Before I could gather the courage to inquire further, another man, Richard, who I remembered vaguely from family gatherings, spoke up. “We thought you’d at least let us know your plans. It’s part of our legacy too.”

Their legacy. Our legacy. I looked around again at the art, at the beauty Joshua had created from his past pains. This was not just a farm; it was a testament to healing and transformation—a reflection of what he had hoped to build with me.

“I don’t know what my plans are,” I confessed, my voice wavering with the weight of uncertainty. “Joshua wanted me to come here, to see what he’d done. I’m still…processing.”