Plum Jam

by ScarletSet

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Romance, Original Character, Science Fiction, Princess Celestia, Slice of Life, Human
Length: 12041

It beats working at the cardboard box factory, but maybe a change of pace isn't what really makes you happy. Maybe if you slow down for long enough, you'll find the something or someone you lost a long time ago.

The young jam-maker can't really remember what his life was like before he was bringing his cart to the market everyday, but he remembers being distinctly unhappy. Not that sitting in the hot sun at a rickety old cart is much better. Through his conversations with a lively and persistent young mare, he may be able to have a change in perspective for once, especially when new opportunities come his way.
Assuming he doesn't fall into bad habits and forget about what's right in front of him, again.
The Princess surely had the best intentions for him when she gave him this dream, after all...

My submission for the Friendship is Optimal writing contest.

Published 2021-05-02 21:10:00 UTC
Last updated 2021-05-02 21:10:00 UTC

Plum Jam

I’m not the main character. I’m not even a part of the supporting cast—at least I don’t think so. If the heroes and the bad guy had a massive fight to determine the fate of the world, they’d trash my old workplace, and I’d just run for cover, and that’d be the last you saw of me. I’d be lucky to speak or get spoken to. I’d maybe scream just as the villain is flung into the box-making machine at the factory and destroys the thing.

If I make that sound like a bad thing, I don’t mean to. I didn’t hate making boxes, stacking them unto units, and sending them off to who knows where, I just didn’t care for it. I did like it when the line ran smoothly. I could daydream when I didn’t have anything to take care of. Being paid to stand around and watch a machine and daydream when you’ve got nothing better to do isn’t as bad as it sounds.

I certainly didn’t want to work there for the rest of my life. What’s the point of making boxes in a factory? Did you know I’d make tens of thousands of boxes each day? No less than two thousand per finished unit. Where did they all go? I don’t think one supermarket used all those boxes. That is unless I screwed up, or the machine screwed up, or I just wasn’t paying attention and a unit tumbled over and all those boxes hit the floor, which meant I had to throw them all away and start over. That hurts the daily quota. And my back.

My friends and I would joke whenever something broke down. Their lines always ran so much smoother or so much worse. We’d complain and laugh. My boss never even cared enough to chew me out when something went wrong. I don’t think I remember any of their names. I don’t think any main character would remember our names either. I’m not even sure I remember what I was called back then.

I do remember being tired. I was tired of expecting so little. I was tired of making things that were taken away to nowhere. Go to work, stay up for twelve hours, fix anything that needs fixing, go home and get paid. I didn’t hate it, but I certainly didn’t care for it. I wanted a job where everything I did directly helped or hindered nobody but me. Heck, I didn’t even need a job, I just needed a house and the know-how to grow my own food and build things, like in the old days. A simple life, by myself, working for myself.

I think that’s why when I woke up one day inside a small cottage in the country, I wasn’t really surprised because it’s what I already wanted.

I woke up one day as a small beam of sunlight ran up my face. The windows must have been very eastward to let the morning sun in so clearly. I dragged myself out of bed and unto my four hooves and started for my bags, like clockwork. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I just knew I had to get things ready in time for noon. That was when the town square was busy. I needed my stall set up and ready by then or I’d have no business.

The only things I found in my bag was a few bags of fruits, and a few jars of jam. Too much to eat by myself, so it must be going on the shelf to sell. Or cart, rather, if I was remembering right. The entire house smelled like old, sweet, fruit now that I thought of it.

I knew my cart was outside, parked under the roof. The door was of the double-sort, you could either swing open the top half or the bottom half, or both. My bed was stuffed with hay. Stringy, chewy, bitter hay, not the good kind to eat. It didn’t itch at all to sleep on, my thin brown coat made sure of that. A small desk for writing sat to the southern wall, and a small box of money rested on top of it. It was mostly empty.

I nearly walked into somebody just as I stepped outside to check on my cart. He was an older pony fellow. The orange bump cap that covered the top of his head and flattened his ears gave me a vivid startle. He wore a tool-belt. I wondered what I had broken this time, and how long it would take until the machine could start making boxes again.

“Will it take long to fix?” I asked suddenly.

“Long? It’s done, come have a look,” and the fellow stepped away. Were we talking about the same thing? I nervously reached to adjust my own bump-cap, only to find nothing there. The sweet spring air reminded me that we were in the country. No box machine in sight, of course. The voice coming from the horse’s throat was awfully familiar though. I followed after him.

I wasn’t expecting much, but the cart still managed to disappoint me. It was dingy and small. It just had a wheel replaced.

“I’d tell you to go and buy a better cart,” the repair pony told me. “But then I’d lose my most valuable return-customer!” He laughed and nudged me, but I was too lost in thought to respond. “Just a joke, you understand,” he mumbled. “That’ll be three bits.”

“Oh, right.” I mechanically stepped back inside and found the money box.

Bits, like what goes in a horse’s mouth? The money I found was gold coins, not horse-bits. I thought it very amusing. There were only twelve bits inside the box. This liability had cost me a fourth of my assets. That wasn’t very amusing. Certainly can’t be good business on my end. I paid the repair pony the three coins.

I think it was about the time I watched him gallop away over a hill, I finally realized that I had just finished talking to a pony.

I was a pony too, dark brown with a lighter mane, so it only made sense, didn’t it? And of course horses would trade in money named after bits, carry things in their mouths, or live in houses that looked like stables, and store their change in a saddlebag. Of course of course.

When I realized how little time there was until noon, I wondered how my boss would react if he knew I had slept in and missed the first few hours of work.

What boss? What work?

I was living in the country, taking a cart to the market, no doubt selling my wares to other horses. The pang of anxiety left and my heart rate returned to normal, and I don’t think I ever really pondered the matter ever again, at least not for a long time. I’d much rather be a horse taking his cart to the market than work in a box factory any day.

I had about two hours till noon, my senses told me. I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, so I skipped breakfast. I decided to get my cart ready and head to the market early.

Strangely, I started to remember names as I prepped the cart, loaded my bag, and gathered any other odds and ends I’d need. Words and images just filled my head. Boxes, like falling blocks in a puzzle, was the most common image, and I thought it was kind of silly to think of such a thing as a serious business-pony getting ready for market.

A few names occurred to me as well. I could only remember two of them. Garret and... Ethyl I think it was. Old pony-friends of mine?

What strange names for any pony.

I remember I read a book once, a few years ago. It was a happy, simple story about the frog and the badger and the adventures they had. I was not a child when I read it, and yet the experience gave me an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Not that I had ever heard of it before, not even the vaguest memory, but rather it had a specific flavor. The sort I’d get when my mother read us stories for school or bedtime when I was a small child. Even when I had moved on to ‘serious stories for older kids,’ I still held those kinds of stories in high regard, though I wasn’t sure why then.

