|| Michael x Farmer! Reader ||

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Synopsis: How can a sweet melody be such a sin?

Pairing: eventual Michael x Reader

Part 1 of ??

Genre: Carrie inspired story. A slow-burn Michael Jackson x Farmer!Reader story filled with faith, first love, handwritten letters, soft animals, small-town cruelty, religious guilt, religious trauma.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The morning sun was extremely hot this morning the heat was already climbing, thick and humid. You shifted the empty burlap sack higher against your hip as you followed the familiar dirt road into the village. Your mother had sent you for the few winter vegetables the farm didn't grow, rutabagas, parsnips, and a fresh sack of flour from the cooperative.

Normally, you didn't mind the walk. It meant an hour away from hauling feed buckets, mending fences, and chasing stubborn calves back through broken gates. Something felt off about today,the air seemed heavier. The birds barely chirped and the breeze didn't move. As the first buildings came into view, your boots thudded against the weathered boardwalk.

In your village, silence wasn't unusual. It was expected. Music didn't belong inside the church and everything else was bound between the pages of the hymnal. Anything else, anything born beyond the valley, was spoken of only in warnings.

However, this silence felt different. You squinted your eyes against the bright sun and headed towards the grocer. Before you reached the door, it swung shut.

Mr. Abernathy stood behind the dusty glass. For a brief second, you thought he hadn't seen you. Then he slowly reached up.

Open.

The sign flipped over.

Closed.

He never looked at you making your steps faltered. A cold unease settled in your stomach. "It's only coincidence," you thought. It had to be. You crossed the road towards Mrs. Gable's dry goods store. The older woman emerged onto the porch carrying a ring of heavy iron keys. She paused when she saw you. Without a word, she locked the front door.

She locked it twice. She disappeared inside and drew every curtain until the windows went dark. Your fingers tightened around the burlap sack.

No.

Not today.

Not this.

Across the street, a pair of men who usually greeted you every Saturday abruptly found something fascinating about the dirt beneath their boots. A woman gathering eggs hurried her children indoors. No one spoke to you or smiled. No one would look at you. Your heartbeat stumbled, deep inside, a truth you'd been refusing to acknowledge finally began to surface.

They knew.

Your throat tightened.

They knew.

A tiny radio. Hidden beneath rusted tractor parts in the tool shed. Late nights curled beneath heavy quilts, the volume turned so low you barely caught the melodies through the crackling static. Bright voices singing freely, a melody so contagious it could turn any sad day into a happy one. Voices that made you wonder what the world beyond the valley sounded like. You'd convinced yourself no one would ever find out. You wanted to leave immediately. Before you had taken three steps, the bakery door opened.

Mrs. Turner stepped onto the porch, her little daughter clutching one hand. The child smiled when she recognised you. You and her daughter had fun times before and she loved going to the barn to pet the llamas you had. Before she could wave, her mother pulled her sharply behind her skirts.

"Come along, Grace."

The little girl frowned. "But—"

"I said come." Her voice was firm. As they passed, Mrs. Turner finally looked at you with pity. The kind of look given to the people she looked down on. "Keep away from her," she murmured. "We don't invite temptation into our homes." The words hurt more than if she'd shouted them. Shame flooded your chest making your breathing stutter as you held back your emotions from breaking.

You left quickly. Dust rose behind your boots as the village disappeared through a sea of tears. Every step home was blurred with frustration and hurt.

Would they stop buying from your father's farm?

Would your brothers lose work?

Would your younger siblings be whispered about every Sunday after service?

It was your fault.

By the time the familiar white farmhouse appeared at the top of the hill, your chest ached from crying. Warm light glowed through the houses windows. Your family 's voices drifted from the home. You felt too ashamed to have returned empty handed. Your feet carried you past the house towards the old livestock barn.

The heavy doors groaned open. Cool air wrapped around you, carrying the comforting scent of sweet hay, cedar, and warm earth. Somewhere in the shadows, a cow gave a soft, sleepy low. You crossed to the largest stall and lifted the wooden latch. Several dairy cows turned towards you. Large, gentle eyes and slow ears twitching. So innocent and unburdened by people's judgement. One of the younger cows wandered over, breathing warmly against you before lowering her heavy head beside you.

You slid down into the straw. Your knees drew to your chest as a sob shook through you. The cow stayed exactly where she was with you. Outside, the valley decided who you were. Inside the barn, you were simply the girl who always remembered how she likes her head pet. The barn grew darker as the sun slipped below the horizon, leaving only thin ribbons of moonlight spilling through the wooden slats. The chill of the night settled into the old timber, but where you lay, it was warm. The cows shifted closer, their massive bodies covering you in warmth.

Two baby lambs, born only three weeks ago, trotted over on unsteady legs, nudging their damp noses against your hands before curling tightly against your stomach. A mother sheep rested her chin against your boot.

