You weren’t looking to buy a farm.

Not really.

But something about the listing caught your eye.

"Quiet land. Self-sustaining. Good for healing."

A bit vague. A bit strange. But after everything — the burnout, the noise, the life that didn’t feel like yours anymore — it felt like a door opening.

So you walked through it.

Now here you are, standing at the weather-worn wooden gate to Sundew Valley Farm, with a suitcase in one hand and the keys in the other. The gate creaks like it hasn’t been opened in a long time. There’s no one to greet you.

Except a note nailed to the post:

"Dear new owner,

This land is special. Take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.

The residents have been here longer than the house itself. They know the rhythm. Let them show you.

Please don’t be alarmed.

They're... kind.

– Sincerely, The Last Caretaker"

You step inside.

There’s no roaring welcome. Just the gentle hum of bees in the flowers, the smell of sun-warmed hay, and the soft hush of wind through the trees. The buildings are simple: a red barn, a crooked farmhouse with vines crawling up the porch, a few smaller cottages scattered in the distance.

You think you see someone in the garden.

And another... crouched beside the henhouse, ears twitching.

And is that... a boy with a tail sleeping in the sun?

They’re not quite human.

But they’re watching you with careful, curious eyes. None of them speak right away. Some hide. One waves nervously. Another sniffs the air like he’s trying to figure out if you’re safe.

And suddenly, it’s clear:

This isn’t just a farm. It’s a home — for soft, half-animal boys with gentle hands, warm hearts, and instincts that don’t always match their appearances.

You were supposed to come here to escape.

But maybe this is where you were always meant to belong.