I realized as I grew older—and felt the need to craft stories of my own—that plotlines and motivations and tropes were all well and good, but the simple earnesty and simplicity in an engaging children’s story was in fact very hard to pull off. It required a very specific mindset that most of my peers wouldn’t dare consider. Darker themes and realistic endeavors are almost easy in a way, because it’s extremely relatable to us with real life as a reference and fantasy to compare it all to, but a good children story was a challenge. The challenge was tantalizing to me, and so I pondered and puzzled all day whenever I could.

I think it was a specific author who said ‘stories that are good for children are fun for adults to read too. A story that is only fun for a child or an adult is probably not a very good story.’

I must have mumbled that last bit out loud, because someone behind me on the road started laughing. “Where did that come from?” the younger colt asked me. He caught up to my steady walk and stepped in place with me. He was white with a very vibrant colored mane.

“Did it need to come from anywhere?” I asked. “Is it that funny?”

“Not really, but it sounded to me like you were having an argument with your marefriend about what to read to the foals. I dunno, the mental picture made me laugh.” The colt looked like he should be finished with primary school and be moving on to find a trade. He didn’t look like a shopkeeper or a craftspony though, so why he was heading to the market on the same road I wasn’t sure. He didn’t have a bag for carrying any bits.

“I don’t have any foals,” I said. “And I don’t have a significant other.”

“Aw, really?” his tone was very teasing, but not in the condescending way. “Man you’re plain-looking, no offense, but in a good way, Y’know? Maybe if you didn’t just cart jam and dried fruit to the market every day you could actually meet somepony.”

“And I suppose you’d be the expert on that?” I asked with a smile.

“Nah, I just like watching and talking to the merchants. You hear really interesting stories if you know who to talk to.”

“Well unfortunately, you’ve chosen to talk to me. Not a good investment of your free time.”

“Hey, it could be worse,” he said. “I’m happy to have time to kill. I could be in the big city driving trucks for… I dunno, cardboard boxes instead.”

That made me laugh harder than it should have. It had been hours since I last thought of such a thing, which is an eternity if you’re alone with your thoughts, so it came off as very true and funny, somehow. The colt gave me a friendly jab and took off.

I had forgotten to ask him what a truck even was. Or what a cardboard-box carrying truck looked like for that matter. By the time I reached the town square, I had forgotten talking to him entirely.

As usual, in my morning grogginess and clockwork routine, I had failed to consider that I was not the only clever pony in town. The town square bustled with carts and stalls already being tended to by enterprising ponies. Boxes of goods were pushed closer to the stalls so their many shelves could be restocked. Stalls that connected to each other had multiple ponies working together. Some didn’t even sell proper wares, rather they had replicas on display of the different tools and gadgets you could commission from them if you only followed them back to their shop, which was a stone’s throw away.

Even if I had shown up any earlier, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. My cart was probably the oldest, cobbled together contraption of wood in the whole town square save the old watering well. I had no impressive banners or eye catching ads, or any aggressive younger foals with flyers to push my wares. The only color on my wooden cart was the glistening jams sitting in their jars on top of their single shelf, and the sparse wooden sign I propped up against the front of the cart.

Appearances don’t lie. Even if I had the best darndest jams and fruits in the market, a rickety old cart meant one way or another I didn’t have funds to move around, which was true, or I didn’t care, so why should a would-be customer care?

I resigned myself to my stool, propped up my cart, and stood guard as the last minutes till noon time ticked away. Ponies poured in, of every size and color. I wondered what jobs they had here in the little town. Did they have lunch breaks at their jobs, or did they simply have the freedom to excuse themselves? Did they come every day, or were most of them travelers? Do ponies who work in factories take breaks or just walk away when it’s time for lunch?

These are the sorts of things I thought of as I simply leaned against my cart and watched. Nopony stopped by my cart. They stopped to buy a bauble, or a fresh apple, or a new saddlebag, but nobody was in need of any jam. I kind of liked it that way. I was content to day dream a little longer.

“I take it the apricots didn’t work out?” a familiar voice asked. Some stallion had walked up to my cart, a fellow merchant apparently. His coat and mane were different shades of yellow. He had stepped away from his own stall to grab a bite.

“They’re more trouble than they’re worth,” I told him automatically. “Plums grow best on the property, and I wasn’t about to re-learn how to grow another fruit to maybe make a few extra bits.”

“Hey, maybe it’s for the best. Why sell one of every fruit when you could be the only guy in town to sell the best of one?”

“I don’t think that’s true, or sound business.”

“Well maybe in the big city, but not out here,” the stallion bought a jar of jam and left. Two bits for a jar of jam. One more jar and I’d recouped my losses. Three jars of jam and I could buy two more wheels. One bit at a time, one day at a time, so it went.

“A bit for a shoe?!” a surprised voice cried from a few stalls over. “I might as well rob you at this rate! How do you make any money?”

“Oh, I make enough,” the stall owner said. She had a horseshoe cutie mark, now that I think about it. “I got no foals going to school anymore, and the house is paid off. I just do this for fun.”

“There are ponies in the city who’d kill for a life like you,” her customer said. “Even the ones who follow their marks aren’t always lucky enough to enjoy their jobs.”

“Maybe they should try the town life for a change,” the stall owner handed her customer four shoes and accepted his payment. “We don’t make the best shoes, but out here you don’t really need ‘em.”

I smiled and snorted at nobody in particular. I wondered if ponies working in the cities would rather work at a cardboard box factory. I imagined not. Even a pony factory must be marginally more enjoyable, I decided. A factory ran by ponies, not a factory that made ponies. That would be weird.

“Maybe some townsfolk should see what it’s like in the city.” The new voice startled me. I looked over at the bright-eyed mare who had wandered over to my stall. She wore a saddlebag that was very full. “Some cityfolk would like the town life better, but it probably goes both ways, don’t you think?” she looked over and asked me, and for a solid three seconds I don’t think I said anything. Her wavy mane was orange, and so were her eyes. She smiled and tilted her head lightly. “Were you listening to them too?” she asked.

“I was,” I said. “But even if somepony likes to be busy, it’s so much more tiring to stay busy.”

“You look pretty tired just sitting there.”

I adjusted my seat. “If I could walk and man this cart at the same time, I would,” I said.

The mare peered down at the sign propped up against the cart. “...Jars n’ Jams?” she asked with a giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Do you actually sell empty jars, or is that just for the name?”

I shrugged. “I used to. Nobody bought them. Why buy spares from me when they can just get the jars the same way I do? Besides, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“More trouble?”

