The workday was drawing to a close. I stood over the lab bench, engrossed in studying an object that appeared to be an ordinary turnip. But this was no mere turnip. My goal was to develop a variety capable of withstanding extreme drought conditions—a feat that seemed to have eluded countless researchers before me. I knew I had already invested significant time and effort, but now I was finally nearing a solution: by modifying the osmotin protein, I planned to enhance the root vegetable's cell membrane resistance to water deficits.
This particular protein could be the key to the survival of agricultural crops in situations where conventional irrigation systems are unfeasible. The concept was simple: I was engineering an improved turnip, granting its cells the ability to repair damage caused by a lack of moisture. But simplicity is always deceptive—I had to meticulously plan the genetic modification so that osmotin wouldn't disrupt normal cellular metabolism. A misstep in balance, and the turnip cells would start mutating in undesirable ways, losing their natural properties.
As I pondered this, I felt my thoughts flowing smoothly and focused, constructing a chain of logical solutions. Genetics is almost an art, yet also an exact science, and I relished this blend of artistry with the mathematical precision of biological processes.
I lowered my gaze back to the test tubes and samples. Carefully measuring the required dose of reagent, I used tweezers to introduce the genetic insert, monitoring every millimeter of movement. The room was perfectly silent—a backdrop that helped me concentrate and immerse myself in the process. One misstep, and hours of work would be wasted, leaving nothing but an ordinary, unmodified turnip in the test tube. Here, even the slightest movements, fractions of microliters, and precise incubations mattered immensely. The laboratory is my sanctuary, a place where I set my own rules and find answers to questions many consider tedious and dull.
The process was complete, and I stored the samples in the refrigerator for the next analysis. Maintaining the samples' stability is an art in itself; humidifiers and temperature control must work in sync to prevent the cells from losing activity. Wrapping up, I checked the logs and recorded the results—numbers, indicators, comments made as recently as yesterday.
Leaving the laboratory, I felt a slight fatigue. Success in science is rarely instantaneous; it's always a meticulous, sometimes excruciatingly slow process. Before departing, I ensured the lab was left in perfect order, only then turning off the lights and closing the door behind me.
Arriving home, I found myself in a place where my ordinary yet comfortable surroundings awaited. It was a small apartment in a modern residential complex—simple but conveniently furnished. The rooms were spacious, with minimal furniture and hardly any items that might seem superfluous or untidy. On the walls hung diplomas, awards, and certificates neatly framed—from academic achievements during my student years to prizes and grants I'd received for research in agrobiology and genetics. These documents reminded me of the path I had traveled, and truth be told, I always felt a slight pride when passing by them.
But my true pride was my home mini-garden. Everywhere stood flowers and vegetables in pots. In the corner of the room were several mini-greenhouses I had built myself; under controlled lighting grew genetically modified tomatoes and lettuce on which I tested my latest developments. Against one wall was a humidifier, next to a drip irrigation system, and along the windowsill stretched the green leaves of aromatic herbs. All this wasn't just decoration but a home laboratory that allowed me to continue experiments outside regular work hours.
Tonight's dinner was typical but pleasant. I opened the refrigerator and took out pre-prepared vegetables and fresh lettuce leaves—I preferred plant-based food, and fortunately, my experiments allowed me to grow something new at home. The taste of the food was simple, even familiar, but I found special satisfaction in it. Nature, even altered, remained the foundation of everything that surrounded me.
After dinner, I brewed herbal tea, grabbed my phone, and settled on the couch, scrolling through the news. My subscriptions consisted mainly of scientific journals and news sites about biotechnology and agriculture. Each achievement, new result, or interesting experiment discussed in the articles made me mentally analyze what I could do to improve it.
For example, I came across a publication about a new method of genetically protecting vegetable crops from pests proposed by a university. They had altered the genetic code so that the plants produced a special protein to repel insects. At first glance, the solution seemed simple, but I frowned: in my opinion, they chose the wrong protein and acted too superficially. If they had used a recombination method involving a specific toxin activated only upon contact with certain enzymes produced by insects, the effect would have been both more reliable and environmentally safe. I visualized this scenario, calculated possible sequences in my head, and sighed—sometimes such "solutions" in the news only irritated me.
Setting aside my phone, I finished my tea and, already feeling the weight of my eyelids, went to the bedroom. Glancing at the clock, I set the alarm for early morning to get everything done before the trip, and within minutes, I drifted into a peaceful and oblivious sleep.
In the morning, I picked up my phone and, scrolling through notifications, once again stumbled upon a message from the legal department. It informed me of an inheritance from my grandfather. I reread it to double-check all the details.
