Chapter 16: Ripples in the Industry [ 2]
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Alex Walker didn't let the 85,000 sales go to his head. He didn't let the industry buzz distract him. He just drew.
She hit reply: Received. Excellent work. Keep going.
She leaned back and looked out the window at the city skyline.
Three months ago, Alex was a nobody without an email address. Now, the industry was chasing his tail.
And what was he doing?
Probably sitting in his room at the ranch, drawing Chapter 16.
Sue felt a pang of envy. That kind of pure focus was rare.
Alex was indeed drawing Chapter 16.
This chapter would close out the first semester.
Hachiken had survived milking, pig farming, the chicken coop, the potato harvest, the cheese making, the cattle drive, and the births. He had transformed from a lost city kid into a semi-competent farm hand.
Alex drew with meticulous care.
{Hachiken stood in front of the dorm mirror. He touched his face. It was darker, tanned by the sun. His hands were rougher, calloused from the shovel and the pitchfork.
He opened his notebook. It was filled with scribbles—feed ratios, soil pH levels, gestation periods.
He sat down to write a letter home. This time, he didn't just write "I'm fine." He wrote about the harvest. About the taste of fresh milk. About the weight of a life in his hands.
Final Scene:
Sunset over the pasture. The sky is a bruising purple and gold.
Hachiken leans against the fence. Komaba walks up and hands him a jar of milk.
"First semester's over," Komaba said.
"Yeah." Hachiken took the jar. The glass was cool against his palm.
"How's it feel?"
Hachiken took a sip. He looked at the horizon.
"It feels... solid. Like I actually did something."
Komaba smirked. "Then get ready for semester two."
"I'm ready."}
Alex finished the last stroke. He put the pen down. His wrist throbbed, and his eyes burned. He stood up and stretched, walking to the window.
Outside, the evening routine was underway. John and Sarah were gathering the drying hay in the yard. Their movements were synchronized, a dance learned over thirty years of marriage.
His phone buzzed. Sue's reply: Good.
Alex smiled and turned off the phone.
He went downstairs to help. The hay bales were heavy. He lifted two and felt his breath catch, but he kept going.
"Take a break if you're tired," Sarah called out.
"I'm good." He grabbed another.
The hay smelled of sunlight and dried grass. In his past life, "hay" was just a word in a book. Now he knew the difference between Timothy grass and Alfalfa. He knew which one the cows loved and which one was just bedding.
Life had taught him more than the books.
Dinner was quiet. Then John spoke up.
"Someone from the county TV station came by town today."
Alex looked up.
"Wanted to interview you," John said, shoveling peas into his mouth. "I told 'em no."
"Thanks."
"And a few reporters were sniffing around the General Store," Sarah added. "Henderson chased them off."
"Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom."
"Don't mention it." John put down his fork. "You just draw. We'll handle the fences."
It was simple. It was protective. Alex felt a lump in his throat.
After dinner, he helped wash dishes. Sarah was wiping the counter when she said, "Oh, Mr. Miller's grandson? The one who wanted the autograph?"
"Yeah?"
"He doesn't want a signature on the book anymore." Sarah paused. "He wants to see your old sketchbook. The one you used to doodle in when you were a kid."
Alex froze.
The original Alex Walker had a sketchbook. It was full of crude drawings of cows and horses.
"I thought that was lost," Alex said.
"I kept it," Sarah said softly. "It's in the attic trunk."
She led him up the narrow stairs to the attic. She opened an old leather trunk filled with keepsakes—faded report cards, clay sculptures, old textbooks.
At the bottom was a battered spiral notebook.
Alex opened it.
{Page 1: A cow that looked like a potato with legs.
Page 5: A horse with a neck too long.
Caption:"This is our ranch." written in wobbly crayon.}
He flipped through the pages. The drawings evolved. The cows started to look like cows. The horses gained muscle definition. The perspective shifted from flat 2D to attempts at 3D.
The last few pages were from just before high school. The lines were confident. The shading was emerging.
"You always loved drawing," Sarah said, watching him. "Other kids drew robots. You drew the barn. Teacher said you had a gift, but we didn't have anywhere to send you for lessons."
Alex touched the yellowed paper. He could feel the memories of the original Alex—hiding in his room to draw, getting scolded for doodling in math class, saving lunch money for pencils.
"I thought you stopped," Sarah said. "I'm glad you didn't."
Alex closed the book. On the back cover, in childish handwriting: "I'm going to be an artist."
"Take it," Sarah said. "Show the kid. Let him see that even the best start somewhere."
Alex took the sketchbook downstairs. He sat at his desk and flipped through it again.
Eight years of growth. From a child's scribble to a serialized author.
Even if the first half wasn't technically him, he had inherited the dream. And he had fulfilled it.
His phone buzzed again. Unknown number. He ignored it.
A text arrived: "Mr. Walker, this is a reporter from Anime Insider. We'd love an exclusive interview..."
Delete.
He opened his email. A new message. Not from Sue.
Subject: Academic Inquiry regarding Silver Spoon.
From: Prof. Chen, State University, Center for Agricultural Culture.
Alex clicked it.
"Dear Mr. Walker: I am a Professor of Agricultural Sociology. I have been reading Silver Spoon and I am stunned. Your depiction of agricultural education and the rural-urban divide is profound. We are hosting a symposium on 'Agriculture in Media' next month. We would be honored if you would attend as a guest speaker."
It was a long, formal email. Attached was the agenda.
Alex typed a reply:
"Thank you for the invitation. However, I cannot attend public events at this time. I wish the symposium success."
Send.
He closed the email. He opened his drawing software.
Chapter 16 needed inking.
He dipped his pen.
{The nib touched the digital canvas.
Black ink flowed.
Hachiken's face.
Komaba's muscles.
The grass.
The clouds.}
The world was watching. The industry was rippling.
But inside the room, there was only the scratch of the pen and the silence of the ranch.
(To be Continued)
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