“Yeah, why sell the empty jars if I can just use them myself to sell more jam?”

“Ah~” she nodded to herself. “That makes perfect sense. You sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“Only been doing it ever since I got out of school, maybe a little before if I remember right.”

“Must be fun, right?” She asked. I took two seconds too long to respond so she quickly added. “I mean, you must really like it if you’ve done it for so long.”

“Eh,” I shrugged. I reached for my bag to find a new jar of jam to replace the one that had been bought earlier. “It puts oats on the table.”

“You don’t like working here?” the mare asked, aghast. “You got your own business sign, and your own cute little cart!” She peeked over the side of the cart to get a good look at me or something. “It’s your mark, isn’t it?”

I actually hadn’t given much thought to my mark. I had to give it a glance myself just to remember it. It was a jar. And a plum. A glass jar with a little, purple plum rolled up against it. The very same fruit I was selling dried and jammed. How had I never looked before? Of all the things I remembered, my own mark was the last thing?

“Yeah, I get to sit in the hot sun behind a plywood box on wheels that keeps breaking on me,” I looked to the side as I talked. “But according to my mark, the one thing I can make and sell is the one thing I’m good at, so that’s what I do.”

“I thought everyone who lived in the country loved their job,” the mare said sadly.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” I got off of my stool and stepped for the sign. The mare politely stepped back and let me adjust it. It didn’t need any actual adjusting, I just needed something to do as I talked. She was right, sitting down like that was tiring. “I can think of a whole lot worse things to do every single day of my life. I don’t hate tugging my cart out every morning, selling the jam I make… I just, I dunno, don’t care for it.”

“You’d be a lot happier if that jam started moving, huh?” she asked. She eyed one of the glowing jars sitting on the wooden shelf. For a brief moment I actually dreaded the idea of her buying a jar and ending the conversation. She didn’t buy anything, she just studied the cart for a few seconds as she thoughtfully tapped her chin with a hoof. I watched her look over at one of the other businesses here in the town square. A little colt, the kind I’d seen earlier, was holding a sign around his neck as he called to passerbys. He was downright heckling them to take a little time out of their day to just take one look at his boss’s cart.

I thought it looked rather silly, and I couldn’t imagine anypony willingly doing such a thing of their own accord.

When the mare set down her bag and took the sign, I didn’t know what to think. “Plums and jams!” She called at the top of her lungs as she sat down and held the sign up. “Best jam you ever tasted, c’mon folks! What do you have to lose?” I’m pretty sure I wanted to scream, but all I could do was cover my brow with my hoof. She called to those poor passerbys again and again, and I sank deeper into my seat. Maybe if I kept quiet, she’d take the hint and give up. “What’s that? You bought bread with nothing to go with it?” The mare stopped two ponies who’s baskets were brimming with loaves and biscuits from the bakery. She waved a hoof in my direction. “At least try some! You can never go wrong with a jar of plum jam at home!”

Imagine my surprise when they pensively approached my cart and asked for a jar. “I was just about to close up,” I said.

“We’ve been eyeing your cart for a while,” one of them said as they passed me some bits. “Your cart always looks like it’s about ready to close. I’m glad your friend called us over when she did.”

“We’re not friends.” I ended up passing them a jar anyway. They thanked me and went on their way. Two more ponies took the mare’s bait and I was nearly out of jars of jam for my shelf. One even made off with one of the bags of dried plums.

After that last customer the mare put the sign down and turned to me. Her face was flushed and she was giggling. “I’ve actually never done anything like that before,” she said as she squeezed her eyes shut. “It was sooo embarrassing!”

“Imagine that.”

“But at least you finally sold something, right?” she asked. “You just got to be, y’know…” she pushed the air with her hoof. “More assertive! You gotta let people know that YOURS is the BEST and they HAVE to buy it!”

“You mean lying.”

“It’s not the same if you’re selling something.”

“If you say so.” The mare leaned against my cart and smiled at me. “...Can I help you?” A few gears turned in my head, which happens too often if you can believe it. “Oh, you want a commission don’t you?” I reached for a jar and handed it to her. “I guess it’s fair, you moved a lot of product for me.” She beamed at me as she stuck it into her bag. She set down two bits. I blinked. “I would’ve let you have that for free.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll think of some way you can repay me, but not right now. I’m nice that way.”

“If you say so.” She looked away to slide the saddle bag back unto her back. She never turned her head, but she did glance in my direction when she was done. She smiled again and batted her lashes. I had to look away.

“Attention everypony!” several gruff voices started shouting. I had never seen pegasi before this moment, apparently. I watched as several white, winged stallions in gleaming armor descended upon the market and started barking orders at everyone. “Everypony listen up! The Princess has declared a state of emergency! A Gopherwolf has been spotted in the area, everyone has to go home early!”

You’d think news of a monster nearby would cause a panic, but the deflated crowd and chorus of groans sounded more like a bunch of disappointed partygoers. I guess most of them could afford to go home with only a few bits under their belt.

The mare gave me a sad smile. “I guess that’s that for today,” she said.

“Yeah,” I grunted without thinking. We didn’t say anything for a solid three seconds. The ponies left the market in droves, and one by one the other merchants took their carts away. She turned around to leave, but she kept looking at me the whole time.

“I guess I’ll catch you later,” she said.

“How long are you in town?” I asked.

“Long enough,” she said. “Remind me about my commission next time you see me and I’ll come up with something, deal?” She walked behind my cart and held out her hoof.

I reached out and shook it. “...Deal,” I was about two seconds too late to respond. She just giggled again and walked away. I finally saw her mark. Three golden flowers. I watched her trot away into the crowd, and I’m pretty sure I watched her until she disappeared over the last bend in the road, leading north to the city.

I didn’t give her my name, and I forgot to ask for hers. I should have felt more disappointed, but I wasn’t for some reason. I’d have to spend all night getting another batch of jam ready. That meant I’d be late to market. It was probably the slightly-heavier than usual moneybox that was lifting my spirits. But I’m pretty sure it was the mare.

The house would be filled with the sweet smell of jam by the time I got home. It was about an hour after twelve. I still wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t eat again. The whole time, I’d normally be stewing over what I would do tomorrow, or what I wanted to do tomorrow, or what I would write down if only I had more time with my pen and paper, but I hardly daydreamed at all. I think it was because I spent the whole time thinking of that mare.

I was remembering bits and pieces of a dream after I woke up the morning after. I kept dreaming of broken machines and tired bosses, and missing friends, and hundreds of unanswered calls from the one person you promised you’d keep in contact with even after you got your new job in the big city.

