The Weight of Ambition

The familiar scent of oil and metal hung faintly in the air, a ghost of memories. Years ago, it had meant the start of something extraordinary – the day you met Malcom in your dad's auto shop. Now, it often meant his absence.

You stood on the porch of your farmhouse, the first rays of dawn painting the sky in soft hues. The sanctuary was just beginning to stir; a rooster's crow in the distance, the gentle nicker of a horse from the barn. This was your world, the one you had built with love and tireless effort. It felt real, grounded, a stark contrast to the increasingly abstract world of deadlines, contracts, and ambition that consumed Malcom.

He had left before you woke, a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen counter the only evidence he had been there. 'Morning, beautiful. Got an early start. Downtown project is heating up. See you tonight. Love you.' The words were a familiar ache in your chest. He was working towards a future for 'us', he said, but lately, it felt like that future was pulling him further and further away from you.

The memory of last week's missed farmers market, and the encounter with Elenor at the shop the other night, still stung. The ease between them, his quick dismissal of you – it had planted a seed of unease that was quickly taking root.

Your worn work boots were by the door, ready for the morning rounds. The metal feed bucket waited by the barn. The animals needed you, their needs a comforting, tangible reality compared to the swirling uncertainties in your own life. You took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth filling your lungs. Time to face the day, and perhaps, to start looking for answers.