The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky with golden and rosy hues as the inhabitants of the farm gathered outdoors in silence. The air was heavy with sadness and grief, the atmosphere was shrouded in a solemn aura. A small mound of fresh soil marked the spot where Fatima, Pseudon's wife, lay, her life extinguished too soon. Pseudon, with red-rimmed eyes and a heart full of pain, held a small photo of his wife as others gathered around the makeshift grave. Trisha, the young triceratops who had arrived at the farm a few months earlier, stood by him, offering a shoulder for support. Pseudon's trusted overseer, Carlos, a close family friend, stepped forward to speak words in memory of Fatima. His voice, filled with emotion, resonated in the silence of the evening. "Fatima was a bright light in our lives, a kind, brave, and loving woman. She will always be in our hearts; we will remember her smile, her sweetness, and her love for her family. Today, we say goodbye to her, but her legacy will endure in each of us." As Carlos spoke, the shadows of the trees lengthened, casting themselves over the fresh soil like a mantle of respect. The sun, in its final moments of splendor, tinted the sky with a palette of colors that seemed to reflect the somber emotions of those present. The gentle breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees, carrying with it the fragrance of the nearby garden flowers. The candles arranged around the makeshift grave flickered, creating an ethereal atmosphere that blended with the palpable sorrow in the air. Trisha, with her scaly skin and compassionate eyes, held a handkerchief that she offered to Pseudon. Her own eyes reflected shared sadness as she watched her master, trying to be a steady support in the emotional storm that enveloped him. In the sky, birds that normally filled the farm with cheerful songs now circled, as if also paying tribute to the woman whose absence felt like a void in the heart of the farm. After the overseer's words, each person present took a handful of soil and let it fall onto Fatima's grave as a final farewell. Pseudon, his gaze fixed on the ground, did the same, bidding farewell to his beloved wife with a lump in his throat and a broken heart. The sky gradually darkened as the ceremony came to an end. Sadness hung in the air, but there was also a sense of unity and support among those present. They hugged in silence, sharing pain and comfort in their mutual presence. Finally, as stars began to appear in the sky, people slowly dispersed, leaving behind the small mound of soil that marked Fatima's final resting place. The farm was enveloped in the stillness of the night, but the echo of her memory lingered in every corner, reminding everyone of the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing every moment together. But he wasn't willing to leave yet... he still couldn't say goodbye to his wife. "My dear..." he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the twilight air. "I can still feel your presence in every corner of our home, in every song you used to hum while painting. How can I face the dawn without your bright eyes and warm smile?" His tears mingled with the rain that began to fall, as if the sky itself shared his sorrow. The tomb seemed to speak to him in silence, telling stories of a love that had endured even beyond death. The widower knelt, as if seeking answers within the depths of the earth. "Why did life take you away so soon, leaving me alone in this cold world?" he sobbed, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. "Sometimes I feel that the entire universe conspired to snatch you from my arms. What should I do now, without your laughter to brighten my days and your love to guide my nights?" Tears fell without restraint, blending with the rain that soaked his clothes. The widower closed his eyes, trying to find solace in the memories still lingering in his mind, but each memory was like a dagger in his heart, reminding him of what he had lost. The night closes slowly around him, enveloping him in a deep and eternal darkness. He remained there, in the shadows, clinging to a love he could no longer touch, bidding farewell once again to the woman who had once been his world. The tragedy of his loss resonated in every sigh of the wind and in every tear that fell on the damp earth, as the widower said goodbye once more to his beloved, in a farewell that seemed to have no end. In the days that followed Fatima's funeral, the Mous farm was immersed in an atmosphere of mourning. Pseudon, though appearing calm, carried the weight of loss, spending days in silence on the porch of his house in solitude. Trisha, Carrote, and the other slaves did not feel the loss of Mrs. Mous as much; their attention was directed towards the newborn, Unknown, whom Trisha took the trouble of nursing. Still, Fatima's absence was felt in every corner of the large house and the fields. "Here, take this to Mr. Mous," Mrs. Carrote ordered, holding a sweetened coffee in her hand. Trisha was holding the baby in her arms, a fact that Mrs. Carrote didn't notice. "Oh, my mistake," she said, bringing a hand to her mouth while carrying the coffee with the other, going herself to the porch to leave the coffee on the small table— "Here, take something, Mr. Mous," noticing his lack of interest in breakfast, she tried to say a few words, but nothing came out of her, slowly retreating and letting out a heavy sigh as she crossed the door and closed it. Pseudon still had something in his