You buried your fingers in the thick wool of the nearest lamb, trying to match the slow rhythm of its breathing. You closed your eyes, desperate to drift into a dreamless sleep where the town's judging eyes couldn't look at you. Every time your eyelids grew heavy, the image of Mr. Abernathy turning his sign from Open to Closed jolted you awake. You could still hear the woman's voice from the bakery.

"That's the devil's girl."

The guilt, the confusion, and the fear of what might happen to your family swelled inside your chest until it became difficult to breathe. You had been taught since you were small that God heard everything. He saw every hidden thought, every secret corner of your heart.

God had seen you turn that radio dial.

You folded your trembling hands beneath your chin. Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, disappearing into the straw as your voice broke into a whisper.

"Dear God..." The words caught in your throat. "Dear God... I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to be bad. I didn't mean to invite the devil into my mind."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "It was just- God... The silence…it's boring..so much, and the music... It felt like sunlight. It didn't feel like sin."

Your breath hitched. You felt dumb over your poor choice of words. Bored?

"When Michael sang... it felt beautiful. It was fun…" You pressed your forehead against your knees.

"Why did You make melody so beautiful if it's a trap to send me to hell? Why did You give me ears to hear it if it makes me unclean?" Another sob escaped.

"Please, God... I am doing the best I can. I work the farm. I care for Your creatures. I honour my mother and father. I haven't missed a single sermon."

Your voice cracked thickened with mucus and snot.

"Is a little bit of joy really enough to make You hate me? Is it enough for You to let the town starve my family?"

The barn answered only with the slow chewing of a cow somewhere in the darkness. The silence settled over you like a weight.

God didn't answer.

"If You're angry with me..." you whispered, "...I'll never listen again." Your fingers tightened together. "I'll bury the radio tomorrow. I'll never touch it again. Just... please..." Your shoulders shook. "Don't let them look at me like that." Tears were now soaking the straw.

"Don't make me an outcast." Your voice was barely audible. "I don't want to be the devil's girl."

A long silence followed.

"I'm hardworking…" The words were small a desperate attempt to defend your dignity. "I'm human." Your lips trembled.

"Please... don't turn Your face away from me."

You lowered your head until it rested against the lamb curled against your stomach.

"I have nowhere else to go."

Midnight came but not God's answer. Only the distant ticking of the old farmhouse clock, the steady chewing of cattle, and the quiet breathing of the animals who stayed beside you while the rest of the world locked its doors.

You shifted deeper into the straw, pulling the smallest lamb against your chest. Its wool was impossibly soft, smelling faintly of sweet milk and clover. It didn't pull away. It rested its tiny chin against your collarbone, letting out slow, rhythmic puffs of warm air against your neck.

So pure. So completely innocent. It didn't have to carry the weight of a village's judgment. It didn't lie awake wondering if its very thoughts displeased the Creator. A deep ache bloomed in your chest. You wished, with everything you had left, that you could be just like it.

Beautiful. Blameless. Untouched by the world. Clean in the eyes of God. Safe within the fold.

The quiet was shattered by the neighbouring pig barn across the yard came a low, guttural grunt, followed by a chorus of harsh, wet squeals as the swine shifted through the mud in their pens. In the stillness of the night, the sound seemed impossibly loud.

Your stomach twisted as numbness fell over you, the pigs' cries echoed the voices from the village.

"That's the devil's girl."

You looked down at your hands, rough and stained from years of work, and thought of the hidden radio beneath the tool shed floor. You thought of the forbidden songs that had made your heart feel lighter instead of heavier.

Shame numbed over you as the elders' words, heard since childhood, rose one by one until they drowned out every comforting thought.

You weren't a lamb.

You never had been. The thought settled deep inside you, cold and inescapable.

You were a pig.

Content to wallow in the mud of worldly temptation. A broken thing pretending to belong in the house of God. A pig wearing a lamb's coat, hiding a filthy heart beneath modest dresses and a quiet smile so no one would ever see what you truly were. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face in the lamb's soft wool, trying to shut out the distant cries of the swine. But the knot in your chest refused to loosen.

No matter how tightly you clung to the little lamb, you couldn't stop believing that you would always be unclean.

The heavy, dark thoughts were still suffocating your mind when a sudden, wet sensation against your bare calf made you gasp. You jumped, your heart leaping into your throat before you realized what it was. The smallest lamb had shifted. It was leaning over, its tiny pink tongue playfully licking at your ankle, its ears twitching with sudden midnight energy. A breathless, involuntary giggle bubbled up from your chest sounded so foreign in the quiet barn that it startled you.

The lamb took your reaction as an invitation. It kicked its back legs into the air, doing a clumsy little hop through the straw before nudging its head against your ribs with a soft, impatient bleat, completely determined to keep your attention. You couldn't help it and laughed. The weight pressing against your chest cracked open, if only for a moment.

The little lamb bounced again, tiny hooves landed in an uneven rhythm that stirred something deep in the back of your mind. Before you realized what you were doing, the melody slipped quietly from your lips.

