Gamer1234556
Planter
Chapter 20 – Penny
We had to leave the Town Hall meeting early; Gunther got a call from the Governor.He was coming to the Museum—today. To review Gunther’s progress on “rediscovering Ferngill’s roots.”
Ferngill’s history was built on omissions.
I told myself that was all they were. Omissions. Temporary ones.
I turned back once before leaving.
Eric was still there.
At first, I thought I’d imagined it—something off in the way he stood, like he wasn’t fully present.
Then I saw his face.
He was crying.
Not quietly. Not subtly. It wasn’t something he could hide if he tried.
For a moment, everything else fell away.
I took a step toward him before I realized I had.
What happened?
The question rose too quickly, catching in my throat before I could speak it.
Eric didn’t cry.
Not when he was hurt. Not when he was exhausted. Not even when things went wrong.
But now—
Emily was beside him.
No—closer than that.
She had her arms around him, holding him like she was trying to keep him from coming apart entirely. Her voice was low, steady, something I couldn’t quite hear.
He leaned into it.
Into her.
I stopped.
Something tightened in my chest—sharp, unfamiliar. I didn’t try to name it.
I could go to him.
The thought came just as quickly as the first step had.
Just ask. Just stay a moment longer.
But Gunther was already at the door.
“Penny,” he called, urgency cutting through everything else. “Now.”
I hesitated.
Just for a second.
Eric didn’t look up.
Emily didn’t let go.
Whatever was happening—whatever had broken through him like that—it wasn’t something I could step into halfway.
And I didn’t have time.
I turned away.
By the time I reached the door, the noise of the meeting had already swallowed them again.
“Penny—hurry,” he whispered, locking the door behind us. “We need to move anything related to Dwarf technology. Now.”
I stopped short.
“Why?” I asked, my voice steady. Too steady.
Gunther rubbed his forehead, already sweating.
“It’s the Governor. He’s coming here. Today.”
I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay calm.
“So, he inspects. He nods. He leaves,” I said. “That’s what he always does.”
Gunther shook his head.
“No. Not this time. He wants results. Something clean. Something presentable.”
He glanced at the shelves. “If he sees those scrolls—”
“—then what?” I cut in.
Gunther hesitated.
Then quietly:
“Then Pelican Town becomes a footnote.”
That made my stomach tighten.
“So, we hide them,” I said. “Just for now.”
Gunther nodded immediately, relief flashing across his face.
“Yes. Exactly. Just until he leaves.”
I gathered the scrolls with careful hands. They felt heavier than before.
“This is wrong,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.
Gunther stiffened.
“Penny,” he said sharply, “we don’t have a choice.”
Something about that word unsettled me.
“Do we?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
As I tucked the scrolls away, the silence stretched. My thoughts wouldn’t stay still.
“You know,” I said slowly, “I teach children every day about honesty. About learning from the past.”
Gunther didn’t look at me.
“This isn’t a classroom.”
“No,” I replied. “It’s a museum. Which is worse.”
Gunther finally turned to me, his eyes wide with warning.
“Penny, please. Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Start thinking out loud.”
That was when something snapped.
“Out loud?” I repeated. “I’m not the one turning history into propaganda.”
Gunther flinched.
“The Governor doesn’t care about Pelican Town,” I continued, my voice rising despite myself. “He cares about control. About optics. About pretending villages like ours are grateful.”
“Stop,” Gunther whispered. “He’ll hear you.”
“Good,” I shot back. “Maybe he should.”
Gunther grabbed my arm.
“Penny—listen to me. He has razed towns for less. Villages near Grampleton. Quietly. Bureaucratically.”
I froze.
My anger didn’t disappear.
It hardened.
“So that’s it?” I asked. “We lie. We smile. And we wait until it’s our turn?”
Gunther stared at me, fear now overtaking his authority.
“You don’t understand what you’re provoking.”
“No,” I said. “I finally do.”
There was a knock at the door.
Gunther recoiled like he’d been struck.
I stepped forward.
The knocking came again—calm, patient.
“It’s too late,” Gunther whispered. “Please. Just—let me talk.”
I didn’t answer.
Augustus Bloom, Governor of Stardew Valley, stood on the other side.
And for the first time, Gunther looked at me not as his assistant—
—but as something he could no longer control.
“Pleasure to meet you, Curator Gunther,” Augustus said smoothly.