hand, a letter, the letter from his late wife that she had written before leaving. The widower read it again with sadness in his eyes, the paper where his wife poured out her final message. "Dear Pseudon, If you are reading this letter, it means that my greatest fear has come true, and I had to be the first to leave. My heart fills with sadness just thinking about leaving this world and the longed-for family we were going to build together. But I know that no matter this adversity, you will be strong. I trust that with all the love in your heart, you will take care of and educate our little Unknown, if indeed it turns out to be a boy, of course. After all, I always wanted a son; that's why I chose the name. My eyes tear up a bit at the thought that I won't be there to see him grow up, a strong and dedicated man like his father. But above all, a man with a big heart. I want you to know how much I loved you and how much I cherished every moment we shared together. You are my rock, my eternal love, and I know you will be a wonderful father. I also want you to know that I will always be by your side in spirit, watching from a better place, looking after our family. Always remember the strength that united us; find me in the details of your day-to-day life. Whenever I can, I will be there to comfort you, whether in the whisper of the wind or in the laughter of our little one. Move forward, Pseudon, with the same courage and heart you have always shown. I LOVE YOU with all my eternal love.” ~Fatima ♡ Observing his coffee, he holds it by the handle, taking a sip, trying to shake off the sentimental pain on his face. He lifted his gaze a bit and saw Carlos arriving with a package, the books he had ordered from the North months ago. "Good afternoon, Mr. Mous. I brought the books you requested," announced Carlos, placing the package carefully on the table, noticing the letter Pseudon held in his hand. "How has everything been at the farm in my absence?" he asked, trying to divert his friend's mind from the sorrow that engulfed him. "Everyone has been busy, trying to keep things in order. Trisha has been taking care of little Unknown with great dedication, and Carrote has been overseeing the daily tasks, although I still miss her..." he said the last part with a subdued tone, reminiscing about old times. Carlos nodded sadly. "Yes, her presence will be irreplaceable. Life can be cruel, but the most important thing is to rise and continue. If you can't do it alone, you can tell me whatever you need, compadre ." Pseudon nodded gratefully. "Thank you, it's good to know that after all, you're a good man," Pseudon smiled weakly, grateful for the support of his trusted employee. "I appreciate it, Carlos. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a moment alone to process all of this." "Of course, Mr. Mous. I'll be here if you need anything else." Carlos discreetly withdrew, leaving Pseudon alone with his thoughts. Pseudon contemplated Fatima's letter for a moment longer, feeling tears welling up in his eyes and falling onto the paper with his wife's loving words. With trembling hands, he stored the letter in a safe place, feeling an overwhelming emptiness in his chest. The reality of loss overcame him, and an uncontrollable sob escaped his lips. As tears danced on his face, Pseudon sensed that Fatima's joyful echo would fade into eternal melancholy, like a symphony lost in the wind. He would never again caress the warm essence of her company. The pain of her absence, like an unrelenting shadow, became an unbearable burden, tearing at the very fabric of his being. He sank into the embrace of the chair, like a castaway on the shore of desolation, overwhelmed by the storm of loss and sadness. In that silent shipwreck, the world faded like a fleeting dream, leaving Pseudon in the twilight of his own grief, where tears were the only witnesses to the tragedy unfolding on the stage of his soul. That same afternoon, as the sun began to illuminate the sky, Pseudon headed towards the small mound of fresh earth that marked the place where his beloved Fatima lay. His steps were slow and heavy, each one resonating with the weight of his sadness and loneliness. He knelt beside the grave, tears filling his eyes and his heart heavy with melancholy. He tenderly caressed the soil over the grave, as if he could feel the soft texture of Fatima's skin once again. The wind blew gently, carrying with it his sighs laden with longing. The sun began to decline, painting the sky with warm hues that painfully contrasted with the cold emptiness now inhabiting Pseudon's heart. "Every day is a solitary journey through a sea of shadows, Fatima. The light of your smile faded, leaving me adrift in the darkness of loss," murmured Pseudon, his words flowing like a river of sorrow. "I close my eyes and still see your face, but it's just a cruel illusion that reminds me of the inevitable reality of your absence." The sun, a silent witness to his grief, cast its last golden rays on the grave, like celestial tears shedding in solidarity with Pseudon's lament. The elongated shadows of the evening enveloped the cemetery, projecting a visual metaphor of the darkness that had fallen upon his life. "Every night, when the stars adorn the sky, I wonder if any of them is the reflection of your soul shining above. Are you still there, watching me from paradise, or have you faded into eternity?" whispered Pseudon, hope trembling in his voice. "I feel lost, like a navigator without stars, with the beacon of my existence