"Don't blame it on the sunshine... don't blame it on the moonlight..."

The lamb answered with another joyful little hop, and your smile widened as you whispered the next line like a secret meant only for the two of you.

"Don't blame it on the good times... blame it on the boogie..."

The words felt like honey on your tongue. For those few seconds, you forgot the cruel way you were treated. There was only the cool night air, the sweet scent of hay, and a tiny lamb dancing through the straw while you laughed beside it.

You were only a farm girl happily singing quietly in the dark, completely wrapped up in a melody that felt more like heaven than anything the village elders had ever preached.

The harsh, golden morning sun was already pouring through the wooden slats of the barn when a violent SLAM shattered the quiet. The heavy double doors crashed against the walls, flooding the barn with blinding daylight.

"Girl!"

Your father's booming voice echoed through the rafters, thick with panic. Your eyes flew open, your heart leaping into your throat as the lambs scattered in fright. Before you could even brush the straw from your cheek, your father rushed into the stall. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you into a crushing embrace. He held you so tightly your lungs ached, his face buried in your hair.

"Where were you?" he scolded, his voice cracking with equal parts terror and anger as he finally pulled away. "Your mother was up all night weeping! We thought someone took you. We thought you were lying dead in a ditch. Why did you sleep out here with the beasts?" You swallowed hard, your throat still raw from crying. He didn't know.The elders hadn't come to the house.

"I... I fell asleep tending to the new lambs, Father," you lied, keeping your eyes lowered. "I was just so tired." He let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing a rough hand over his face before glancing around the empty stall.

"Where are the vegetables? And the flour? Didn't your mother send you to town yesterday morning?" You bit the inside of your cheek and forced yourself to meet his eyes.

"The cooperative... they didn't have anything worth buying, Father. Mr. Abernathy said the parsnips were rotting, and Mrs. Gable's flour was full of weevils. They were closing early to save what stock they could."

Your father studied you for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Good discernment, girl. We won't spend our hard-earned silver on rot." Relief washed over you so suddenly your legs felt weightless.

"Come inside. Wash your face. You've invitations to write before school."

Right...Your Sweet Sixteen. An hour later, you sat at the worn kitchen table. There were no celebratory decorations or brightly wrapped presents waiting beside the hearth.

Your mother quietly placed a thick slice of bright red watermelon onto a plain white plate.

Your birthday cake. She pressed a single white candle into the black seeds near the centre before striking a match. The tiny flame flickered gently and there was no birthday song.

Singing anything beyond the church hymnal was considered worldly, and even a simple birthday tune had no place beneath your family's roof. Your parents and siblings gathered around the table in silence.

"Make your silent praises to the Lord for another year of life," your mother said.

You closed your eyes. You didn't have a wish.

The only thing you truly wanted was freedom. You opened your eyes and blew out the candle. The flame flickered out. Your siblings quietly poured cups of red punch. Everyone ate their watermelon in silence before drifting back outside to begin the day's work.

Five minutes later, your sixteenth birthday was over. You returned to your room and changed into your school uniform, the heavy pleated skirt, the stiff white collar, and the thick knee socks that never seemed to stay up.

The morning breeze was nice as you made your way on the long dirt road toward the village school. In one hand, you carried a neat stack of small parchment invitations. In the other, a leaky fountain pen.

Using your hip as a writing desk, you carefully wrote each classmate's name as you walked.

You are invited to celebrate my Sweet Sixteenth...

The ink smeared beneath your trembling fingers. You wrote another name. Another invitation.

Once you got to school, you walked up to them, your boots clicking softly against the gravel. "Morning," you said, your voice smaller than you intended. Carefully, you slipped two handwritten invitations from your stack and held them out.

"I... I turned sixteen today. My father is letting me have a small gathering at the park this weekend." A shy smile touched your lips. "I hope you can come."

The girls stopped talking. Sarah looked down at the invitation. Then at you. She didn't reach for it. Instead, she slowly turned to Judith, their eyes met. A silent message passed between them.

Judith's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Oh... a gathering," she said sweetly, taking the invitation with a quick tug. "Of course we'll come." She folded the parchment neatly between her fingers.

"We wouldn't miss your Sweet Sixteen for the world." Sarah let out a tiny laugh. "Oh, absolutely," she agreed, taking her invitation. "We'll make sure everyone knows."

Neither of them wished you a happy birthday nor looked at the careful handwriting you'd spent all morning working on. They simply turned away, whispering to one another as they disappeared through the school doors.

You remained where you were. A chill crept slowly down your spine. Something about the way they'd looked at each other felt wrong. You swallowed hard.

They're just being nice, you told yourself.

They said they'd come.

You forced your feet to move towards two more girls were passing the lockers. "Hi, Mary. Hi, Ruth. I wanted to invite you to my—"

Mary glanced at the invitation then at Ruth. The same smile and same look. "We'll definitely be there," Mary said. Ruth nodded eagerly as she accepted the invitation.