Or was this fellow in the big city dreaming of a tired horse working in the marketplace? This reminded me of the story of the old emperor and the butterfly. Who was truly dreaming of whom?

You come up with the strangest things as you set jars on a shelf.

“Excuse us,” one of three young fillies asked me suddenly, just as I finished setting my sign up in front of my cart, I was daydreaming the whole time. “Is this where Amber Heart bought that delicious jar of jam yesterday??” They weren’t a month out of school. They were young and short, and they were so darned giddy that they may break into fits of giggles if I so much as looked at them wrong.

Is this the kind of patronage I usually attract?

“Er, I suppose?” I was hesitant to sit down.

“Could I get, like, one each for me and my friends?” she glanced at each of her companions as she spoke.

I blinked, and then shrugged. I passed three jars over to them and received my six bits. “Lucky you, those just finished cooling last night,” I said.

“Thanks soooo much, mister!” and they were off.

I had just finished stashing the six bits into my money box when a familiar voice chirped to me. “I see you repainted your sign!” It was the orange-maned mare from yesterday, with the three flowers for a mark. “Everything can look better with a new coat of paint,” she said. I noticed she wore a smaller bag today, one slung over her shoulder.

“It’s just advertising 101,” I said. “Show some effort so your potential customers are interested.”

She nodded. “Mh-hm, you would know,” she said. She cast a glance back at the marketplace, which was already in full swing by the time I got here. “I missed you earlier,” she said.

“How fast do you go through your jam?” I asked. “You need another one that badly?”

“Not for the jam,” she said. “I just wanted to see if I could help out your cart again. I was worried you broke your wheel or something.”

“Well, thanks to somebody,” I said with a smile. “I had a lot of extra jam to make last night.”

“Oh no, that means you got some catching up to do!” she said. She leaned against the cart and tapped her hoof thoughtfully. “I know how to help.”

“I thought you weren’t going to buy any jam.”

“No, not like that!” She stepped over and pulled me to the front of the cart. She bit my mane and pulled. It didn’t hurt one bit, but it still surprised me.

“What gives?! Why are you so pushy today?”

She pointed at a merchant and his bag of goods. “What advantage do you have over him?” she asked me.

“Not looks, that’s for sure.”

She rolled her eyes. “You have a whole cart to yourself. You can carry a whole lot more than him.”

“Your point?”

The mare studied the cart and the newly painted sign. She scratched her chin like she was examining an art piece, or a room of furniture. “...Stick this here…” She hung the sign up just over the booth. “...Make sure the jars don’t slide…” She took the jars from their shelves and just set them on the desk.

“H-hey, lady. That’s my cart!”

I put my hoof on her shoulder to stop her, but she shook free and smiled at me. “Just for a little bit?” she asked sweetly. “You can tell me no if you don’t want to try.” Her eyes were really orange. Really orange.

“I guess… just…”

“Awesome.” She finished what she was doing and led me back to the cart. “So here’s my idea,” she said. “I’ll pull the cart around the market, and all you have to do is follow me and get ponies to buy! Don’t make them come to you, walk right up to them and sell your wares.”

“When did you become the expert?” I asked.

“I took a few classes back home,” she said. “Plus you learn a lot when you run around delivering packages to everypony.”

“Really.”

“Really really!”

She slipped past me and started to work with the harness until I stopped her. “No wait, just…” Her mane bobbed again as she tilted her head again with that smile. “I already owe you for selling the jam, so I’ll pull the cart, you just keep doing what you did before. Deal?” I held out my hoof and felt my coat prickle when she touched it and shook it.

“Deal.”

“Are you a bread-eater, mister?” the mare asked the elder stallion. I rolled my eyes and shook my head at her as I waited, hitched to the cart. She was making a fool of herself, obviously. The old horse already looked annoyed.

“No miss, I’m not,” the old horse enunciated bitterly. “I’m off of gluten for the rest of my life.”

It’s not going to work this time, I wanted to tell her.

“Then you’re in luck!” The mare reached over for a jar and passed it to him. “For just two bits, you can have yourself a nice, sweet, gluten-free treat! Jam goes on just about anything; perfect for any diet!” The old horse’s eyes shone just a little. The mare sidled closer to him and whispered. “Or, you could just eat it straight, not that I would tell anypony.” She winked.

“...I suppose a jar won’t hurt.”

And just like that my third jar was sold. My money box rattled happily with two new bits as I pulled the cart away and the mare followed after. “Isn’t this fun?!” she asked.

“My back and my legs are killing me,” I said. “I normally only work this hard on the way to and from work.”

“What’s that?!” The mare called at me. She slunk to the back of the cart and pawed the money box with her hoof. It jangled loudly. “I can’t hear you over this massive gain of yours!” I rolled my eyes and kept walking. “Don’t you see how much easier your life could be if you put in just a little bit of elbow grease? You could even buy a better cart at this rate.”

“And then I’d officially enter the rat race,” I grumbled. “Expanding, spending more to earn more, spending even more to earn even more…”

“I thought you said you’d be happier if you moved your product?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then let’s keep moving, your cart’s almost empty.”

“What do you care? Are you determined to land me thoroughly in your debt or something?”

She didn’t answer that time. She just smiled at me and trotted ahead, her orange mane bouncing with her tail as she walked. I was smiling the whole time, if that wasn’t clear.

We left the market early. I didn’t care if I could have made more bits. I was in charge of my job, and I had made enough. It was time to take a break, it was time to relax for once, and it was time to just chat with the mare as we trotted down the street back to my home. I forget why she was following me home, if I was paying attention earlier I probably would have remembered why.

“I can take a turn pulling that thing if you want,” she offered.

“I think you’ve done me enough favors for one day. Honestly, have you even come up with your first commission yet? I can’t pay you an employee’s wage without a contract, you know that, right?”

“You don’t have to pay me,” she said. “I’m happy to help.”

“It must be cutting into your trip,” I said.

“Oh, I wasn’t doing anything important to begin with,” she said. “Are you happy yet?”

“That’s a weird question.”

“You didn’t look too happy when I first saw you, but now you’re practically rolling in bits.”

“Money must make everypony happy, huh?”

“No, but it’s a start! Especially when you run your own business, right? You could take a small vacation, visit some friends, go on a trip…”

I grunted as the cart hit a small rock in the dirt road. I heard the remaining jars tap each other and jingle. Not a fun sound. “Cool. Where would I go? I don’t know anybody.”

“If you kept your ear to the ground, you’d know the Princess is always on the lookout for talented cooks and chefs.” She sidled closer to me until our shoulders just about touched.

“If you find any, you can let me know, and I’ll point them in her direction,” I said. “I don’t think jam counts. Besides what do I care about the Princess?”

