One evening, while the sky burned orange over the fields, Caleb pressed his palms into the earth and said softly, “Someday what I build will feed people the way this ground feeds us.”
Elora smiled without irony and replied, “Then build it with patience, because good things grow slowly.”
For a time, he believed her words were enough.
Then opportunity found him, or rather he chased it until it noticed. Phone calls replaced sunsets, and polished shoes replaced bare feet in the soil. He started traveling to Pittsburgh, then to Chicago, then farther, until the land felt small and Elora felt like a reminder of who he had once been rather than who he wanted to become.
Investors praised his vision and questioned his loyalty to a life that did not generate numbers. Contracts arrived thick with promise, and ambition sharpened into impatience. When Elora spoke about balance and roots, he heard hesitation instead of care. He began to feel that she was holding him back, not because she truly was, but because he had already decided to run.
Their final argument unfolded in the kitchen where they had once laughed over burnt bread and cheap wine.