"Wouldn't miss it." They hurried away before you could say another word. By the afternoon, the entire school felt different. It was a small academy, news travelled quickly through its narrow hallways. Every classroom fell quiet the moment you walked through the door. All eyes on you. Conversations stopped for a heartbeat before beginning again in hushed voices.

Girls glanced over their shoulders. Whispers followed you down the corridors. In Scripture class, the girls beside you smiled politely enough. Tight, polite, disheartening smiles. At lunch, you sat alone with the few invitations you still had left to hand out. Every time you looked up, someone seemed to be watching you.

Some smiled. Some whispered behind raised hands. Others stared. When you met their eyes, they didn't look away. It made your skin crawl, so many eyes on you.

With every look, the knots in your stomach pulled tighter. You couldn't explain why. You only knew something was in air. it felt as though you were walking willingly into something the rest of the school already understood.

The two days leading up to your birthday gathering passed in a blur of nervous excitement. Whenever you thought about the strange looks the girls had shared, you pushed the doubt away.

They said they were coming.

They promised.

When the afternoon of your gathering finally arrived, you stood in front of the small mirror in your bedroom, your heart fluttering with nervous excitement.

You wore the prettiest dress you owned, a simple cotton dress your mother had sewn by hand. The fabric fell neatly to your calves, every stitch lovingly placed. For the first time in months, you wore your hair down. Wanting to feel free with your natural hair instead of it being up and out of your face. For a little while you looked and felt like an ordinary sixteen-year-old girl. Your mother smiled as she handed you a plain white plate. Resting on it was a thick slice of watermelon with a single white candle pressed carefully into the centre.

"Have a blessed afternoon with your school friends, Sweetheart," she said, kissing your cheek.

"I will, Mother." You stepped into the warm sunshine, carrying your “birthday cake” with both hands. The gathering was meant to be in the little park at the edge of the village. As you walked, you imagined Sarah, Judith and the others already waiting. Perhaps they would sit beneath the trees.

By the time you reached the park, your smile had already begun to grow. You felt excited perhaps funny stories would be shared or embarrassing secrets.

Perhaps…

Then you stopped. The clearing was empty. Only the wind stirring through the trees. Your footsteps slowed and your body tensed unconsciously. You walked towards the old wooden bench. Then you saw them. Four stuffed pigs. Cheap little toys, sitting neatly side by side. Someone had smeared bright red lipstick across their snouts, stretching each one into a grotesque smile.

Behind them, carved deep into the peeling green paint with a pocketknife, were the words:

WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

LITTLE PIG.

The plate trembled in your hands. The watermelon. The candle. Your beautiful dress.

It had all been for this. This humiliating "gift", they had never planned to come. You bit your lip hard, your throat felt as though barred wires were closing around it. You sat onto on the creaky green bench, surrounded by the stuffed pigs as the same numbness from before weighted on you. The cruel words carved into the wood mocked you.

Slowly, your eyes drifted to the untouched watermelon. If you carried it home untouched your mother would know and your father would ask questions. The shame would find its way into your home. You couldn't let that happen. With trembling fingers, you broke off a piece of watermelon.

It tasted like ash. You forced yourself to swallow. You sat alone beneath the fading evening sky, crying quietly as you ate the watermelon. Your tears mixing with the fresh sweet melon, as four smiling stuffed pigs laughed at you.

When you couldn't manage another bite, you carried the rind into the waste bin and tossed it out of sight. Then you wandered to the old park to the swing set. The rusted chains groaned as you lowered yourself onto the seat. The chains would occasionally nip at your skin and you gently pushed your feet.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

The sky slowly deepened into bruised shades of purple and orange. When darkness finally settled over the valley, you let the swing come to a stop. Your gaze fell to your dress. It was too clean. It didn't look like you'd spent an afternoon laughing with friends. You scuffed your boots through the dirt until the leather looked worn. You rubbed dust across the hem of your apron, just enough to make the lie look real.

By the time you stepped through the farmhouse door, your tears were gone and dried, only the redness around your eyes remained.

The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke and vegetable broth. Your mother looked up from the stove and hurried over, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.

"How was it, my sweet girl?" You smiled, nodding.

"Did the girls enjoy the afternoon?" You made your smile even brighter. "It was wonderful, Mother," you said. "We sat beneath the trees and talked for hours."

From the corner of the room, your older brothers looked up from cleaning their tools. One nudged your shoulder with a grin.

"Well, I hope it was worth it," he laughed. "We had to do your share of the fieldwork while you were off being queen for the day." Another brother chuckled. "You owe us double chores tomorrow." You laughed with them.

"I will," you promised. Still smiling, you climbed the stairs toward your bedroom. The smile stayed on your face until your bedroom door closed behind you.

Then, at the click of your door all you could hear was the echo of two words.