U.S. Department of Inheritance and Property Affairs
Division of Inheritance Rights and Property
Date: August 3, 2019
Recipient: Edwin Burton
Dear Edwin Burton,
We are notifying you of an inheritance left to you by your grandfather, Wilbur Burton. According to the will officially on file, you are the sole heir to a 24-acre farm located at 3755 Brown Road, Elmwood Village, Knox County, Tennessee.
At this time, the documents have undergone all the necessary verification procedures, and the property can be transferred to your ownership within 30 working days. Please contact our department to complete the process of registering the property rights.
Contact number: +1 (555) 234-5678
Responsible agent: Jenna Hartman
Sincerely,
U.S. Department of Inheritance and Property Affairs
I scrutinized the text as if something else might be hidden within it, but the meaning remained the same. Grandpa had left me a farm. Wilbur Burton. We hadn't seen each other since my childhood, and memories of him seemed blurred, like a fog. I remembered his strong facial features, sturdy hands, and a slight smile. Fragmented moments surfaced in my mind—him showing me how to plant trees or telling me about different pumpkin varieties. Even then, it evoked a strong response and interest in me. And now... his farm had become mine?
Preparing a light breakfast of fruit and a cup of black coffee, I spent time trying to process the news of my unexpected inheritance. At that moment, the phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw the name Jasper Crawford. He had been a friend since our university days—the kind of person who always arrived on time, possessed a calm sense of humor, and was reliable.
"Hey, great heir, are you ready?" he asked with a slight chuckle as soon as I answered.
"Hi, Jasper. Ready... almost," I said, glancing around the room. "Give me five minutes, and I'll be out."
"Are you sure? I hope you don't get lost in your experimental jungle over there," he noted, teasing me about my weak spot. "We'll be waiting, but hopefully without any extra green companions."
"Who knows? Maybe the plants will follow me—they're used to my regular rounds," I replied with feigned seriousness.
Putting down the phone, I made a quick tour of the mini-greenhouses, checking each plant in my usual automatic rhythm. Swiftly moving along the shelves, I inspected humidifiers and thermometers—everything was functioning perfectly. After watering a couple of dry spots, I mentally noted that the daylight hours here would need to be extended soon. In small containers on the windowsill, young sprouts were greening up, as hardy as any wild plants. The soil was moist, and the leaves were lush—the work was done excellently, and I had no desire to make changes. Having checked everything in a matter of minutes, I finally headed out.
Outside, the fog was slowly dissipating, and I heard the familiar roar of an engine approaching my home. A dark blue Ford pulled up to the curb, with Jasper already behind the wheel. This car was perfect for our little expedition: spacious, powerful, and comfortably accommodating our group of five. Jasper grinned broadly as I approached the car.
"Hope your grandpa's farm doesn't crumble the moment we set foot on it," he teased.
"Well, if that happens, you'll be the first to lend a hand to save it," I replied with a slight smirk in response to his jest.
As I settled into the back seat, next to me was Zeke Chambers—a tall, muscular blond, confident as always. Dressed in a tank top and shorts, he looked ready to run or do a hundred pull-ups at any moment. At twenty-eight, Zeke was the picture of an athlete. We had met a few years back when I considered getting into better physical shape. Zeke became a mentor, teaching me technique, proper breathing, and gradual loading. He was the first to guide me through the basics of the gym, patiently showing me the importance of attention to detail in sports. We quickly hit it off and became close friends—although I eventually left the workouts to focus on science, he often jokingly hinted he’d be glad to have me back for runs and sessions. I shook his muscular hand.
Beside Zeke sat his girlfriend, Emily Davenport. Barely twenty—the youngest in our group—she embodied athletic grace. A fitness model preparing for competitions under Zeke's mentorship, she had joined our circle as his girlfriend. As soon as I settled in next to her, she gave me a meaningful glance, batting her long eyelashes and smiling.
“Edwin, glad you finally joined our little tour,” she greeted me, tilting her head slightly. From her expression, I sensed she wasn't exactly thrilled about the trip.
In the front seat, next to Jasper, sat his wife, Lenora Evans. Lenora, our peer like Jasper, was a calm and thoughtful woman with long, ash-blonde hair neatly braided and deep eyes that always held a certain assured seriousness. She turned to me and said softly, “Hello, Edwin.”
“Lenora, good to see you. How are you feeling? Everything okay?” I responded respectfully.
“Everything's fine, thank you,” she replied, nodding. Her tone was warm, as always, but without excessive sentimentality.
Making sure everyone was ready, Jasper turned slightly, met our gazes, and smiled into the rearview mirror.
“Alright, folks, everyone buckled up?” he asked.
With that, he smoothly pulled the car onto the road, and our dark blue Ford set off, carrying us out of the city toward the farm that promised new experiences and, I hoped, a pleasant time with friends. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I was the only one among us without a partner, but perhaps that was for the best—it would have felt cramped with six of us.