“G-Governor Augustus Bloom,” Gunther stammered, bowing slightly, “it is truly an honor that you would visit our humble museum. We have collected many artifacts in an attempt to—”
I watched him lie.
“—rediscover the ancient history of the Ferngill Republic,” he finished.
Augustus smiled, satisfied.
“Ah. Splendid. Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I toured the collection.”
Gunther froze, then nodded weakly. “Of course. Please. Take all the time you need.”
The Governor wandered the room, admiring the minerals Eric had hauled out of the mines with bloodied hands. His eyes gleamed like a child in a sweet shop.
“Remarkable,” he mused. “So many recovered artifacts. I presume Joja Corp assisted? They do have the manpower for such… difficult work.”
Gunther opened his mouth.
I felt it then—that moment where I could still stay quiet. Still let this pass. Let Gunther speak. Let everything remain… manageable.
Safer.
My fingers curled slightly at my sides.
If I said nothing, this would all go away.
If I said something—
I didn’t finish the thought.
I stepped forward.
“No,” I said.
My voice wasn’t steady. Not at first.
“Joja had nothing to do with it.”
The Governor blinked, turning toward me. His smile didn’t disappear—but it shifted, just enough to notice.
“I beg your pardon?”
For a second, I almost stepped back.
Almost apologized.
Gunther’s warning echoed in my head. Don’t do this.
I swallowed.
“It was done by someone else,” I said, quieter now. “A former Joja employee. He—”
My voice caught.
I saw it again—Eric, earlier. The way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
Something in me tightened.
“He nearly died doing it,” I finished.
The words landed heavier this time.
Augustus let out a small, polite laugh, smoothing his coat.
“Ah… yes. Unfortunate. Red tape can be quite burdensome. Staffing shortages, funding reallocations—if we’d had more resources, we could have—”
I hesitated.
Just for a second.
This was the last chance to stop.
To let him keep talking. To let it become another explanation, another excuse, another thing I would carry home and pretend not to think about.
I thought about the mines.
About Eric going back down there, over and over again.
About how he never asked for anything.
“Stop.”
The word came out sharper than I expected.
Gunther gasped.
The Governor faltered—not fully, but enough. His smile held, thinner now.
“My dear,” he began, voice firming, “these matters are complex. Governance requires patience. Balance. We cannot simply—”
“Eric almost died.”
My voice didn’t shake this time.
The room went still.
I felt it then—not fear disappearing, but something else rising over it. Heavier. Harder.
“This town isn’t suffering because of mismanagement,” I said, each word slower now, more deliberate. “It’s suffering because people like you decided it wasn’t worth saving.”
Gunther stumbled back. “P-Penny—please—”
I barely heard him.
“You defunded us. Ignored us,” I continued. “And then you blamed us for collapsing.”
The Governor’s eyes flickered—not to me, but around the room, like he was looking for footing.
For control.
I took another step forward.
“You didn’t reinvest the money you took,” I said. “You spent it on yourself. On Grampleton. On comfort.”
My voice wavered—just slightly.
On vanity.
That word lingered.
His composure cracked, just for a moment.
“I—I can explain—” he said, too quickly.
“I’m not asking you to,” I replied.
And now, finally, my voice was steady.
“I’m telling you that everyone knows.”
Silence settled over the room, heavy and unmoving.
For a second, I wondered if I had gone too far.
If this was the moment everything would come crashing down.
If I had just—
Augustus straightened abruptly, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well. Curator Gunther,” he said, too brisk now, “you certainly employ… passionate assistants. I believe I’ll conclude my visit for today.”
He turned, already retreating—back into distance, into safety, into whatever world he came from where none of this had to matter.
At the door, he paused.
Not composed.
Just… trying to be.
My heart was still racing.
I could still stop here.
Let him leave.
Let this become something smaller than it was.
But if I did—
then nothing would change.
“You don’t scare me anymore.”
The words came out quiet.
Certain.
Irreversible.
He didn’t turn around.
But I saw it—in the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the fraction of a pause that shouldn’t have been there.
Then he left.
The door shut behind him.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he’d said.
I exhaled slowly.
My hands were shaking.
Not with triumph.
With the weight of it.
There was no taking that back.
And for the first time, I understood exactly what that meant.
Then Gunther snapped.
“What were you thinking?!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he rounded on me. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?! You don’t speak to him like that! You don’t corner him—he could destroy this town, Penny!”
