Chapter 15 Realizations
Realizations
DYLAN
The farmhouse has never sounded so quiet.
Every creak of the floorboards echoes through the empty rooms, louder without Madison’s laughter or the rhythmic click of her keyboard when she worked late at the kitchen table.
The suitcase-shaped hollow near the door mocks me.
Even the air feels different, stale without her perfume lingering in the hallways.
I wander through the rooms like a ghost, touching Ray’s coffee mug, the ledger on the desk, the half-folded blanket she used the last night she stayed here.
The place feels abandoned, but the worst part is knowing it isn’t just the farm that’s empty—it’s me.
I try working—checking fence lines, updating ledgers, sorting bills. But without her commentary, her half-joking suggestions, even her complaints, the silence presses in. The farm isn’t just work anymore; it’s a mirror of what I’ve lost. Every corner reflects her absence.
***
I step onto the porch, the fields stretching out under gray skies.
They’ve never looked more unforgiving. For years, I told myself the Carter name, the legacy of our farms, meant everything.
That reputation was survival. But with Madison gone, the land feels like dirt and debts, stripped of meaning.
Family reputation won’t patch fences or rebuild trust. It won’t bring her back.
And it sure as hell won’t quiet the ache in my chest that only she managed to ease.
I remember my father’s words, the lectures about duty and name.
He believed in building walls around emotions, in sacrifice.
And maybe I inherited that too well. But Ray saw something different: that the farm needed both grit and vision.
I realize now, reputation without heart is just soil turning to dust in your hands.
***
MADISON
After staying at Matthew's I got myself back to the city as fast as I could.
I told myself I needed space, but really I was running—again.
My apartment is spotless, staged for perfection like the feeds I curate.
In the morning, as I sit in my favorite café, the hum of conversation rises and falls around me.
The latte art is perfect, my phone buzzes with brand emails, and yet I feel hollow.
The neon signs, the glossy storefronts, the endless rush—they all look like filters over a life I no longer want to live.
I scroll through photos of the farm: the barn lit by lantern light, Dylan fixing the fence in the rain, Matthew’s lopsided grin.
My followers comment, thousands of likes pile up, but none of it fills the emptiness inside.
The glamorous world I built online suddenly feels paper-thin.
Later, I try recording a video update for my channel.
I stare into the lens, smile painted on, but my words falter.
All I can see is Dylan’s face in the storm, the way he looked at me before everything fell apart.
I delete the recording, close the laptop, and bury my face in my hands.
For the first time in years, I don’t know what story to tell.
That night, I call Matthew. My voice shakes, but I tell him about the idea forming in my head—hosting a gala at convention centre downtown, a test to show sponsors what Mud & Moxie retreats could look like.
“It doesn’t have to be huge,” I say, pacing my city apartment.
“Just a night to prove it’s real, to prove the farm can be more than barns and debt.
” He’s quiet for a long time before saying, “You really think people will drive from the city out to the farm for retreats?” I bite my lip.
“I know they will. I just need the chance.”
***
DYLAN (with Madison & Matthew voices intercut)
At the same time, both of us admit truths we’ve been too stubborn to face. I belong to this land—the dirt, the mud, the long hours—but it doesn’t breathe without her. She belongs to the city, but it doesn’t sing without the roots she left behind.
Madison, sitting in her apartment window with city lights below, tells herself she can be both—city and country, mud and moxie, blogger and farm girl, influencer and heir.
And me? I stand in the barn Ray and I once repaired, whispering into the dark that I can love her without losing the farm, maybe even save both in the process.
For the first time, it feels possible that what Ray wanted wasn’t just survival, but rebirth.
Meanwhile, Matthew wrestles with his own silence.
He hasn’t told me about Madison’s gala plan, torn between loyalty to his best friend and his little sister.
He walks the fence lines with me, listens as I curse at broken rails, but the words stay locked in his throat.
He wants to protect her dream and protect me from disappointment, and the strain shows in every furrow of his brow.
He doesn’t yet realize that keeping the secret only tangles the knots tighter.
I picture her walking through the orchard, phone in hand, describing the blossoms to her followers while I plan the planting rows beside her. I imagine the balance, messy but alive. And I wonder if she’s imagining it too.
***
But possibility isn’t certainty. The farm groans under deadlines, and Madison’s pride still keeps her away. I sit on the porch at dusk, staring down the lane, half-hoping her car headlights appear, half-terrified they never will.
Matthew stops by, his boots heavy on the porch. He doesn’t yell this time. He doesn’t have to. He just lowers himself into Ray’s old chair, sighs, and says, “Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe she and you… maybe you’d be good for each other.”
But I see the weight in his eyes, the secret he’s still carrying.
He knows more than he’s saying, and though he doesn’t spell it out, I sense it—the hint of Madison’s dream simmering beneath his silence.
It unsettles him, tests his loyalty, and for the first time I wonder if Matthew isn’t just bristling at us—he’s bristling at the choice of when to tell me.
His words hang between us like a fragile bridge. And for the first time, I let myself believe we might still find a way across—if she doesn’t close the door first. And maybe, just maybe, Matthew won’t stand in the way anymore.
I look back at the lane one more time, the night settling in, and wonder if tomorrow will bring her home—or end it all for good.
***
The next morning, I walk the fields alone.
The grass is wet with dew, soaking through my boots as I check the fence line.
Every task reminds me of her—how she tripped over fence posts, how she laughed even when mud clung to her jeans.
I used to think her clumsiness was a liability.
Now the silence without it is unbearable.
At the creek, I pause and lean on the post Ray hammered in years ago.
I can almost hear his voice, steady as the current: Don’t shoulder it all yourself, boy.
Let others carry some of it. For the first time, I wonder if he wasn’t talking about chores, but about her.
About the way she carried light into places even I couldn’t reach.
I drag my hand across the weathered wood and mutter, “Damn it, Madison,” because the land itself seems to miss her.
***
MADISON
Back in the city, I try to slip into my old life like it’s a familiar coat.
I accept an invitation to dinner with friends at a rooftop bistro.
The table is picture-perfect: candles flickering, plates arranged like art, laughter spilling into the night sky.
My friends chatter about brand deals, vacations, the latest campaigns.
I smile and nod, but my thoughts drift to the farmhouse kitchen with its chipped mugs and the smell of bread baking.
One of my friends leans in. “So, are you going back? To the farm?” The question knocks the air out of me.
I take a sip of wine to buy time, then say lightly, “Just visiting. Nothing permanent.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
The truth pulses under my skin: the city fits, but it doesn’t fill.
I glance out over the skyline, glittering like a promise, and all I can think about is lantern light strung across the barn and Dylan’s rough voice calling me stubborn. My chest aches with the knowledge—I don’t belong fully here anymore. Not without the mud. Not without him.
***