Little pig.

The heavy wooden floors of St. Jude's Academy felt colder as the months slipped into the next year. You had learned to move through the hallways like a shadow, eyes lowered, shoulders slightly hunched, trying to be as invisible as possible. But as you passed the central courtyard bulletin board one hot Monday morning, a brightly coloured poster caught your eye.

HOMECOMING QUEEN – SENIOR CLASS SELECTION

Your steps slowed and you stepped closer, reading the elegant script. Unlike other schools where popularity decided the winner, St. Jude's followed a long-standing tradition: the girl who contributed the most to the village and school would be crowned. Faculty and advisors alone would cast the votes. Something stirred inside you. The teachers didn't join the whispers in the hallways. They only saw your volunteer hours at the cooperative, the charity drives you organised, your spotless grades, and the extra work you quietly took on without complaint.

You let yourself imagine it, your father smiling and the village looking at you with kindness instead of suspicion.

Perhaps...

Perhaps they would believe you were good after all. The thought barely had time to bloom.

"Oink."

Every muscle in your body locked.

"Oink, oink."

A snort.

"Look." More scoffs and laughter. "The little pig wants a crown."

Slowly, you turned around. Sarah and Judith stood at the centre of a small crowd, schoolbooks hugged against their chests. Around them, girls covered their mouths to hide their laughter. Some didn't bother hiding it at all. The hallway seemed to shrink around you. Your fingers tightened around your books. For one terrifying second, you couldn't remember how to move. The poster fluttered gently behind you.

Someone snorted again. Another girl laughed. You lowered your eyes because if you looked at any of them for another second, you thought something inside you might finally break. You turned and walked away, the laughter followed you down the corridor until the school doors closed behind you.

The familiar scent of cedar and hay greeted you as you stepped into the barn. You stood there looking at the ground. One by one, the animals wandered over. The oldest ewe brushed against your side. One of the lambs stretched up to nudge your hand. Another leaned its weight against your leg until you absentmindedly scratched behind its ears.

"They only see a pig," you whispered. "A sinner."

The lamb blinked then licked your thumb. The corner of your mouth twitched only a little. An impossible thought crossed your mind and you reached into the hidden pocket of your work jacket and pulled out your little notebook and the leaky fountain pen.

If no one here wanted to know the real you maybe someone far away would. You settled into the straw and began writing a letter to Michael from the Jackson 5. You weren't even sure he would read your letter or respond to you but maybe...he would. You didn't ask Michael Jackson for money or rescue. You simply told him about your life. About the baby lambs who bounced through the straw whenever you hummed Blame It on the Boogie. About how his voice sounded like sunshine spilling through the crackling speaker of your hidden little radio.

About how you imagined that someone capable of singing with so much joy must surely have a kind heart. When you reached the bottom of the page, you smiled before signing it with your name. You folded the letter carefully and tucked it into a plain white envelope.The stamp would have to come from your own savings. You couldn't risk your father asking where the money had gone. From the toe of your oldest work boot, you pulled a small bundle of crumpled dollar bills and carefully saved quarters, three years' worth of odd jobs on a neighbouring farm.

It was just enough to send the one letter. With the envelope tucked safely beneath your coat, you made your way to the little village post office. Keeping your head down, you bought the overseas stamp and slid the envelope through the narrow metal slot. It disappeared with a soft thunk. You stood there for another second, wondering of the possibilities that could come with this one letter. If any was there.

The days that followed crawled by in a blur of dust, hard labour, and heavy silence. Every morning at school became a repeat of the last, muffled snorts, eyes burning into your back, and the constant feeling of being an outsider. You stopped looking at the bulletin board altogether. You did your work, kept your head down, and prayed your father wouldn't notice the way the village seemed to curdle around you.

Four weeks passed. The letter you had slipped into the post felt like a distant, childish dream. Someone like Michael Jackson, the boy whose face smiled from magazines across the world, whose voice belonged to millions, would never notice a piece of parchment sent by a farm girl from a forgotten little valley. You walked down to the roadside mailbox, your boots sinking into the thick mud. It was a rainy afternoon, you expected the usual: utility bills for your father, a church circular, perhaps a farming catalogue. You opened the creaking metal door and gathered the small stack of mail. Nestled between two brown envelopes was a crisp white one. It looked different and had your name on it, written neatly across the front in elegant, looping handwriting. Your fingers froze. Slowly, you turned the envelope over. The return address wasn't a record company. It was just a home address.

Your heart began to pound. Without thinking, you tucked the rest of the family's mail beneath your arm and hurried across the yard. The barn doors groaned shut behind you. The familiar scent of cedar, hay, and warm animals wrapped around you as you settled into the straw. Almost immediately, the lambs wandered over. One rested its chin against your knee. Another nudged your elbow as though asking what had you so still. With careful fingers, you slipped your thumb beneath the seal and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of thick white paper with the faint scent of clean soap and fresh rain.