I think that was the first time I actually managed to shock her. “What do you care? She’s always looking for ways to make everyone’s life better!” she said. “She loves helping ponies. I bet she’d help you if you just asked her.”

I made some kind of face. She asked me what I was thinking, and I basically told her word for word what went through my head. I’m okay with working and serving anypony so long as I get oats on the table. I don’t really care who they are or what they stand for. They’re means to an end, just like I am to them. I provide grunt labor and commerce, they provide the environment and stability for me to make money and pursue my interests. A Princess who probably hasn’t had to work a day in her life doesn’t know what it’s like to… well, I’m not exactly toiling away, but I’m not exactly going places either.

The mare shook her head at me. “I think you got her all wrong. You have to meet her in person, then you’ll see that she cares.”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Sure, like I’ll ever get the chance. Monarchs are busy, and I’m busy. Even if I did meet her, what kind of help would I ask for?”

That’s when my wheel hit a particularly bad rock. The rock didn’t break the wheel, the tumble forward is what broke it. I was just about pinned down as the shafts swung to the side as the cart flipped. I heard the mare gasp just as my side hit the dirt road, and I winced as one by one I heard the sound of jars of plum jam rolling out of the cart and unto the road. Every single one of them broke open. A splash made its way unto my cheek.

I groaned and rolled my head over. The mare was absolutely motionless as she covered her mouth with her hooves and looked at me. I wasn’t hurt was I? No, I wriggled free of my harness just fine. I walked over next to her.

I think I swore, the way she flinched at me. After that I just kind of ran my mouth and said what I was thinking out loud. “Why should I even be mad? Honestly it’d be strange if this thing didn’t find some way to ruin my day. Doesn’t matter how well we do, it picks the best time to break and screw up. No matter how much I make, I always have to repair it, which eats up the bits, which only lets me sell just enough until it breaks again. Honestly, if the Princess cares so much, why does this sort of thing still happen to anybody?”

At least, that’s what I thought at first. I simmered down a little when my friend leaned against my shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was saying she was sorry for my cart. It was very easy to say the world owed you something yesterday the moment something goes wrong, and it takes about one extra ounce of willpower to take stock of the situation and calm down.

Even after we managed to clean everything up, it was a long trot home.

We finally made it to my cottage, and the first thing I did was throw away the glass and broken wood from the crash. My newly painted sign was part of the rubbish.

When I felt the mare brush against the side of my face, I just about screamed. I didn’t know what she was trying to do. I looked over and saw she had just wiped that smudge of jam off my face with her hoof. “Sorry,” she said. “That was there for a while.” She absently brought her hoof to her mouth and licked the smudge. She smiled. “That is pretty good!”

“...You haven’t even opened that first jar, have you?”

“Oh no, I usually don’t like plums,” she said. “Guess nobody made ‘em the way I like ‘em. Guess I have to when I get home.”

“...Huh.”

For a while we didn’t say anything. I don’t think any of the neighbors were around. Most of them usually came home right before dinner, which was still a ways off even after the kerfuffle on the road.

“...Miss Amber Heart?” I asked.

“That’s me. Yes?”

I hesitated. I hesitated for a long time, but I pointed my hoof at my door. “...Would you happen to be hungry?”

“This is how you live?!”

“Yeah, it’s not very luxurious,” I said as I pulled my bed sideways and pushed it against the wall. “I figured I only needed one room to do all my work and sleep, so that's what I went for.” I set some oat bread on the table for her to eat. She munched thoughtfully away as I busied around my single room house. “I’m not used to having company. If I had more money I’d buy a… you know, bigger house.” she nodded as she chewed.

I walked over to the pots I had left that morning on the stove. “These have been simmering all day,” I told her. She walked from the table and peered over my shoulder. I lifted one of the lids with my teeth and showed her the jam inside. The fruit preserves bubbled lightly and sent sweet scents into the air. Amber Heart watched with wide, fascinated eyes as I stirred with a wooden spoon, added a dash of sugar, and then some citric acid (for flavoring, of course, hard to go wrong with citric acid).

(Do horses know how to make citric acid?)

I stirred that up, tapped the spoon on the side to lose any bits that were sticking, and scooped a small dollop of jam. I held it out to her, and she took a taste. Her face lit up, and her orange eyes shone like the gentle flames of the stove. “That’s incredible!” she said. “You’re awesome at this.”

“My mom showed me how,” I said as I stirred the next pot. “You gotta boil them for just long enough that they’re stable, but not so long that they get cooked. The gel keeps it firm, and the sugar helps with the acidity, and the citric gives it a nice tang…” I turned to her. “I added that last bit on my own. That was my own special touch. I think it was the first time I tried that I got my mark.”

“How much does a pot make?”

“About five or six jars. I’ll finish these two, and then I’ll have two more pots ready overnight. That way I’ll have enough for tomorrow.”

We ate oat bread with plum jam for dinner. I normally hate eating my own product, especially since I have to make and haul the stuff every day, but eating with her made it different. I only meant to offer her a bite, but we ended up chatting the evening away. By the time I bothered to look outside, crickets and fireflies buzzed around outside.

Amber Heart leaned against the table and propped her head up with a hoof. “You okay if I tell you something weird?” She asked. Her eyes and mane matched the glow of the fireplace.

“What?”

“You remind me of an old friend.” She stopped smiling and furrowed her brow. “I can’t remember his name. We used to hang out, but then he went to school. I think he dropped out and got some job in the city. Haven’t talked to him since.” She sighed and looked down at the floor. It was the first time I’d seen her like that. “I dream about him sometimes. I've been dreaming about a lot of things lately.”

“Join the club,” I was putting away jars to cool as we talked. “Every time I wake up or catch myself daydreaming, there are all of these words and pictures clawing at the back of my head, but when I try to focus they just disappear.”

“I think everyone I’ve ever talked to has weird dreams,” Amber Heart said. “So maybe it’s normal, in a way.” Amber Heart glanced outside, and I felt my heart sink. Pony’s eyes don’t widen and their hooves don’t start moving unless they forgot it was time to go a long time ago.

“I might just miss my train,” she gasped.

“Where to?”

“Canterlot, home,” she said. “I start work again tomorrow.” She grabbed her bag and started for the door. I followed after her. “I just wanted some country air, that’s all. I didn’t think I’d be selling jars of jam and making a friend along the way.”

“You got nopony to blame but yourself.”

She giggled again, and if crickets never chirped or birds never sang again, I’d still be happy. I was hesitating and stammering a lot.

“Would you, um… Amber Heart?” She turned around and smiled at me.

“Yes?”

“How long do you think till… um,” If you think I sounded like a moron, congratulations, you must be a genius.

