The doctors had said it gently, as if soft words could blunt the truth. “It’s time to prepare,” they told the family. The old man’s body was failing, his heart slowing, his lungs too weak to carry him much longer. He would not see another season.
His children—Daniel and Claire—had stayed close, tending to him around the clock. They spoke quietly in the kitchen, their voices laced with grief and fatigue. Outside, winter sunlight spilled across the open fields beyond the house, where the land stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
In his wheelchair by the window sat Henry Walsh, age eighty-seven. He barely spoke anymore. Most days, he simply watched the fields—his fields—where the soil had once been rich with the work of his hands.
But what he thought of most wasn’t the crops or the harvests or even the home he’d built. It was a horse named Samson.
Samson wasn’t just any horse. He was the partner Henry had raised from a colt—his companion through decades of storms, plowing, and quiet evenings. The two had worked side by side when the farm still thrived, when Henry’s wife was alive, and his children were small. Samson had pulled wagons through rain, trotted miles through snow, and carried Henry to town when the tractor broke down.
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