extinguished." He fell silent, letting the wind carry his words into the indifferent universe. The tears continued to flow, mingling with the soil covering Fatima's grave. Pseudon clung to memories, like faint flashes of light in an endless night. "Fatima, the echo of your laughter still resonates in my mind, but it's a distant echo that fades with each passing day. Reality looms over me like a relentless storm, and I, a castaway in the vastness of sorrow, crave the comfort of your lost presence," declared Pseudon, his throat tightening. Trisha was sweeping, taking advantage of the solitude to fulfill her role on the estate. Her hisses with the cleaning tool were somewhat clumsy, sweeping with force and raising the dust from the ground. Her face showed the frustration of her rigorous task. After finishing, Trisha sat on one of the kitchen chairs, contemplating time passing... Tic Tac the door opened... It was Carrote, the servant in yellow colors, who returned with an empty, dirty pot, traces of food still visible. She entered the kitchen and looked at the young triceratops, her voice sweet and warm like a bonfire, calling the girl's attention. "Trisha, what's wrong?" she said while placing the pot aside and pulling a chair next to the purple one. Trisha just sighed, letting her shoulders drop. "Nothing, I'm just exhausted from all the cleaning. I hope I didn't make too much noise. I think Pseudon was in his office reading..." Trisha said, her lavender eyes glancing towards the door that led to the stairs. "Oh, in fact, he's at his wife's grave," Carrote said, lowering her voice slightly as she recalled her master walking towards the outskirts of his property, remembering the sadness painted on his lips. "Hasn't he returned yet?" Trisha shrugged in a sign of uncertainty, a sigh escaping from Carrote's sunflower lips as she stood up to go to the stairs, determined to find her master... Nothing. She went downstairs, going to her 'co-worker.' "He's not in his office..." Trisha looked at Carrote for a few seconds, her concern showing on her scales. She knew what it was like to go through that ordeal, especially if you have no one to dry your tears when your world crumbles. But there was something that worried her more—his son, Unknow... that baby needed his father... Decided, she stood up and walked to the door leading outside. Carrote, obviously intrigued by what the slave would do, asked, "What are you doing, young lady?" "Mr. Mous must be going through a tough time. No, someone has to take care of Unknow," she said as the sound of grass being stepped on was the only thing audible to Trisha's ears. She walked until she left the grounds, seeing not far away Fatima's grave. With careful steps, she approached the grieving Pseudon, her feet resonating softly on the ground. She stopped at a respectful distance, but her eyes reflected a desire to alleviate the suffering that overflowed in her master's heart. A suffering she had also endured. "Pseudon," she murmured softly, letting her presence be known. Pseudon raised his head, his red and moist eyes meeting Trisha's, that color in his irises... Pseudo averted his gaze, it hurt to see that color in his eyes. The sparkle of tears in his eyes reflected in the depths of Trisha's eyes. Without words, she extended her hand, offering a gesture of comfort, as if her horn could pierce the invisible barrier of the sorrow enveloping her master. "I regret your loss. Fatima was an incredible woman, and we all miss her deeply," she said, her sweet voice trying to console the widower, who was still drowned in that sea of pain. "I know, Trisha, I know. She was an exceptional being, and her departure has left a void that I don't know how to fill," Pseudon sighed and looked back at Fatima's grave. Sometimes he felt he couldn't move on without her. Trisha lowered her head with humility, but then she raised her gaze, giving him a melancholic smile. "Sir, I know I'm just a slave, but I also know that your love for Mrs. Fatima was genuine and deep. She trusted you and loved you with all her heart. In these difficult times, you must remember that she will always be with you in spirit, guiding you from beyond." "I appreciate your support in this dark moment, but everything is so cloudy now. I can barely see what I'll do the next day," his hand played with the petal of one of the flowers left on the grave while his face wrinkled a bit in sadness. Trisha gave a heavy sigh, gathered courage, and leaned a bit, standing next to Pseudon. "Sir, I don't want to sound rude, but you must move forward. It's not right to forget, but you have a son to take care of," she paused, rubbing her eyes a bit, taking a moment to choose her words carefully, "It would be a shame if the boy grows up and, when he finds out about his mother, blames himself!" After that, there was silence, like an invisible intruder taking over the stage. Trisha's words resonated like a hammer in Pseudon's heart. He, like fragile glass, closed his eyes to the impact, dropping his gaze like a curtain that hides the vulnerability of his soul. He loved his wife, yes, but the dark shadow of his sorrow had woven a veil that obscured the light that should have shone on his son. In the fragility of the moment, Pseudon broke like a wave against the rock, his resistance crumbling. He covered his face with his hands, as if he could contain the storm raging within his fingers. And thus, in the dimness of his own torment, his tears sprouted like drops of inconsolable rain, soaking the soil of his