Dear friend,

Your letter made me smile so big. Thank you for sending me such a beautiful, thoughtful message. It reached me on a day when I really needed something kind, and reading about your little farm and your baby lambs brought so much peace to my heart.

I think it's wonderful that you take such good care of God's creatures. Animals are so wonderful, aren't they ? They just love with their whole hearts. Like magic. I have always felt very close to them, and I think we're lucky that God trusted us to care for them.

I laughed when you told me about the lambs hopping around while you hummed "Blame It on the Boogie." I wish I could see that with my own eyes! I think it must be one of the sweetest, most magical things I've ever imagined.

Thank you for sharing a little of your world with me. I think it sounds beautiful where you are, because you're there to fill it with kindness.

Please keep writing to me whenever you feel like it. I'd love to hear about the changing seasons, your family, and, of course, the lambs. I'll be looking forward to your next letter.

Until then, take good care of yourself and give one of those little lambs an extra cuddle for me.

With love,

Michael Jackson

You stared at the page while holding your breath rereading every word again, not believing that he really wrote back. Your fingertips brushed gently across the signature. He not only read your letter but wrote back. A slow smile spread across your face, so bright it almost felt strange. You hugged the letter carefully against your chest. The oldest cow wandered over and rested her head against your shoulder, without taking your eyes off the page, you leaned gently into her warm big body.

“He wrote back! Look!” You excitedly showed the little lamb the paper as if she could understand. The lamb only bit the corner of the paper and you jerked your hand back. “No you silly goose!” The lamb only bleat at you. The little lamb bumped her head on your hand.

That night, beneath the thick mattress of your bed, you pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, your leaky fountain pen, and the little radio. With the volume turned down so low that it barely whispered against your ear, you began writing to Michael again.

The letters changed over the months. They weren't polite notes anymore. They became easy familiar conversations. You learned that Michael loved the quiet of the countryside, and he learned that your family's farm was one of the largest livestock suppliers in the tri-state area. A new letter has come for you. You were curled up in the straw beside the sheep when you unfolded the crisp white envelope. Halfway down the page, written in his familiar looping handwriting, was a question that made you blink.

"Do you have any llamas on your family's farm? I'm hoping to adopt two for my home someday…a boy and a girl. I think they're some of the most beautiful, elegant creatures." You smiled immediately writing your answer quickly on a new peice of paper.

“Yes, Michael. We have two young llamas born last spring. Their names are Lola and Louie. They're very gentle. I think you'd love them.”

You imagined he might send a truck or an assistant. Someone to collect them on his behalf. You never imagined that Michael himself would be coming in three weeks.

It was a blistering Saturday afternoon. Your older brothers were working the northern fields, and your father sat inside with your mother, going over the month's financial records. You were in the barnyard, brushing Lola's soft cream-coloured coat while Louie lazily chewed on a bundle of sweet hay nearby. A every normal sunday afternoon when a deep, expensive V8 engine rumbled up the long dirt drive, making noise that didn't belong here.

The cows lifted their heads and the horses shifted in their stalls. Even Lola paused beneath your brush. You stepped out from the shade of the barn, squinting into the afternoon sun. A large black SUV rolled to a stop in the middle of the yard, dust curling around its tyres.

The engine settled into a low, steady purr. Your grip tightened around the wooden brush, confused on why a city car would be here. The driver's door opened and a tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses stepped out first. His eyes swept across the property before he quietly opened the rear passenger door. Your breath caught as you tried peering over the fence to see who it was.

A man stepped into the sunlight wearing dark aviator sunglasses, a bright red corduroy shirt, and black trousers. He looked impossibly out of place against the weathered barns and wooden fences, as though someone had carried a piece of the city into the middle of your little valley.

He looked around the farm and when he spotted you, the biggest smile spread across his face.

"Heyy penpal!!"

He lifted a hand in an enthusiastic wave before making his way across the yard. When he reached you, he removed his sunglasses. His eyes were warm.

"Hi..nice to meet you.." he said with a soft laugh, almost as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. "It's really you."

"Hi Michael.." you said shyly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He looked at your muddy boots, your work apron, and the old wooden brush still clutched in your hands. Then he smiled shyly.

"You're a really pretty girl."

Your mouth opened and shut feeling flustered at the sudden compliment. The boy whose voice had drifted through the crackling speaker of your radio, was standing in your family's barnyard. Before you could gather enough air to speak, the farmhouse screen door burst open with a loud CREAK.

"Girl!" Your father's voice thundered across the yard. "Who is trespassing on our land?” The porch steps groaned beneath your father's heavy work boots as he descended into the yard. His face was set in its usual hard, uncompromising line, his sharp eyes narrowing as they swept over the black SUV and the stranger standing beside it. Your heart lurched into your throat you hoped your father wouldn't recognised Michael from a magazine, or worse, realise he was the boy whose voice drifted through your hidden radio, everything would be over.