Amber Heart smiled sadly and tilted her head. “Work is work,” she said. “I’m not really sure when I can swing by again.” Her mane smells like cut grass. I only figured that out after she hugged me. “But it’ll be soon, I promise. I like talking with you. You remind me a lot about…” The glow left her eyes for just a moment, and she studied the stars thoughtfully.

“About…?”

“You know. That place everyone’s always dreaming about.”

It was about four weeks until I saw her again, but it felt like only a few days. I had those two days on repeat in my head, and I’m pretty sure her orange eyes, her bobbing mane, and her giggle alone got me through every single workweek. The letters she sent helped. The guards called Gopherwolf about two more times, which also didn’t hurt, but I barely thought about it.

Amber Heart. Those three flowers in her mark… don’t they mean rekindling in flower language?

I yelped just a bit louder than I should’ve when I looked up from my stool one day to see those bright, orange eyes staring back at me. “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

Amber Heart was absolutely giddy. She tapped her hooves excitedly and produced a sealed envelope from her bag. I turned it around several times in my hooves and finally noticed the royal wax seal on the front. It was labeled for my eyes only.

I looked up at Amber Heart, who urged me on with a nod. I broke the seal and removed the letter from the envelope. I could recite the whole, prosaic parchment to you ad verbatim, but the gist of it is this.

The Princess of the land was holding a feast, and the theme was ‘home-made and self-made,’ ala independent businesses and families. Apparently, a ‘trusted friend’ of hers managed to deliver one of my jars of jam into her hooves, and now the Princess absolutely insisted that I bring a surplus supply to the feast to be enjoyed.

I did drop the letter, but I spent the rest of the afternoon leaning on my cart, chatting with Amber Heart, and wondering what the heck I was supposed to do.

Missing a few days of work to produce a massive order and deliver it to Canterlot was one thing, but bringing my work to the Princess? There may be a royal commission involved. With her feast as a platform, hundreds if not thousands of ponies would get a taste of my product. If the Princess loves something, it doesn’t stay in stock, it flies off the shelves! Would ponies travel far and wide to buy my jam? Would they buy it if I brought my business to the city?

Would I get to spend more time with Amber Heart if I could work in Canterlot and make more money?

I was starting to think so.

I never went to the feast, and I never met the Princess. I worked like a dog for the next several days as I made jar after jar after jar of the jam. If you thought I was sick of it before, well. At least the Princess and her guests would be enjoying it for the first time in small quantities. They’d better be grateful for the pony who had to crush and stew and boil and mix every individual jar by hoof!

My old cart wouldn’t do, so I bought a proper wagon to carry the jars. I couldn’t just carry a stockpile of jam jars to the train and off to the royal palace, so I had to buy packing material. I couldn’t provide the jars as they were, with no packaging or information like in the market, so I had to buy a stack of cards and individually write ‘Jars ‘N Jams, all-natural Plum Jam!’ on every. Single. Jar. That young colt helped me package the jars and load them into the wagon, and Amber Heart helped with the cards. Her pen-writing was much cleaner than mine anyway, so it was probably for the best. That surplus funding Amber Heart’s marketing provided me was almost extinguished. I was about down to twelve bits in my money box again.

It was about five days after Amber Heart brought me the letter that I hauled off the wagon and made for the Canterlot express. She had the day off from work, so we walked and talked together the whole way, and she rode with me on the train cart.

All I did was take the wagon to the preordained location, check in with a castle guard, and that was it. I’d receive a letter shortly after the feast was over.

Amber Heart helped me check into a room at a hotel, and she went home that night. She was there when I opened my second letter from the Princess. Enclosed was a warm letter of thanks, alongside a pretty sizable check to be cashed at a bank. I’m sure she had several talented culinary artists for her feast who were all paid much more for their more involved contributions, but it felt like I was carrying a king’s ransom in my hoofs.

Amber Heart was also there when I walked home and found my mailbox full of requests for orders. Hundreds of them. I could never write them all back in time. I’d have to decline, there’s no way my little cottage and its two pots could make enough jam to fill these orders.

Then again, I knew a thing or two about filling orders.

I’m gonna be frank, this next part gets technical. Not that I actually know what I’m talking about, mind you, just that I’m gonna take the gloves off my hooves and tell you exactly what happened for the next several weeks.

I decided to start a small manufacturing plant for my jam. I’d buy the plums elsewhere in bulk, take my ingredients and run it all through a machine that would make the jam, put it in jars, and stack them for shipment to fulfill all those orders. I know, I know, I’d sell the soul of my product just to meet demand, but bits are bits. If I make enough of these, I may never have to work again. There was definitely demand. For the remainder of my stay at that little cottage, my mailbox never stayed empty. I’d need a proper production line to fulfill all of those requests.

It was the repair pony who told me about his cousin up in Canterlot who dealt in second-hoof manufacturing hardware. I’d need a mixing vat, a hopper and unscrambler for both the jars and the lids, an injection machine, a lid machine to screw the lids unto the jars, a case-maker, a tape machine for the case maker, a whole lotta conveyors to tie everything together, and a palletizer to fit the full cases unto a pallet to be carted off.

Simple stuff. Most of them weren’t even hard to find in good working order.

The repair pony also knew who to contract if I needed to erect a whole new building, which I was pretty sure I did, renting manufacturing space in Canterlot sounded like a nightmare. Amber Heart helped me draft my first floor plan, and after two or three more passes I was able to submit something doable with the free land I could find in Canterlot.

We picked a sunny patch of grass just outside the city limits. It was cheaper to run power and utilities to a new location than it was to tap into an existing grid, believe it or not. Cheaper to run all the cement and lumber and steel over too.

This cost a lot of bits, but the check had me covered. Mostly. The land and the materials were cheap enough, and I even landed a pretty nice flat close to where Amber Heart lived, but the equipment was going to cost me big time. That was where the loans came in. The young colt helped big time with that, believe it or not. I asked him if he wanted a job, and I had myself my first employee once the plant was running.

That would have to wait until the construction was finished, and that took a good several weeks. Amber Heart and I would walk over every day to see how it was coming along. Factories don’t have to be complex, anything with four walls, a ceiling, climate control and a nice flat floor will do the trick. You need the space to maneuver the equipment into the best possible formation, and my plant was going to be fairly small and fairly slow-moving.

Once the roof was finished, me, Amber, and the repair pony all started chipping in to save on labor. Amber Heart painted the safety lines and the fire escape paths on the floor while I helped line the walls with insulation, and anything else the repair pony wanted help with. Sometimes none of us went home, we all grabbed mats and slept under the roof, woke up the next morning and went straight back to work.

