Some time has passed since breakfast.
Auntie and I clear the table, the faint smell of coffee still lingering in the air, and then we both prepare to head out—me for the farm chores, her to deliver eggs and milk.
Just as I turn to leave, she calls out:
"Stathis?"
I glance back. Her eyes are calm… or at least, they seem that way.
"If you feel strange again—tired, dizzy, sick… or even if you just need to talk—say something, okay?"
"Okay," I replied quietly.
I'm not sure what she means.
Does she know something?
Does she suspect something because of the way I reacted this morning?
Or is she simply being her usual protective self?
I don't know.
But I do know this: this autumn won't be like the others.
I pull on my boots and step out the back door. The sun is just beginning to rise, spilling that soft golden light that only lasts a few minutes—one of those rare moments when you don't just see the farm… you feel it.
Our land covers about 10,000 square meters, and every inch carries a story.
It belonged to my grandparents, until a few years ago when they passed it down to Auntie and me so they could travel the world. Now, they only return during the holidays, bringing the scent of distant cities with them.
At the northern edge—about 2,500 square meters—we grow wheat. Tall stalks sway in the breeze, whispering like they're sharing secrets with the wind.
Beside it stretches the vineyard, also 2,500 square meters. The grapevines are tied with wire and wooden pegs. I've been picking grapes from those rows since I was little—stuffing my mouth with the taste of summer and earth.
The remaining 5,000 square meters is where the heart of the farm beats—our home and the work that keeps it alive.
To the west stands the silo, a tall metal sentinel keeping watch over the fields.
A little further down is the stable—home to our two cows. Big, soft-eyed girls who greet the morning with a chorus of low moos, as if to say, You're late.
Opposite the stable squats the wooden pig shed—loud, messy, and far cleverer than it looks. One of them once figured out how to lift the latch with its snout.
In the far corner is the chicken coop. The hens wander freely, calm at first glance but quick to squabble when tempers flare.
Next to them lies the goat pen—home to the most stubborn creatures on the farm. If they sense fear… they own you.
To the east, our vegetable garden spreads like a green quilt. We grow everything there, both in the greenhouse and out in the open: tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, zucchini, lettuce, arugula. The soil is dark, rich, and generous. Aunt Efi spends hours in the greenhouse, moving with quiet devotion among the rows.
Beside the garden is a small orchard of peach trees. In spring, when they bloom, their perfume drifts across the whole property—sweeter than anything bottled in the city.
And in the center of it all stands our home: a two-story farmhouse with red tiles and walls once white, now softened to a warm yellow by years of sun and rain.
Downstairs you'll find the entrance, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and my grandparents' bedroom. Upstairs are five bedrooms and another bathroom. I sleep in one bedroom and Auntie in another. The rest stay closed most of the year, waiting for holidays and visiting relatives.
Beneath it all is the cellar—cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of wine and tsipouro. That smell clings to your clothes the moment you step in.
Next to the house, like an extra limb, is the garage—crammed with tools, sacks of feed, spare tires, and Grandpa's old pickup truck.
It's not modern. It's not spotless.
But it's alive.
And every crack in the walls, every squeaky hinge, every oil stain on the floor tells a story.
I head toward the stable first. The cows are already staring at me, their patience gone. Auntie says their hunger is the most punctual force in the universe. Every morning, without fail, they start mooing—an alarm made of warm breath and stubborn insistence.
I grab a bucket of feed and scatter it. Simple work, but grounding. It makes me feel useful. Makes me feel at home.
Next are the goats—the troublemakers. Marika, one of the older ones, has a habit of headbutting me the moment I relax. Grandpa says I remind her of a vet he once knew. I'm still not sure if he's joking.
Once I'm done feeding, Auntie returns from the eggs and milk delivery, she waves me over to the greenhouse.
"Come help me pick tomatoes for lunch," she calls.
Inside, the air is heavier… but warmer. It smells of leaves, damp soil, and something else—something… maternal.
The tomatoes hang low, full and ripe, their skins glowing in the filtered light. The soil beneath them is still damp from the water I gave earlier.
They always say it, and it's true every time: vegetables grow like people here—with care, sweat, and hope.
Auntie bends down, snips a tomato from the vine, and hands it to me. I try not to look at her backside too much.
"Smell it," she says.
I do. It smells like summer, sun, and family. Strange how something so simple can reach so deep.
Without meaning to, the words slip out:
"Auntie… do you think that if someone works really hard, but doesn't see results… does that mean something's wrong with them?"
She pauses, sets down the bucket, and places a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Listen, my child… you don't measure your worth by your weight. Or by what you haven't achieved. When your grandpa first started this farm, nothing went right for years. He made mistakes. Lost crops. Lost animals. Sometimes he even lost hope. But he never gave up.And you… you shouldn't give up either."
I swallow hard. I don't speak. I just smile—awkward maybe, but genuine.
I take a deep breath, load the basket with tomatoes.
We finish picking and head back toward the house. When we return home, I leave the basket with tomatoes in the kitchen. Auntie throws a towel over her shoulder and turns to me.
"Stathis, go change clothes and come with me. We need to stop by the grocery store."
I nod, though something stirs inside me. That woman… She confuses me. She's my aunt, yes. But sometimes… I don't know.
Maybe because I'm just fourteen and my thoughts are like runaway goats.
But no. I shouldn't think like that. I can't think like that. She is my aunt and nothing more.
The day is only just beginning. And on a farm like ours, there's no time for too many questions.
The land is waiting, and I have to keep walking.