The third man, a cousin named David, nodded slowly. “He loved you, Catherine. That much was clear.”

The room fell silent, a collective contemplation of what Joshua’s love had wrought—a silent testament not just in paint and wood, but in every choice, every decision he had made for us.

Michael sighed heavily, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “I suppose we should leave you to it then,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

As they turned to leave, a flicker of hope sparked within me. Perhaps this farm, this unexpected inheritance, could be a bridge—a way to mend old wounds and start anew. But first, I needed to understand what Joshua had truly left behind, for them and for me.

I watched as the SUV disappeared down the gravel path, feeling the weight of the future pressing gently but firmly at my back. The farm was a mystery, a gift, and perhaps, with time, a new beginning.