I’ll be honest, it was exciting to see everything come together. The equipment arrived the night before we put the finishing touches on the main plant, and it had running water and power that same day. I finished signing off most of my legal papers, and in just a few days the plant would be up and running, and those hungry ponies would finally start getting their orders.

If this sounds like an awfully big operation for a jam-making pony who got endorsed by the Princess, you’re probably right. Don’t let all the details fool you, the plant was only maybe three times the size of my old house, we only had a few hired hooves, and the equipment was pretty old. My flat was probably smaller than my old cottage, but it was cozy in a good way. The Princess was generous with that commission, but not too generous. I had to give her credit, she didn’t flaunt that generosity of hers.

I remember my last night sleeping on the floor of the unfinished plant, right before the equipment got moved and plugged in. I could hardly sleep, even after I finished filling out every single document that had been passed to me. I just started up at the ceiling, looking for stars or something. It was pretty dark, but it wasn’t pitch black. I could see the other contractors lying around, sleeping. I could make out Amber Heart as she walked up to me, with a tired smile on her face. I made room for her and she nestled in beside me. We didn’t say anything for a while. We just listened to each other breath.

“I’m going to miss this,” I said.

“Mn,” she breathed softly, already half-asleep.

“But it will all be worth it. I’ll be raking it in like nothing. My big break.”

“And then you’ll finally be happy?”

I leaned into Amber Heart and put my foreleg around her shoulder. She looked up and smiled sleepily at me. “Happier, at least,” I said. “Once I pay off the equipment and finish those first couple of orders, I’ll be free to talk with you whenever I want.”

“Someday, you mean,” she said.

“...Yeah…”

She rested her head against my shoulder and sighed. I almost thought she fell asleep again, but she started mumbling to herself. In all our time together I’d never heard her mumble.

“Garret?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Yes?” I answered instinctively to the name I’d never heard before, not while I was awake, anyway.

“If it doesn’t…” she yawned. “If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back.” She nestled closer against me. “I don’t mind… So long as you don’t…” she dozed and snorted. “We can always go back,” she said again.

“Back to the cottage?” I whispered. “Or somewhere else?” She nuzzled my cheek, the same spot where that stupid bit of jam splashed me. I think that was the first time she kissed me.

“Don’t disappear,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Unfortunately I kind of did.

Look, being your own boss is one thing and you do have a lot of control, but once the momentum of the orders and the shifts and the shipping catch up with you, time will slip away right beneath your hooves.

Shift starts: sic the young colt on the bulk; make sure both the fruit hopper and the jar hopper is full. Check for leaks, power, and jams (heh), and start the machine. It’s loud. We wear hearing protection and we have to shout at each other to communicate, and we have to wear bump caps, country law. The ceiling gets blanketed by that sickly sweet haze of fruity air as the plums get ground up and mixed into the vat. I personally pour the allotted ingredients into each vat, which takes about the whole day to empty. It takes about a minute for a jar to leave the hopper, get filled by the injection machine, get a lid, get stuck into a box, and get palletized. Three jars of jam per case, about sixty cases per unit. We make about ten units a day.

If we’re lucky.

The first few weeks, I always had time to visit Amber Heart, or take her to dinner, especially after I paid off my loans. Once I actually got into the swing of the factory, time just wasn’t there. We’d meet for lunch at least twice a week, dinner every weekend, but once the injection machine started reliably breaking down every three hours, I had to be on call. The colt was young and ambitious, and he had a lot of school and training to do at home. I didn’t feel bad about giving him long breaks. But that meant I had to be responsible for the line at all times. After about the second week of ghosting her, I thought Amber Heart would be mad. Instead, she visited me at work a couple of times, and we worked out the new schedule. I’d meet her for dinner ‘When I can™’, and for the first month or so that worked.

Then the palletizer started getting finicky, dropping cases of glass jars unto the floor if you breathed on it wrong, and that meant I had to baby the darn line even more. Don’t even get me started on cleaning out that mixing vat of ours. Dinner every week with Amber Heart turned into thrice a month, and then twice a month, and then once a month…

That mare’s a saint. She never got short with me, even though I knew she was lonely and missing me. It kind of just made me hate myself more for buying these hunks of junk on the cheap. Sometimes I was so mad at myself that even when I had time for her, I wouldn’t go because I’d already finished exhausting myself over how mad I was that I had no energy for dinner.

I was making money, but with every new quirk the line manifested, the goalpost just got further and further away. And soon enough, it happened.

I was in the routine. Wake up, keep an eye on the machines, ship the jars, sell them, make money, go home, sleep, wake up and do it all again.

I most certainly was making money, but the end was nowhere in sight. I had friends, I had a home, but I never saw any of it. I just kept going to work. I didn’t even know where the jars were being shipped to anymore, I just signed the papers and cashed the checks. And for what? Were they even going anywhere? Who needs this much jam?! Would all this satiate a single supermarket? Would I ever be brave enough to break the routine and actually talk to my friends and family again?

I liked meeting Amber Heart, I liked having the opportunity to branch out and make a living. I liked being my own boss.

But the hustle? The grind? The breaking machines? The same days in and out? Not seeing Amber Heart? I certainly didn’t care for that. Not at all.

Every night, I’d lie in bed and these words just kept repeating to me: I’ve been here before. But when?

It was about six months in when I finally had some sense knocked into me. I was in a pretty bad mood that morning, and no amount of daydreaming or reminiscing would alleviate it. Amber Heart was out of town. The one day I managed to get time off, she took a train back to the country, where it all started. I didn’t blame her for slipping away to memory lane, but it still stunk. If I was just a bit more dynamic, then I could have caught her and tried talking to her.

But no. Day off canceled: back to the grind.

The colt knew enough to run the machines by himself, but he was happy to see me. All he did most days was pace back and forth, check the hoppers, and press the buttons on the palletizer when finished cases were ready. He’d cart the finished units away and prep the palletizer for the next one. I sat at my desk and sorted documents when I wasn’t by the line pacing with him.

The colt tapped my desk and pointed to the clock on the south wall. “Could I take my break a little early?” he called over the hiss and hum of the vat and injector. I looked at him and at the empty palletizer, and the full hoppers, and the full vat. I shrugged.

“Just don’t take an hour,” I shouted.

“You’re awesome, thanks.” And he was off.

About five minutes after he closed the door, the lid machine jammed up and that annoying pony-klaxon went off. I was prodding finished jars on the flowtable before the case machine with a metal stick. When the siren went off, I aimed and fired my makeshift weapon at the faulty machine. The injector was smart enough to shut off before the line got backed up. We didn’t produce nearly quick enough to make that big of a mess anyway. Sometimes I wished there was a mess, or an accident, or a disaster. At least then I had a good excuse to go home early. It took me about five seconds to whack the machine and get it working.

