THE FARMER

Despite being the dead of winter, the office's air conditioner sputtered to life. The temperature of the stale air in the cubicle dropped dramatically and Hazel's fingers paused mid-type, her hands hovering just above her outdated keyboard. Her breath swirled in front of her eyes.

From a few cubicles over, a voice called out. "It's gotten' more quiet in here… Sounds like someone's not workin'!" In the otherwise dull hum of the AC and clicking keys, the voice's fake country accent and unordinary high levels of enthusiasm stood in contrast to the somber sound of work. The voice hooted, the accompanying rattling sound suggesting the owner of said voice was the same employee who littered his desk with half-full pill bottles and empty soda cans. "I'm one step closer to being employee of the month!"

"EMPLOYEE 5B-3," a crackly voice poured from some hidden speaker. "PLEASE DO NOT DISRUPT YOUR FELLOW EMPLOYEES. REMEMBER: SILENCE IS GOLDEN! RETURN TO WORK."

Both voices fell into silence, and the work environment settled back into normalcy.

Hazel's hands slid over her arms, holding herself tight to fight back a shiver. Management had sworn that cold temperatures would help increase productivity by keeping employees awake. When Hazel had suggested to her manager that they instead give employees reasonable working hours so that they could get a full night's sleep, she had almost been fired. Her manager was furious at the accusation. Or, at least, she had assumed he was. She had never seen him when he was not smiling. Sometimes, it seemed as though the Joja Corporation had plastered the faces of managers into the off-putting grin they all permanently sported. She wouldn't put it past them.

Hazel sighed. Another swirl of warm breath danced in the air, and she watched it until it faded away.

Working for the Joja Corporation was soul-crushing. Long hours, little pay, and if she were to be honest she was not even entirely sure what her job even was. Most days she just sat in front of a screen, typing in whatever numbers or words she was prompted to by the unnecessarily complex computer program that dictated how she spent her working hours. She was nothing but an object to her employer, a thing with the ability to punch keys in the proper order needed in order to turn a profit.

Hazel hated it.

She needed to leave.

How? She needed money, and the war with the Gotoro Empire wasn't doing much to encourage job growth.

Then, she remembered.

The letter.

Speaker static interrupted her thoughts. "EMPLOYEE 2B-3, YOU HAVE BEEN IDLE FOR TWO MINUTES. YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES UNTIL MANAGEMENT IS INFORMED. PLEASE RETURN TO WORK."

Ignoring the threat, Hazel pulled on a cold metal of a drawer handle and rifled through her desk until she found what she looked for – a small envelope, white as snow, with her name messily written in black ink. The letter was sealed with purple wax, which itself was stamped with a pattern so intricate that it was hypnotizing. Curved, organic imprints swirl around what looked like an apple. When stared at for too long, the design appeared to move and dance like trees branches in the breeze.

Hazel slid her finger under the fold of the envelope and under the wax, the violet stamp unusually warm under her touch. The whole letter seemed as though it had begun to vibrate and Hazel shivered as the wax separated itself from the paper, though she presumed the sensations must simply be due to the mix of the chill and her anticipation.

This letter had been a constant in her life. She had never lost it, and had begun to assume it was impossible for her to. Whenever she thought she had walked away from the missive, she would find it had actually been in her coat pocket or deep within her purse the whole time. Always on her person or somewhere close by. It was also the last thing she had of her grandfather, his last gift to her. A gift only to be opened if modern life had crushed her.

If that description did not apply to her current lot in life, she supposed it never would.

The speaker crackled another warning directed at her. She had one minute.

Folding open the unusually soft parchment, Hazel smiled fondly at the almost unintelligible handwriting of her late grandfather. She began to read.

If you're reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I'd lost sight of what mattered most in life... real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong.

I've enclosed the deed to that place… My pride and joy: Elysian Farm. It's located in Stardew Valley, on the southern coast. It's the perfect place to start your new life.

This was my most precious gift of all, and now it's yours. I know you'll honor the family name, my girl. Good luck, and stay safe.

Love, Grandpa

Somewhere, a static-filled voice informed her a manager was coming to check on her, but she did not care. A farm… When did grandpa have a farm? She had no memory of Elysian, nor had her father ever mentioned it.

No matter, she thought to herself. This was her escape. Her way out of the torture that was corporate employment.

As the sharp click of her manager's shoes echoed down the corridor, her mind swam with thoughts of Stardew Valley. She had never heard of the place, and her stomach flopped with excitement over the prospect of this new adventure.

"Employee 2B-3!" Hazel looked up from her letter, her gaze meeting cold eyes and an angry smile. She licked her chapped lips, the words she had wanted to say for so long dancing on her tongue. "According to our program, you have been inactive fo-"
Hazel smiled genuinely and interrupted.

"I quit!"

THE WIZARD

Despite being the dead of winter, the tower filled with a sudden and unexpected warmth.

Rasmodius snapped to attention, setting aside the almost comically large tome he had been engrossed in with a loud thud. Outside his tower, the winter wind howled and snowflakes bleached the forest floor white with their presence. Otherwise, all was silent.

He stood quickly, the sudden presence of magic causing the room to vibrate with arcane energy. He remembered this spell. It had been cast so many years ago that an average mortal may have let its existance slip into the fog of memories past, but no such thing happened to him. A spell of his, once cast, was never forgotten.

The heat, however, had not been an anticipated side-effect.

Crossing the room with long strides, he flew towards his bookshelf and grabbed a small locked box that had been carefully positioned between stacks the of hand-written journals he had been unable to decipher. Blowing dust off the plain wooden box, he gently swiped his hand over the sigil which kept the container closed to all but him. The lid silently swung open.

Inside was a small envelope, white as snow. Rasmodius gingerly picked up the parchment and ran his hand over the front side where a stamp would normally be placed, though in this case was completely blank. Flipping the envelope over, he looked at the purple seal.

The envelope was open, though empty. A drawing of a lone junimo danced wildly and joyfully in the swirl of organic lines that had been stamped onto the purple wax, and a quick swipe of his thumb over the opened seal told him that the charm was the source of the warmth that had filled his home.

The contract was fulfilled, then.

Good, he wanted to think. The land was ill, and the land required it.

Nevertheless, he could not help but feel a twinge of pity deep within himself for the poor soul who had agreed to such terms.

With a sigh, he locked the box again and placed the container back on the shelf before pulling out other thick tomes from the overly-filled shelves.

He would need time to prepare for them.

They would as well, he mused as he settled back into his chair.

Slowly, the warmth in the tower faded, and the blizzard outside calmed to a flurry before stopping entirely. Everything was still, as if the forest was holding its breath in anticipation.

While Rasmodius would not admit it, there were times where he was, as well.