I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the man who had hidden for years. Who had watched lies pile up like dust and called it preservation. Who had just stood there while I burned myself out in his place.
“I know,” I said quietly.
That only made him angrier.
“You’ve put us all at risk! Me—this museum—yourself!” His hands were trembling now. “You should be terrified!”
Something inside me finally went still.
“No,” I replied. “I’m just tired.”
That stopped him.
“I’m tired of being afraid,” I continued. “Of him. Of you. Of what might happen if we tell the truth.”
Gunther stared at me like he didn’t recognize me anymore.
“You don’t get to shout at me,” I said. “Not after all this.”
I turned and walked past him.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t call my name.
Didn’t threaten me again.
I don’t think he knew how.
That’s when I saw Sam.
He was standing near the square, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused—like someone who’d been hit by something invisible and hadn’t figured out how to react yet.
I didn’t make it all the way to him before I broke.
I ran.
The moment my arms were around him, the tears came—violent, embarrassing, unstoppable. I pressed my face into his shoulder, and he didn’t say a word. He just held me, just as tightly, like he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t.
“I’m so tired,” I sobbed.
“I know,” he whispered. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in a while. “I am too.”
We stayed like that for a moment—just holding on, like if we let go too early something would fall apart.
Then, quietly:
“We got a surprise meeting.”
I frowned against his shoulder. “From who?”
“The Wizard,” Sam said. “We were just at the beach. Me, Seb, Abby, Haley and Alex. Just messing around, talking about nothing.” He shook his head slightly. “And then he was just… there.”
Something in my chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
Sam let out a breath that didn’t steady him.
“I don’t even know how to explain it,” he said. “It was like… he wasn’t really talking to us. More like… talking at us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Like we were already part of something, and nobody told us.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it doesn’t. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“He talked about Armageddon.”
The word felt wrong the moment it landed.
Too big. Too serious. Too final.
“What does that mean?” I said.
“I don’t know…” Sam replied. “And I don’t care either…”
That was different.
He looked away.
“But what if he’s right?” he added quietly. “What if something actually is happening and we’re just… pretending it’s not?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I had just come from a room where everyone was doing exactly that.
Sam let out a shaky breath.
“And then he just left,” he continued. “No explanation. No ‘here’s what you do.’ Just drops that on us and disappears.” A weak, humorless laugh. “Like… thanks. That helps a lot.”
I tried to ground him. “Maybe he was just being cryptic. That’s kind of his thing.”
“Yeah,” Sam said.
But he didn’t sound convinced.
“I keep thinking about why he said it there,” he added. “At the beach. To us.” His voice tightened. “Like… why me?”
That landed.
“I’m not Sebastian,” he said. “I don’t get into all that stuff. I don’t mess with… whatever that was.”
He swallowed.
“I’m just supposed to run the Luau.”
The way he said it—small, almost embarrassed—hurt more than anything else.
“That’s it,” he continued. “Music, setup, making sure people have a good time.” His voice wavered. “But what if I mess it up?”
“You won’t,” I said.
“But what if I do?” he pressed. “What if something’s already wrong, and I’m the one in charge when it all falls apart?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Because for the first time, it didn’t feel impossible.
“I thought I could handle it,” Sam said. “You know? Just… keep things normal.”
Normal.
That word again.
“I can’t even tell what that means anymore,” he admitted.
Something in me shifted.
“I can’t either,” I said quietly.
He looked at me then—really looked at me.
And I realized he was just as close to breaking as I was.
That was the moment.
Not sudden. Not planned.
Just… something we both stopped fighting.
I leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was desperate and aching and full of everything we didn’t know how to say. He kissed me back immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission to fall apart too.
We stayed like that for a long time, clinging, breathing each other in, the world narrowing down to just this moment where neither of us had to be strong.
“I’m not going home,” I said quietly when we finally pulled apart.
Sam swallowed. “Yeah. Me neither.”
“My mom…” I started.
“My mom too,” he said. “She’s hurting. I—I can’t deal with it tonight.”
We stood there, unsure what to do next, until Sam glanced toward the trees at the edge of town. There was a thick bush there, shadowed, hidden from the road.
We didn’t say it out loud.
We just went.
We sat together, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, his arm around me, my head against his chest. Nothing else mattered—not the Governor, not the Wizard, not the Luau.
Two people too exhausted to be alone, holding on because it was the only thing left that felt real.
And for the first time all day, I let myself rest.
