Chapter 171: Chapter 171

Time hadn’t been kind to it — crooked slats, some leaning, a few missing altogether — but it still stood, surrounding the field not far from the house.

When they reached the low ridge beyond the trees, Billy saw the old wooden fence before Artur even pointed.

Billy stopped in his tracks, eyes softening. "Here..."

Artur nodded. "Yeah."

The field was quiet now. Overgrown in some places.

But the wide patch near the fence still held traces of order — a line of old gardening stakes, the ghost of a path worn down by years of footsteps.

"You used to hate this part," Artur said, stepping closer to the gate. He lifted the latch, let it creak open. "Said the dirt got under your nails for days."

Billy laughed under his breath. "You made me plant carrots in the wrong season."

"You said you liked carrots."

They both laughed, the kind that came from remembering something far enough away that it stopped hurting.

Billy ran his hand over the top of the fence, feeling the grain of the wood, the sun-warmed roughness. "I remember this gate," he said. "You carved something here."

Artur leaned in, brushing aside a small vine. "Still there."

Faint initials. Just barely visible, but real. Permanent.

Billy traced them with his finger.

"I was so mad at you that day," he said.

Artur smirked. "You were mad because I made you carry buckets."

"You filled them twice as much as mine."

"You kept stopping to talk to the chickens."

Billy turned, pretending to glare. "They were lonely."

Artur couldn’t help it. He laughed again — deeper this time, eyes crinkling. And Billy just watched him, heart tugging at something he couldn’t name.

The fence. The smell of earth. The air warm and golden.

It felt like standing inside a memory.

After a pause, Billy said, softer now, "I didn’t think I’d miss this place."

Artur looked at him. "But you do."

Billy nodded. "I think... some part of me always did."

They stood in the quiet, just breathing it all in — the open field, the worn-out fence, the echo of their old life.

Then, slowly, Artur tilted his head toward the house in the distance.

"Come on," he said gently. "He’ll be waiting."

Billy looked once more at the fence, at the initials, then turned to follow him — back toward the place that still, somehow, felt like home.

They didn’t head back to the house just yet.

Instead, Artur veered left along the side path, boots brushing through dry grass.

Billy followed without asking, instinct guiding his feet over ground he somehow still knew.

As they rounded the corner behind the house, the old sheep fence came into view.

The small enclosure leaned slightly with age, its gate patched in places with rope and wire, but it still held steady.

Inside, a few sheep milled lazily, one of them lifting its head at the sound of footsteps.

Billy blinked, a surprised breath escaping his lips. "They’re still here..."

Artur stepped over to the wooden bin near the fence. He popped off the lid, revealing a bucket of dried feed. "Dad kept them going. Said it’d be lonely without something alive behind the house."

He handed Billy a scoop. Their fingers brushed. Billy took it.

They worked quietly, each pouring feed into the wooden troughs that lined the inner edge of the pen.

The sheep gathered slowly, docile and familiar.

Billy knelt beside one of them, an older ewe with a grey-speckled coat. "I remember this one... she used to chase me."

Artur chuckled from the other side. "Because you wore those bright red shoes. You looked like a walking tomato."

"She had rage in her eyes," Billy said, gently stroking the sheep’s wool. "I thought I’d die in this pen."

"Dramatic," Artur muttered, tossing another scoop.

Billy stood again, brushing hay from his knees. He leaned against the fence, watching as the sheep settled in to eat. "I thought you’d get rid of them."

Artur looked up, surprised. "Why would I?"

Billy shrugged. "You always said they were too much trouble."

"They were," Artur said, walking over to stand beside him. "Still are."

Artur glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But someone once said the sound of sheep chewing was... peaceful."

Billy tilted his head. "Did I say that?"

"No," Artur said. "Your third day here. You were still sore from falling in the mud, barely said a word to anyone. You just sat there... and smiled like an idiot while they chewed."

Billy lowered his gaze, that smile tugging at his lips again now.

"I don’t remember saying it," he murmured. "But... it does sound like something I’d say."

Artur folded his arms, resting them on the top rail of the fence. "You said a lot of things back then. Half of them didn’t make sense."

Artur chuckled. "Okay, maybe more."

They stood there for a while, just watching the sheep eat.

A breeze passed over them, warm and light, carrying the soft rustle of leaves and distant chatter from the village down the hill.

Billy’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. "Does your dad... still come out here?"

"Every morning," Artur replied. "Says they’re part of his peace."

Billy smiled faintly. "Then I’m glad they’re still here."

A silence stretched between them — not awkward, just full.

And when Billy leaned a little closer, resting his arm beside Artur’s on the fence, neither of them pulled away.

The sheep chewed. The wind moved through the trees. And somewhere behind them, the house waited — steady and still, just like always.

The sky turned gold long before they noticed.

By the time they made it back to the house, the sun was slipping low beyond the hills, casting long shadows across the porch.

Crickets had begun their nightly song, that familiar chorus echoing faintly across the fields.

Inside, the lights had been switched on. A soft yellow glow welcomed them in.

Mr. Dand was already seated by the table, folding a clean dish towel with slow hands.

The kettle hissed quietly from the stove, filling the kitchen with the scent of mint leaves.

"You boys disappeared," he said without looking up. "I thought I might have to send the sheep to find you."

