Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 134: Where the Soil Still Remembers

Chapter 134: Where the Soil Still Remembers

The path curved gently from the edge of the house, winding past the empty chicken pens and the fence where wildflowers still grew tall.

The fields stretched beyond — dew-dusted rows of earth waiting for hands that knew how to tend them.

Artur walked ahead, hoe slung over one shoulder, the sun warming the back of his neck.

Mark followed, carrying the woven basket of tools, while Mr. Dand trailed behind at his own pace — a quiet pillar, always steady.

The river hummed faintly nearby, water slipping over rocks like whispered stories.

Artur paused at the edge of the field, the memory of Billy’s laugh brushing the back of his mind like a breeze. For just a second, he didn’t move.

His eyes lingered on the furrows, the soft green shoots beginning to rise from the soil.

Then, with a quiet inhale, he stepped forward.

"We’ll start here," he said, voice low.

He drove the hoe into the soil with practiced motion. Each movement was firm, rhythmic — controlled. He didn’t speak much. Just worked.

Mark joined him, laying tools beside the plot and dropping to his knees to check the roots.

"These grew fast," he said casually.

Artur gave a faint nod.

"The rain helped."

Mark glanced up at him.

"You miss him, don’t you?"

The hoe paused mid-swing. Artur’s jaw tensed, then relaxed. He didn’t answer.

Mark didn’t push.

They worked in silence again — the sun climbing higher, sweat beginning to gather at their brows, earth sticking to their fingers. Mr. Dand knelt a few rows away, gently retying a sagging vine, humming an old folk tune under his breath.

After a while, Mark spoke again — this time softer.

"You know, he called."

Artur looked up — sharp, alert — but didn’t turn fully.

Mark caught the look and offered only a small shrug.

"Didn’t want to talk. Just asked how you were."

Artur stared at him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turned back to the soil, planting another row.

"What did you say?"

"That you’re still annoying," Mark said with a crooked grin.

Artur huffed a soft laugh through his nose — the first in days.

"Fair."

They kept working.

And even though no one said it, the day felt a little lighter. Not healed. Not over. But bearable.

Because love doesn’t always leave in words.

Sometimes it stays behind... in the soil.

The sun had climbed higher, pressing warmth into the back of their necks, their shirts beginning to cling with sweat. The rows stretched long ahead of them, damp soil turning rich under their hands.

Artur’s sleeves were rolled higher now, dirt smudged across his forearms. He moved in rhythm — swing, pull, flatten. A quiet pattern. His breath steady. Focused.

Mark worked beside him, sweat trickling down his temple as he cleared weeds and set markers with quiet care.

From the path behind them, the sound of footsteps — light, steady, and familiar.

They both glanced up.

Jay stood at the edge of the field, squinting slightly against the sun. His hair was wind-tossed, sleeves rolled to the elbows, bag slung over one shoulder. He didn’t speak right away — just gave a small wave.

"Hope I’m not too late."

Mark blinked, surprised, but smiled faintly.

Artur said nothing. Just gave a small nod toward the tools laid on the grass.

Jay dropped his bag and walked over without another word. He picked up a trowel, sank to his knees beside a patch of untamed soil, and began working.

No one said much after that.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was anchored. Shared through the press of hands into earth, the dull scrape of metal through dirt, the occasional sound of one of them swatting a fly and muttering under their breath.

Jay settled easily into the rhythm — his fingers dirty within minutes, his boots sinking into the soil with every shift.

At one point, he glanced toward Artur.

"These rows are cleaner than last time," he said, half-teasing.

Artur didn’t look over, but the corner of his mouth tugged slightly upward.

"We got better without your crooked lines."

Jay huffed a laugh.

Mark smirked and muttered,

"Here we go again..."

The sun kept climbing.

Jay rolled up his sleeves higher. Artur wiped his forehead with his arm. Mark leaned back and stared at the sky for a breath, squinting into the light.

And for a while — just a little while — the ache was dulled by the simplicity of movement, of shared work, of not being alone.

They didn’t talk about Billy.

They didn’t need to.

But in the way Artur didn’t flinch when Jay’s shoulder brushed his — in the way Jay silently passed him the water flask when he forgot to drink — something softened.

And in the background, Mr. Dand watched them from the far row, nodding slightly to himself before turning back to the vines.

Meanwhile in the city the sunlight poured lazily through the curtains, dancing across the tiled floor and casting golden patterns on the walls.

The parlor was quiet but alive — the distant hum of traffic outside, a radio murmuring softly from the kitchen.

Billy sat curled on the edge of the sofa, a pillow tucked under his arm, legs folded.

Camila flopped beside him, dramatically sighing as she adjusted the throw pillow behind her back.

