Robert spotted the broken stake from the porch. It leaned at a strange angle, half-buried in disturbed soil, with a vine trailing behind it like a snapped tendon. He walked over slowly, heart sinking. A muddy sneaker print marked the earth—fresh. Someone had cut through again. No apology. No care.
He crouched beside the crushed grapes, brushing dirt from a torn cluster. The leaves were twisted, one stem completely severed. This wasn’t just wear and tear. It was careless, thoughtless—someone treating his vineyard like a public park. He let out a breath, steadying himself, but his jaw stayed clenched.
That evening, he stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the wind ripple through the rows. The broken stake was still out there, lying where it had fallen. He thought of how Marianne used to fix things right away, how she knew every inch of the place. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d paid more attention.