"We were behind the house," Artur replied, hanging his jacket by the door. "The fence still holds."

"Barely," Mr. Dand muttered, then shot a look at Billy. "Still run from the angry one?"

Billy smiled. "She’s mellowed out. Or maybe I did."

Mr. Dand grunted, not unkindly, and reached for the kettle. "Tea?"

A few minutes later, they were gathered at the small dining table — the same table that had held so many quiet evenings, full of clinking spoons and the rustle of village wind through cracked windows.

Billy sat opposite Artur, cradling his cup between both hands. The warmth soaked into his palms.

"It smells the same," he said softly.

Artur glanced at him. "The house?"

Billy nodded. "Mint... dust... old wood." He looked around. "You painted the windows."

Mr. Dand lifted his cup. "Did it myself. That’s why they’re crooked."

Billy smiled faintly. "They look good."

A long pause followed. Not tense — just the kind that comes when three people are sitting with too many shared memories between them.

Then Mr. Dand stood with a quiet sigh, brushing his hands down his shirt. "I’ll leave you two to talk. My knees need to not be vertical for a while."

He shuffled off toward his room, the door clicking gently shut behind him.

Silence settled again.

Artur took a slow sip, watching Billy over the rim of his cup. "You okay?"

Billy nodded but didn’t speak right away.

He turned his gaze toward the small window over the sink.

Outside, the stars were beginning to appear — quiet, blinking reminders of time passing.

Of things that change... and some that don’t.

"I thought it’d feel like stepping into a dream," Billy said at last. "Like nothing would be the same anymore."

Billy looked down into his tea, voice soft. "It still feels like home."

Artur didn’t answer, just leaned back in his chair and let that truth settle in.

The night wrapped around them. No need for loud confessions.

No rush to name what was slowly blooming back into something steady. They were here. They were safe.

And for now... that was enough.

They lingered in the kitchen until the teacups cooled in their hands.

When Billy finally stood, Artur followed without a word.

It wasn’t planned—just something familiar in the way they both moved, like muscle memory pulling them toward the porch.

The night air kissed their skin the moment they stepped outside.

It was cooler now, the kind of breeze that slipped through shirts and rustled the old wind chimes above the doorframe.

They settled on the wooden porch steps, side by side, just like they used to.

The stars above Solmere had always been brighter than anywhere else.

Unbothered by city lights or smoke, they burned clean and quiet, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled them on purpose.

Billy tilted his head back, eyes scanning the constellations. "I used to come out here every night," he murmured. "Didn’t know why. Just... felt right."

Artur leaned back on his palms, his knees bent up. "You said the house felt too still. Said the stars made it easier to think."

Billy chuckled softly. "Did I?"

"Almost every night," Artur said, glancing at him. "You’d sneak out like it was some grand escape. Thought you were being quiet."

Billy gave him a look. "I was quiet."

"No," Artur said, grinning. "You tripped over the same step five nights in a row."

They both laughed—quiet and low, like they were afraid to wake the past.

A few crickets chirped nearby. The smell of the soil still held the warmth of the day.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and then went silent again.

Billy hugged his knees to his chest. "I didn’t think I’d ever come back here."

Artur turned toward him, his voice low. "Did you want to?"

Billy didn’t answer right away. He stared ahead, watching the shapes of the trees sway in the breeze.

"I don’t know what I wanted... but I missed this. The quiet. The sky. Being near you."

Artur’s breath caught just slightly, but he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he nudged Billy’s knee with his own. "You never really left. Not all the way."

Billy smiled at that—small, soft, real.

They sat like that for a while, shoulders nearly touching, watching the night breathe.

No need to fill the silence.

Here, under the same sky where so many unspoken things had lingered before, there was comfort in simply existing. Together.

Eventually, the chill in the night air caught up with them.

Artur stood first, brushing off his jeans. "Come on," he said, voice gentle. "Let’s not freeze out here."

Billy looked up, a little reluctant, then nodded. "Yeah... okay."

They stepped inside, and the familiar hush of the house wrapped around them — floorboards whispering under their weight like old friends.

It felt like stepping into an old photograph, everything unchanged yet heavier with memory.

Upstairs, the bedroom was dim, lit only by the moon slipping through the window. The same room they once shared. The same bed, too—though now, there was no pretense of distance.

Billy kicked off his shoes and tugged off his jacket. Artur pulled the covers back without a word. They moved quietly, like they might disturb something sacred if they made too much noise.

When they finally lay down, it was with the kind of ease that came from knowing the shape of each other in the dark.

Billy faced the window, his back to Artur, but not closed off. Just... thoughtful.

Artur shifted slightly behind him, not too close, not too far.

Then softly, just before sleep began to settle between them, Billy whispered, "Thanks for bringing me home."

Artur exhaled slowly. "You were never really gone."

Billy smiled faintly into the dark.

A beat passed. Then two.

"Goodnight," he murmured.

Artur’s voice followed, low and warm. "Goodnight, Billy."

And then—barely above a breath—Artur added, "Sleep well."

The mattress dipped as Artur settled behind him, keeping respectful space.

Billy didn’t answer with words. He just let out a small, content sound and shifted slightly back, close enough that their arms barely touched.

And in the stillness that followed, the house, the stars, the night—everything—held them as they drifted off.