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When we finally turned onto the dirt road leading to the farm, a figure appeared in the distance, standing like a statue against the gray sky. It was a slender, elderly Black man with sharp, blade-like shoulders and long, thin arms crossed over his chest. He looked at us sternly, as if he’d suddenly stumbled upon mischievous rabbits nibbling at his garden.
"Hey," he called out sharply as we got out of the car. "What do you want here? Who are you?"
His gaze wandered coldly over us, pausing on me and lingering on Zeke, as if studying our every move.
"This is my grandfather's farm, Wilbur Burton," I said calmly, trying to ease his suspicion. "I'm his grandson, Edwin. We've come to look over the place."
The man, without taking his eyes off me, furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then suddenly glanced at the others, as if checking whether I was telling the truth.
"Grandson, huh," he muttered. "Wil never mentioned he had such... company left behind. I thought his whole life was here—in his beds and greenhouses." He suddenly turned and gave Zeke a condescending look, which could have been friendly or might have concealed a question about why such a motley crew had gathered here.
Zeke, feeling the unusual man's gaze on him, couldn't resist asking, "And who might you be, if you don't mind me asking?"
The man didn't rush to answer, as if weighing each word in his mind. Then, after a pause, he reluctantly introduced himself. "You can call me Ebo. I'm, let's say, the only neighbor Wil allowed to wander on his farm. We were on... good terms." He fell silent and quickly looked away, as if he'd said too much. "Your late grandfather was... particular. Didn't tolerate just anyone, you know."
We stood silently while Ebo contemplated, staring at me a bit differently now, as if trying to compare my facial features with something long familiar.
"So, you're his grandson, are you?" he said, as if this was the key to some old, forgotten riddle. "Eh, Wilbur was secretive like..." He seemed to search for a comparison but gave up, chuckling briefly. "In short, secretive."
Lenora, perhaps wanting to ease the tension, gently added, "Your friend must have been a good man if you were friends for so long."
"Good?" Ebo looked at her as if she were a naive child. "Wilbur was strange and quiet, like the depth of a lake that seems clear but is really dark and unfathomable."
Emily shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and asked, "Did this farm grow only vegetables?"
"Vegetables, yes. And not only..." Ebo smirked, as if that phrase held special meaning known only to him. "Different vegetables grew here, but don’t think it was just that. Wil loved plants... and the plants loved him. Pity, pity how things turned out."
I watched his eerie face, noting the oddities in his manner of speaking and behavior, but I couldn't help but notice that Ebo was somehow connected to the farm and knew it better than anyone alive.
"Allow me to show you what's left of it," he suddenly said, as if reading my thoughts and already turning toward the old but still well-maintained plot, inviting us to follow him.
As we approached, I could see the farm in more detail. At first glance, it looked cozy and well-kept, although time and neglect had taken their toll. Before us stretched neat rows of greenery—faded cabbage leaves, dried tomato bushes that once yielded abundant harvests, and small patches of root vegetables still stubbornly resisting time. It seemed that every part of the farm, every plant, breathed memories of Grandpa, his care, and patient work.
I caught the tiniest details: cracked but carefully mended beds, old wooden signs with the names of crops, and a slightly rusted but still functional irrigation system. All of this spoke of work done with love. But it was clear that enough time had passed since Grandpa's death for the farm to begin fading. Withered greenery and slightly wind-tattered plant stems all indicated that the farm needed fresh care.
Jasper, looking around with respect, noted, "Ed, your grandpa clearly knew what he was doing. Look at this order. Even after all this time, the place looks quite alive."
"Wilbur was a master, not just a farmer," Ebo responded to these words, his voice trembling with strange admiration. "People like him knew not only what to plant but when and why. Not everyone can understand..." He fell silent, staring into the sky as if conversing with someone unseen.
Emily gently ran her hand over the dry, brittle leaves of a large pepper plant, which, judging by its size, was once almost gigantic. The leaves crumbled, leaving tiny brown flakes on her fingers. Her expression spoke louder than any words—boredom and slight irritation flickered in her eyes as they skimmed over the abandoned beds with evident lack of interest. She glanced in my direction, pressing her lips together.
"So, when are we heading back?" she asked, suppressing an impatient sigh.
I decided to ignore her and turned to Ebo, who seemed frozen in his own world, his eyes wandering somewhere far away.
"What was Grandpa planting lately?" I asked, hoping to bring him out of his strange trance.
"Vegetables, yes..." he murmured, looking somewhere above our heads. "But he didn't just grow food. He cultivated... ideas, so to speak." He pronounced the last word with a pause, as if assigning it special significance. Then he pointed to an old, almost hidden greenhouse at the edge of the property and, without saying goodbye, suddenly departed, leaving us alone on the farm.