"He's a customer, Father," you blurted, stepping quickly between them before either man could speak. You hugged the wooden brush to your chest, trying to steady your breathing. "He drove all the way from the city. He's interested in buying our llamas."

Your father stopped a few feet away. His eyes travelled slowly over Michael's bright red shirt, polished boots, and the suited man waiting beside the SUV. To him, Michael didn't look like a famous singer. He looked like a wealthy businessman. The suspicion in your father's face gradually softened into the firm professionalism of a farmer about to make a sale.

"A customer," he repeated with a nod. "Well then, sir, you've come to the right place. Our livestock is the finest in the valley."

He gestured proudly towards you. "My daughter takes care of the llamas herself. Hardest-working girl on this farm." Michael glanced at you for the briefest moment, amusement flickering in his eyes before he turned back to your father.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," he said politely. "I've heard wonderful things about your farm."

Your father's chest swelled with quiet pride. "Go on then…" he said, waving you towards the barn. "Don't keep the gentleman standing out here in the heat. Show him Lola and Louie. Show him how you care for them."

"Yes, Father." You turned and led the way towards the barn, your knees still feeling strangely unsteady. Michael followed close behind, his footsteps light against the gravel. The moment you rounded the corner of the barn and disappeared from your father's view, the tight knot in your chest loosened. The air inside was cool and smelled of cedar, fresh hay, and warm animals.

Lola lifted her graceful neck the instant she spotted you. Louie wandered over from his hay pile, humming softly as he stretched out his nose to investigate the visitor.

Michael stopped where he was, then both hands flew to his cheeks.

"Oh..." His voice came out as nothing more than a delighted whisper.

"Oh, they're beautiful." He was unable to stop smiling, he read about llamas often but standing in fron of one made him giddy and excited. "They're even sweeter than I imagined."

Lola walked over without fear. Animals can always sense a good kind soul. Michael slowly held out the back of his hand for her to sniff. She gave his hand a curious nuzzle. His face lit up, his expression filled with magical hope.

"Hi..” he whispered. "Aren't you the prettiest girl?" Louie wandered over a later, jealous of the attention Lola was getting and nudged Michael's shoulder with surprising confidence. Michael laughed a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet barn.

"I think he likes me." You couldn't help smiling.

"I think he does." Michael looked over at you, his eyes warm with quiet happiness. "I'm really glad I came." Your secret pen pal was truly kindhearted as you expected.

"They're a little shy at first," you said softly as you stepped into the pen. "But they're very gentle." You smiled, scratching behind Lola's ears.

"I actually rescued Lola and Louie from a travelling circus that passed through the county last year. They spent all day giving rides to children. By the time they arrived here, they were frightened of people. Their coats were falling out from the stress."Michael's expression changed immediately.

"A circus?" he repeated quietly. His hands rested on the weathered fence as he looked at the two llamas. "How could anyone do that to such sweet creatures?" His voice was disappointed at the hurt the llamas felt.

"People can be so cruel when they don't understand innocence."

You nodded. "They can," you murmured.

For a fleeting moment, the school hallway flashed across your mind.

The laughter. The carved words.

You pushed the memories away.

"It took months before they'd let me touch them," you continued. "Mostly I just sat in the straw with them until they decided I wasn't scary anymore." Michael glanced down at his polished shoes as you wiped your hands off. He stepped straight into the straw beside you. You couldn't help smiling. "You have to stay calm around them," you explained, scooping a handful of alfalfa pellets from a wooden bucket.

"Hold your hand flat. Like this."

He copied your posture with complete concentration. Louie wandered over, sniffed cautiously at his hand, then gently nibbled the pellets from his palm. Michael let out an excited little gasp.

"Oh..." A grin spread across his face. "Hi there." His voice had become impossibly gentle.

"Aren't you handsome?" As you reached for another handful of feed, Lola wandered up behind you. Without warning, she lowered her long neck and rested her soft chin right on top of your head.

The familiar weight made you laugh under your breath but made Michael burst into delighted laughter.

"Oh!" He covered his mouth, still laughing. "Look at you two." He shook his head in amazement. "That's magic, you're magic!" His smile softened.

"They adore you." He watched Lola standing contentedly against you.

"I think God smiles every time He sees you taking care of them." The words settled over the barn like falling snow. Your smile faded before you realised it. For a long moment, you simply stared at the straw beneath your boots.

If only you knew...

The thought came quietly.

If you knew what the village says about me...

You swallowed. The warmth of the barn suddenly felt very far away. Without thinking, you tightened your grip on the feed bucket until the rough wood pressed into your palms.

Michael's smile slowly faded, tilting his head a little.

"...Pretty girl?"

You blinked and looked up. "Oh." You forced a tiny smile back onto your face. "I'm sorry." You stroked Lola's neck absentmindedly.

"I was just thinking.”

