. Faded. But still alive.
A different memory surfaced — her final days.
She had seen the weight on him. The guilt. The grief.
She had taken his hand.
"Promise me you'll protect yourself, Salatin," she'd said, voice faint but steady. "Don't carry so much. Don't blame yourself for everything."
But how could he not?
He had poured everything into this land. Into their family.
And here he was, watching it all wither.
Maybe… maybe it would be easier to let go. To let the fields die as he was dying inside.
But just as the thought crept in—
A voice. Barely a whisper.
"Protect him."
His eyes snapped open.
Wind passed through the rows, stirring the dust.
Then he saw it.
In the middle of the parched earth, a single, vibrant red beetroot stood tall.
Matsu's favorite.
His grandson always lit up when they found beetroots. Held them like treasure. Smiled like the sun.
Even through everything — the hardship, the hunger — he smiled.
Salatin's hand trembled as he reached for it.
He plucked the beetroot from the dirt, brushing the earth away. It was sturdy. Whole.
Matsu would be thrilled.
He's still smiling… even now.
A warmth bloomed quietly in Salatin's chest. He turned, walking back toward the house, beetroot in hand.
"Yeah," he said softly.
"I promise."
He looked up at the sky.
"Aspen…"