We were left somewhat bewildered. While the others glanced around aimlessly, I decided to follow my growing hunch and headed toward the greenhouse. From the outside, it looked modest, with weathered panels bearing the marks of time and the elements. But as soon as I stepped inside, I froze—the interior seemed incredibly spacious, as if the walls had expanded to create a true botanical garden.
Inside, a multitude of plants had overgrown—the vivid colors of fruits and dense foliage immediately caught the eye, in places seeming to absorb light and barely allowing it to reach the ground. Over time, some rows had begun to wither; many had perished due to neglect, leaving only the hardiest species. I slowly surveyed the plants, admiring those still resisting time.
To the left, stems of an American hybrid tomato stretched upward, about the size of a small apple; they were still green, though the leaves had long darkened and hung like wilted ribbons. To the right grew bushes of sweet peppers with thick skins capable of withstanding temperature fluctuations—a rare adaptation that had apparently saved them from perishing. In the far corner, I noticed a couple of unusual artichoke varieties that Grandpa had likely been adapting to the local climate: their leaves were broader than usual and had fuzzy edges.
The most striking were the climbing passionflower vines scaling the back wall, still generously adorned with green and slightly faded fruits. Such plants were typically found only in southern regions, and here, among more familiar crops, they looked like guests from another world. Grandpa must have tried planting passionfruit in the north, experimenting with resistance to colder temperatures. I stepped closer and, examining the leaves, noted small spots from pests—perhaps he used biological protection methods without chemicals.
In the center of the greenhouse, surrounded by leaning shelves, stood a massive, long-dead eggplant bush, its stem almost woody and its leaves crumbling in my hands. But beneath it grew several resilient sprouts—miniature yet alive, as if asserting that despite neglect, the farm still harbored life.
As I crouched down and touched the soil, darkness began to envelop my vision. It was as if someone had suddenly dimmed the lights; familiar outlines started to blur and fade. I blinked several times, and when I opened my eyes, everything around me looked entirely different.
First, I noticed that the plants, which moments ago had been peacefully growing around me, began to distort, stretch, and take on utterly unnatural forms. Tomato bushes transformed into strange, twisted towers resembling the sprouting stalks of ancient columns overgrown with roots, from which a dark, almost inky liquid slowly oozed. The leaves on these "towers" hung like tattered curtains, rustling faintly as if whispering something in an unknown language. I felt the air around me grow denser and heavier, as if something otherworldly permeated it.
The passionflower vines, which had elegantly twined along the walls, began to writhe violently, as if replaced by serpents greedily entwining the greenhouse's glass panels, which now seemed fragile and cracked under the pressure of this living mass. Tiny, dark purple buds emerged, painfully unfolding and then disintegrating, releasing clouds of dark mist that obscured my view. I sensed a strange unease, as if each vine were trying to contain something within: some force not of this world.
But the strangest transformation was the structure of the greenhouse itself. The glass, which moments ago reflected dim light and the gray sky, began to dull and darken, filling with dense gloom, as if ink had seeped between the glass layers. The frames elongated and twisted, resembling the ribs of some dead creature surrounding me from all sides. Barely perceptible rustlings and knocks echoed off these dark, marble-like walls, which gradually formed a closed and threatening perimeter. This was no longer a greenhouse; it had transformed into something resembling a crypt—sinister and ancient.
The floor beneath my feet was cold and hard, and the soil that had recently covered the greenhouse floor now felt like stone, covered with dark, eerie spots resembling lichen. Even the air had changed; it seemed draped with a heavy veil, making it hard to breathe. Every plant, every weave of leaves still visible, began to thin and wither, literally disintegrating and crumbling to dust. Their remnants slowly absorbed into this dark, almost sticky ground, which now resembled black sludge. Everything here seemed to dissolve, as if it had never existed.
Then, words began to appear in my field of vision—they emerged as if projected onto the misty air, lines of text and symbols scattering before my eyes like code from a game or some computer program. Instinctively, I tried to brush them away, but something insistent compelled me to read at least a few lines. Glancing over the texts, I barely absorbed the content. There was something about personal status, inventory, abilities, but one phrase truly made me freeze:
Congratulations! You have received ownership of a plot of land and access to the Farm Core. You've become an Owner. You've unlocked the System.
I stood still, trying to comprehend what this meant. A plot of land? A Core? What was this about? I'd just inherited an entire farm, I didn't need any messages to know that. I blinked in confusion and tried to read it again, but the inscription slowly dissolved into the air like a mirage, leaving only a sense of unease. In this cryptic greenhouse, among these dying and transforming plants, I felt utterly lost—and yet I couldn't suppress a strange, growing curiosity.
These unusual beings—once mere plants, now whatever they had become—ignited in me a burning desire to research them.