“Yeah,” I sigh, pushing his head away gently. “That’s about the level of help I expected.”
I leave it alone after that, mostly because I don’t want to think too hard about the one explanation my brain keeps circling back to.
But the next day it happens again.
This time it’s the barn.
I’m hauling a bale of hay toward the back stall when something catches my eye along the wall. The warped board near the corner that’s been crooked since early spring, the one I kept meaning to fix but never quite got around to, is suddenly straight.
Not just straight.
Reinforced.
I set the hay bale down slowly and walk over, running my fingers along the wood. Whoever did the repair didn’t just hammer the board back into place. They added a brace behind it. New nails driven in evenly, spaced out with the kind of careful attention that says the person holding the hammer knew exactly what they were doing.
My stomach does a weird little flip. Because there’s exactly one person I know who notices crooked boards and quietly fixes them without saying a word.
“Nope,” I mutter to myself, stepping away from the wall. “Not going there.” Coincidence. Still coincidence. Probably.
Except the following morning the float valve in the water trough that’s been sticking for weeks suddenly works perfectly again. No overflow. No banging the side of the tank with a stick to get it to reset.
The morning after that, the broken latch on the feed shed door is replaced.
Then the loose railing on the porch gets reinforced.
Then the gutter that kept sagging over the side of the roof suddenly sits perfectly straight like it was never a problem to begin with.
None of it happens while I’m home.
None of it happens while I’m awake.
It just… appears.
Like the farm is slowly repairing itself piece by piece.
Two weeks of this.
Two weeks of small things quietly improving around the property like someone is sneaking in when I’m not looking and playing a very strange game of anonymous handyman.
And every single time I notice something new, my brain does the exact same annoying thing.
It pictures Cole.
Standing somewhere out by the barn with his sleeves rolled up, a wrench in one hand and that quiet focus on his face he gets when he’s fixing something. The way he moves slowly around a space, eyes catching details other people miss. The way he notices things I’ve lived with for months without bothering to repair.
It’s infuriating.
And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, a little bit sweet.
I’m standing in the kitchen one morning pouring coffee when I notice the newest addition to this mystery.
The cabinet hinge.
I freeze halfway through pouring my mug.
Because the hinge that used to squeal every single time I opened that cabinet door doesn’t make a sound anymore.
I slowly pull the cabinet door open, already bracing for the familiar shriek of metal and that awful protesting creak that always makes me wince when the hinge drags against the wood. But this time there’s nothing. No screech, no groan, no resistance at all. The door swings open in one smooth, silent motion like it’s suddenly decided to behave itself. I stare at it for a second, my eyes narrowing as the realization settles in. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