"So guess who finally broke up with Kenny?"

Billy blinked.

"Who’s Kenny?"

Camila rolled her eyes.

"Exactly. That’s what we’ve been saying for two years, but she swore he was ’mysterious’ and ’misunderstood.’ Girl, he was jobless and always wore sunglasses inside."

Billy chuckled faintly, eyes on the window.

"Wait... who are we talking about again?"

"Sandra."

"I don’t know who Sandra is."

"You met her once. At Uncle’s party. She wore that neon green wig, tried to force everyone to do karaoke. Ring a bell?"

Billy stared.

"Not even a little."

Camila gasped, hand over her heart.

"Honestly, traumatic memory loss might be doing you a favor."

Billy laughed — for real this time. It caught him off guard, like a hiccup. Camila’s face lit up.

"There it is," she said. "A laugh. I knew it still existed."

He shook his head.

"You’re ridiculous."

"Correct. But also necessary. You sit in that corner like some tragic Victorian orphan. I had to bring balance."

Billy rolled his eyes and leaned back on the couch. His body softened into the cushions.

"Thanks, I guess."

"You’re welcome," Camila said, kicking her feet up. "So anyway, Sandra swears she’s going on a ’healing journey’ now. Which probably just means she’ll dye her hair again and post poems that don’t rhyme."

"Sounds like growth."

"Sounds like delusion."

They both laughed again — nothing loud, just easy. Familiar.

Billy let the silence settle afterward, a quiet smile lingering.

It wasn’t home the way the village had been. But it was still... something.

Warm. Close. Real.

Billy leaned his head back on the cushion, eyes half-closed, still smiling faintly.

Camila sipped from her glass of juice like it was wine, pinky raised.

"So what do you want for lunch, Your Majesty? I can offer you bread, eggs, or disappointment."

"Whichever’s faster," Billy murmured. "I’m still recovering from your Sandra monologue."

"Don’t test me," she said, already rising. "I will make you noodles so soggy they become soup."

Billy opened one eye.

"Honestly, that sounds kind of nice."

Camila grinned.

"Weirdo."

She was just disappearing toward the kitchen when—

The front door clicked.

Not loudly. Not rushed. Just... precise. A quiet thud of leather shoes on tile. The pull of a suitcase. A rustle of a blazer being set down.

Camila froze mid-step.

"Oh."

Billy looked up.

"What?"

She straightened her shirt unconsciously, tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Dad’s back."

Billy sat up slowly. His posture shifted — not stiff, but more alert. As if something familiar but distant had just stepped into the room.

From the hall, Mr. Sandoval appeared — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed neatly in a navy shirt and slacks, a clean-shaven jaw and sharp eyes that scanned before settling.

He paused when he saw Billy.

For one breath, there was nothing but recognition.

Then:

"Leon."

The name — Leon — landed like a stone in a still pond. Billy stood, back straightening out of instinct, not warmth. "Hi... sir."

Mr. Sandoval stepped forward, his gaze slicing through the quiet like a scalpel—precise, clean, not unkind, but practiced. Like someone used to seeing weakness before warmth.

His eyes swept over Billy like he was scanning for flaws, for weakness, for something broken he might have to fix.

But his voice came steady.

"You look thinner."

"It’s been... a strange few months."

Camila hovered behind them, watching quietly. She loved them both — but she knew this room when they were in it together.

Mr. Sandoval gave a curt nod, then moved to place a hand briefly on Billy’s shoulder — not warm, but firm.

"I’m glad you’re home."

Billy nodded faintly.

"Thanks."

Then, just as quickly, his father turned to Camila, and the entire energy shifted. His eyes softened immediately.

"And you. What kind of daughter lets her brother run off to the village and steal all the peace from this house?"

Camila grinned.

"The excellent kind."

He leaned in and kissed the top of her head.

"Keep causing trouble."

"Always."

Billy watched — a small smile on his lips. That hadn’t changed. His father was always softer with her. She was sunlight to his steel.

Mr. Sandoval turned back.

"You’ve met with Dr. Harris?"

"Yes I did," Billy replied.

"And?"

"We’re... figuring it out."

"Good. You need clarity before you waste more time."

Billy tensed, just slightly.

Camila stepped in.

"He’s not wasting time, Dad. He’s breathing. Don’t rush what took months to break. That takes more than plans and pressure."

Their father’s eyes flicked to her — but didn’t challenge. He only nodded.

"We’ll speak more later."

Billy exhaled, just quietly. Then sat down again.

Camila winked at him as she passed.

"Told you. Walking spreadsheet."

Billy chuckled under his breath.

"He loves you more than coffee."

"Obviously. I’m the better investment."

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