The mornings in Refuge were calm, with the sun casting a soft glow over the settlement as its residents began their routines. Ezra, however, found little comfort in the peace that others took for granted. The quiet had a way of amplifying his thoughts, and he’d often wake up with a hollow ache in his chest, his mind heavy with memories of his time with the Sanctified.

The voices of his past still haunted him—the chants, the whispered promises, the lies he’d let himself believe. There were times he couldn’t escape them, when Magnus’s words would echo in his mind, twisting his thoughts, dragging him back to that dark place. And though he was free now, a part of him still felt trapped, bound by the invisible chains of his past.

One morning, after a restless night, Ezra found himself wandering through Refuge, his steps aimless. He passed by clusters of residents going about their work, feeling a pang of envy as he watched them move with purpose, so assured of their place here. He couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, a man with no home, no roots, haunted by a past he couldn’t erase.

His thoughts drifted to Jack—Grizzly, as the others called him—and the quiet moment they’d shared over a cigarette. It had been a small gesture, but one that had left a mark. For the first time, he’d felt a sense of connection, a shared understanding that made him feel… welcome. Jack had trusted him enough to offer him a cigarette, something rare and precious out here, and Ezra wanted to honor that trust somehow, to show that he could be worthy of it.

His wandering led him to the tobacco patch, the scent of the plants familiar and comforting. The farmer who tended to the crops noticed him and gave him a nod, gesturing for him to come closer.

“Back for another smoke?” the farmer asked, a glint of humor in his eyes.

Ezra shook his head, managing a small smile. “No, just… wanted to see the plants. Smell them. Reminds me of… better times.”

The farmer studied him for a moment, then nodded in understanding. “Tell you what. Why don’t you lend a hand? Always could use a little help out here, and it might do you some good to get your hands in the dirt.”

Ezra hesitated, glancing at the rows of plants with a mix of curiosity and doubt. But something in him stirred—a small spark that he couldn’t quite name. He stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves, and began to work alongside the farmer, his hands brushing over the leaves, careful and deliberate.

As he worked, the farmer showed him how to tend to the plants, explaining the delicate process of cultivating tobacco in the harsh soil of the wasteland. Ezra listened intently, his mind focused on the task, each movement grounding him, connecting him to something real and tangible. The act of tending the plants was simple, almost meditative, and he felt the tension in his chest begin to ease.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The sun climbed higher as they worked, the warmth sinking into Ezra’s skin, the rhythm of the task lulling him into a quiet calm. For the first time in months, he felt a sense of peace, a quiet that wasn’t haunted by Magnus’s voice. Here, among the plants, he could forget, if only for a little while.

Later that day, as Ezra continued his work, he heard footsteps and looked up to see Jack approaching, his expression thoughtful. Jack watched him for a moment, then leaned against the fence, a faint smile on his face.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Jack said, nodding at the plants. “Taking to farming, huh?”

Ezra chuckled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Something like that. Figured it was time I tried building something instead of… you know, tearing things down.”

Jack’s face softened, a rare moment of understanding passing between them. “Not a bad idea. Sometimes, working with your hands… it has a way of clearing things out. Makes sense, you know?”

Ezra nodded, glancing down at the plants with a hint of pride. “It feels good. I thought… I thought I’d never be able to shake what I’d done, the things I’d believed. But being here, working the land, helping something grow… it’s like I’m finally letting go.”

Jack regarded him with a quiet respect, his usual guardedness easing just a bit. “You’re doing good work, Ezra. Out here, that’s all any of us can ask for—just trying to make something worthwhile. You keep at it.”

Ezra looked up, a small, grateful smile crossing his face. “Thank you, Jack. For the chance. I know I’ve still got a long way to go, but… this is a start.”

Jack nodded, clapping him on the shoulder before stepping back. “We’re all just figuring it out as we go. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re one of us now, whether you know it or not.”

As Jack walked away, Ezra felt a sense of warmth settle over him, a quiet affirmation that he was no longer alone. He had found something here, something that gave him purpose beyond survival—a chance to build, to contribute, to make amends for the life he’d left behind.

In the following days, Ezra returned to the tobacco patch whenever he could, finding solace in the steady work, the feel of the soil, the smell of the leaves. The act of tending the crops became a ritual of healing, a way to replace the old, twisted beliefs with something real and true. Each leaf he touched, each plant he nurtured, felt like a step toward a future he hadn’t thought possible.

The other residents began to notice him, some offering nods of recognition, others even striking up brief conversations. He was still an outsider in many ways, but he no longer felt invisible, no longer burdened by the weight of his past. Here, he was simply Ezra—a man working the land, finding peace in the simplest of tasks.

One afternoon, as he finished his work, he sat back and surveyed the rows of plants, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. The weight of the past still lingered, but it was lighter now, dulled by the knowledge that he was finally building something good, something that mattered.

And as he looked over the plants, the memory of the cigarette he’d shared with Jack came to mind—a small but powerful gesture, a mark of acceptance, of belonging. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d found a place he could call home.