The heavy wooden gate groaned as it swung open. Michael's bodyguards had backed a spacious livestock trailer beside the barn, the ramp stretching down into the dusty yard. The animals understood before anyone said a word.

Lola glanced at the trailer, then immediately turned back to you. With a quiet, anxious hum, she pressed her whole body against your side, burying her face into the crook of your neck. Louie hurried over too, stretching his long neck around your shoulders until he was practically hugging you. Neither of them wanted to move.

You wrapped your arms around both of their woolly necks and closed your eyes for a moment. "It's all right," you whispered, stroking between Lola's ears. "My sweet loves... you're going somewhere beautiful." You kissed Lola gently on the forehead. Then Louie on his soft nose.

"He's going to love you just as much as I do." A few feet away, Michael watched, it was obvious these animals weren't livestock but family.

With patient encouragement and a few handfuls of feed, you guided Lola and Louie up the trailer ramp. The doors closed with a solid metallic click. Michael stepped beside you, adjusting his sunglasses.

"Hey pretty thing..." He glanced towards the trailer before looking back at you. "Would it be all right if I called you sometimes?"

He smiled sheepishly. "I'm probably going to have a hundred questions. They're going to miss you…and...I'll probably miss talking to you too."

You couldn't help smiling. You looked towards the farmhouse to make sure your father wasn't watching. "Call whenever you need to. I'll help." Behind Michael, one of the bodyguards stepped forward carrying a thick envelope and held it out to you. You accepted it without a quiet thank you under your breath. However the envelope was unusually thicker.

When you opened the flap, your eyes widened. The bills Inside where far more than the agreed price.

Your head snapped up. "Woah..." You immediately held the envelope back out, shaking your head slightly. "No, I can't. This is far too much." You were an honest, your parents raised you right. "My father would never allow me to charge this."

Before the bodyguard could take it, Michael gently rested his fingertips against the back of your hand lightly pushing the envelope towards you again.

"Keep it." His voice was sincere. "It's for Lola and Louie..."

He paused, his grin returning and cheeks flushing. "...and for all the phone calls I'm about to make. I know I'll be talking to a pretty thing like you all the time. Just compensation for the next phone bill."

His charm made you laugh you werent used to a boy, let alone such a kindhearted one to be so interested in you.

"I have a feeling I'm going to need a very patient llama teacher." You felt comfortable enough around him to match his playful tone.

"I think you'll do just fine."

He gave you a smile and a wave before he climbed back into the waiting SUV. The engine rumbled to life and slowly, the vehicle disappeared down the long dirt drive, carrying Lola and Louie towards a new home.

You remained where you were, the envelope held carefully against your chest. You happily waved at the dissappearing car. But it also felt wonderfully, impossibly open.The dust from the heavy V8 tires still hung like a golden haze over the long dirt driveway when the silence settled back over the valley.

You stood completely still, your fingers wrapped tightly around the thick envelope of money. The back of your hand still tingled where Michael's fingers had brushed yours. It hardly felt real.

Then gravel crunched behind you.

"Well..." The voice made your stomach drop and you spun around quickly.

Sarah and Judith stepped out from the edge of the cornfield, their pleated St. Jude's skirts dusty from the walk, school satchels hanging from their shoulders. They must have been standing by the road the whole time.

Judith folded her arms. "So that's where you disappear after school."

Sarah glanced down the empty driveway where the black SUV had vanished.

"Fancy car."

Neither of them smiled. Their eyes settled on the thick envelope clutched against your apron.

"Who's he?" Judith asked. You instinctively hid the envelope behind your back.

"He... he bought our llamas."

"Llamas?" Sarah repeated with a laugh. "Sure he did." Judith slowly looked you up and down.

"Funny. He seemed a lot more interested in you than the llamas." Heat rushed into your face. "That's not what happened."

"Oh, save it," Sarah scoffed. She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"Your face is all red. Your hair's a mess." A slow grin spread across her face. "Looks like the rich city boy got exactly what he came for."

Judith gasped dramatically, covering her mouth.

"Sarah..."

Then she smiled. "What? Everyone's going to think it." Your stomach twisted as you tried to defend yourself. "He was just buying the llamas."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Of course."

Judith leaned in just enough for only you to hear. "The little farm slu t couldn't even wait until marriage." Sarah laughed.

"I wonder if your father knows where his daughter's virginity went."

The words slapped you hard in the face. Neither of them waited for an answer, Judith shrugged. "You'd better hide that money." She nodded toward the envelope. "People might start asking what he paid you for." The two girls laughed as they turned and walked back toward the village, their voices fading into the afternoon. The envelope suddenly felt impossibly heavy in your hands.

Another thing the village could twist into something ugly. You looked down at the envelope, then toward the empty road where Michael's SUV had disappeared beyond the hills. The valley was quiet again and for the first time, you wondered if letting someone kind into your life had only given the village one more way to hurt you.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

THEY DO!! They even took my mugshot which a funny way to say selfie