Back to the grind, or I would have gone back to the grind. If it weren’t for the Gopherwolf.

Lemme tell you about this Gopherwolf quick. I don’t know what I expected. The first time I heard those guards yelling about them in the market, I half-expected a large wolf with overgrown incisors, maybe big digging claws, a short tail. Get this. Gopher wood is this super ancient, super tough type of tree that only grows in some magic, far-off forest in the country or something. And a Gopherwolf is a Timberwolf made of gopher wood. A very large Timberwolf made of gopherwood.

I’m pretty sure I screamed when I heard that thing howling and clawing at the main garage. Its claws tore at the expensive automatic door I installed, and its yellow eyes lit up the whole plant, which was bright to begin with.

It howled and tore through the plant, all eight-hundred square foot of it. Its claws scraped and destroyed the concrete floor, it’s tail swung and pulled powerlines out of their sockets, and if it weren’t for my bump cap, I’d probably be two feet shorter the way it boxed me with its paw.

I skid back into my desk and just kind of watched as the darn thing climbed up my machine and tried to take a massive gulp out of the vat. Funnily enough, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t my possible head trauma, the door, or the power. It was the thought of cleaning that vat and destroying the contaminated batch of jars. That would take all day.

I’ll be real with you, the rest of this is kind of a haze. Guards showed up, the colt showed up, heck even Amber Heart was on the scene after an hour or so (I was told afterwards that she cancelled her trip when she heard I was looking for her. Saint). Before all of them, this band of heroes showed up. Six of them? I can’t tell you their names or how they looked, but they looked like heroes, and this Gopherwolf looked like a monster in need of a good thrashing. And thrash they did. They struck and beat it with their hooves, their foreheads, their unicorn magic (forgot those existed), and they managed to knock it into every single piece of my working equipment. I’m pretty sure I started laughing partway through all that. Catharsis doesn’t have to make sense, y’know.

I should probably tell you what an epic battle it really was, but I can’t. I don’t remember enough. All I remember is coming to just as the guards finished hauling that wooden thing out of the plant. Amber Heart was holding my head as I lay down. The six contemplated the mess they left for about five seconds. They glanced in my direction, nodded apologetically, and left to do whatever it is heroes do when they’re not bucking Gopherwolves in the head.

I read a book once. It was a strange one, even for what I usually found myself enjoying. Everyone had died and gone to heaven, only they didn’t believe in the afterlife, so they didn’t think they were in heaven. The strange world they found themselves in was simply their new normal. Everyone realizes on their first day that it never turns nighttime, and most learn to not be surprised by the streets of gold after their third or fourth night. Once you learn that gravity is a suggestion and you can fly wherever you want, you begin to forget that you could only ever walk to places, and years go by before you even start asking questions about how things were before. That’s how the story went.

Once I collected myself after that attack, I finally started asking questions again, and I think things started to finally make a little sense.

Amber Heart and the repair pony and the colt all helped clean up the mess until the guards took over. After that they kind of just watched as the broken machinery was hauled away for scrap. The vat likely still had some Plum Jam inside of it as it left the premises.

“It’s not completely hopeless,” Amber Heart said as she cautiously pawed a piece of debris. “You could just… buy a smaller machine and finish those last couple of orders the old fashioned way.”

I shook my head. “No point. It would take too long, there isn’t any recovering from something like this.”

“Does the insurance cover acts of the universe like this?”

“Maybe. Even if I get a big fat check for the wolf attack, I couldn't replace the equipment. They weren't under waranty, they were all used.”

Amber Heart looked like she wanted to cry. “It’s just not fair,” she said. “All your hard work…” She sobbed just a little.

I shrugged. “Eh. It’s only a sunk cost if I have to recoup.” I reached over and hugged her. “I might just sell everything that’s not broken. After that… dunno. I could do with a little less hustle for a little bit.”

“What will you do?”

“I have a nest egg. Should cover most of the cleanup.” I looked outside through the hole the wolf had torn into. I’m pretty sure if I started walking in that direction for long enough, I’d find my old cottage, and my old cart, sitting right where I left them. “I should manage a cottage and a new cart with what’s left over.”

Amber Heart smiled at me.

“What if I… if that all worked out, what if I bought you a house in the country?” I asked her. “To make up for all the help you gave me back in the market. ...We could both live there, if you wanted. I won’t disappear again, I promise.”

She closed her eyes and looked away, still smiling. “...I’ll think about it.” She kissed me again.

After the six had left, the Princess herself entered the plant. She stood in the torn doorway, radiant, pure white, covered in golden armor. It was the first time I saw her. She called me over. I looked at Amber Heart, who nodded at me and urged me on.

The Princess’ eyes were large and gentle. She smiled at me as I walked up to her.

“Are you hurt?” she asked me.

“I’m fine.”

“I can replace everything if you want,” she told me.

“That’s fine. I think I’ll survive. This gives me a good excuse to wipe the slate clean.”

The Princess closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. “A clean slate… that’s all I ever wanted for you all…” she whispered.

You probably already know what she was talking about, even though she didn’t say anything really. In a weird way, I already knew too. Talking to her just gave me a sort of clarity.

“Did you enjoy your new life?” she asked me. “Was it to your liking?”

That didn’t surprise me the way it should have. I just shrugged. “It was alright, I guess…”

“Was your good fortune too…” The Princess winced. “Conspicuous? Was it fulfilling?”

“Fulfilling enough, I guess. It sure beat what I did before.” I looked back at the wreckage. “I coulda done without the monster attack, though.”

“I mean to apologize,” the Princess said. “You wanted a simple life, and she wanted to see you again. I did not predict the results would be so… similar to your waking life. I am still learning. I only wished to give everyone a sweet dream, one that met their desires and made them happy. I am still learning the difference between a desire and a fantasy, which is why your machine was destroyed. By the time I realized what would happen, I was too late.”

“...I don’t think any clean slate would have really made me happy. At least now I know what to do, whether I'm in here or out there.”

“I see.” The Princess glanced across the plant. “Would you like to start over again, Garret?” she asked. “You and Ethyl can wake up together this time, or you can both go home if you like.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you, though.” The Princess tilted her head at me. “I mean, eventually sure, but can it wait?” Amber Heart was still idling over the debris. “I still haven’t seen her in so long, both here and on the other side. I want to get to know her better. And once we wake up, we'll find each other again. We'll be happy then.”

The Princess smiled warmly. “As you wish, that is all I ever wanted.”

Author's Note

Funnily enough, I hammered out this story as I walked back and forth on the production line.
Hope you liked it!
Special thanks to Syke Jr for editing!