heart, where the lilies of a sorrow that, until now, had remained in the shadows, bloomed. "I'm a garbage father, how could I..." Trisha watched the scene with uncertainty about what to do, something inside her urged her to want to help her master. Her body briefly surged forward, giving him a hug while trying to comfort him. "No, Mr. Mous, I understand the pain of loss, it comes without warning, extinguishing our souls." Trisha held Pseudon tenderly, letting him cry on her shoulder. Her words resonated in the air, blending with the sobs of the master. After a while, Pseudon straightened up, his eyes reddened, rubbing his face while still feeling the weight of his actions, how he, due to his sorrow, neglected his son. "My life is about losing, losing, and keep losing those around me. Am I condemned to this infinite loneliness? What did I do to deserve this martyrdom?" After that, he sighed, trying to calm his torrent of emotions, Trisha's words claiming that he must be a father to Unknow echoed in his head. Images of his father came after the echo ended... he needs to change, he still has reasons to fight, it's for his son, Unknow. He sighed again, letting his breath intertwine with the melancholic air surrounding his beloved wife's grave. His eyes, tinged with nostalgia, were lost in the canvas of the landscape that embraced Fatima's final rest. Nature, with its whispers of leaves and the distant murmur of a stream, shared its silent lament. The colors of the sunset spilled over the sky like ethereal brushstrokes, painting a picture of intertwined sorrow and beauty. Each tree stood as a silent guardian, witnessing the eternal connection between the broken man and the earth that embraced the remains of his lost love. Pseudon, with a heart heavy with sorrow, felt the painful harmony of nature, as if the wind itself carried his sighs to the distant horizon. In that moment, the grave became an altar of memories, and the landscape, a symphony of whispers accompanying a wounded soul. "I... I need to think, let's go inside," he said, rubbing his eyes again, taking a deep breath, feeling a heavy burden in his heart. "I'm here to help you with anything you need, Mr. Mous," she said, standing by his side again, placing her purple hand on his shoulder. The wind whispered gently among the trees, carrying the scent of fresh earth and wildflowers. The sun began to set on the horizon, tinting the sky with warm and golden tones. As Pseudon and Trisha returned to the house, the world seemed to be in peace, as if nature itself were showing its respect for the pain both carried in their hearts. As they entered the house, Trisha made an effort to maintain a calm and serene atmosphere. She lit some scented candles, filling the air with a relaxing scent of lavender and vanilla. The soft flickers of light danced on the walls, creating a cozy and comforting ambiance. Pseudon looked around, sighing as he ran a hand over his bald head. His lips, closed with the solemnity of ancient temple doors, revealed little but suggested much about his mood. He approached a framed portrait of him with Fatima, taken on a sunny day at the vast estate where they lived. Their smiles captured in the art of the deceased seemed to radiate happiness and love, a reminder of the good times they had shared. "Fatima always loved being in this place, away from the city," Pseudon murmured, his voice filled with nostalgia. "We spent hours here, talking, laughing, and planning our future. Sometimes, it feels like she's still present, caring for every flower and every leaf." Trisha nodded empathetically, understanding the deep attachment Pseudon had to that place. She approached the picture and began to visualize it delicately. "You don't have to be so worried about me. I'm tired, and the darkness is coming. Good night," his once lively eyes were now clouded by melancholy, as if they were looking through time to moments that could no longer be reclaimed. With a sigh, he would go to sleep, but not before going up the stairs and heading for a door, entering slowly. The room was charming and cozy, designed specifically to meet the needs of an infant. The walls were painted in soft and soothing tones, like a delicate shade of light blue or pastel pink, creating a tranquil and serene atmosphere. The curtains were made of a lightweight material that allowed natural sunlight to filter gently, illuminating the room during the day and creating a warm and inviting atmosphere at night. In the center of the room, there was a beautiful and secure crib, with sturdy bars and a soft, comfortable mattress. The bedding was made of soft and delicate cotton, with adorable patterns such as stars, moons, or cute animals. He approached, and Pseudo managed to visualize a soft newborn skin, his beloved son. With a sigh full of melancholy, Pseudo observed the baby's room, recalling the happy times when his wife was still by his side. He wondered how it would have been to have her with him, sharing the joy and responsibilities of parenthood. A shadow of sadness crossed his face as he thought of the experiences they could never live together, He walked towards the crib with silent steps, his eyes filled with love and sadness as he saw his little son sleeping peacefully. He leaned over the crib and gently caressed the baby's cheek with the back of his hand, feeling an instant connection with the vulnerable being before him. "You're so beautiful, so innocent. I wish your mother were here to see you grow, to witness each of your achievements and smiles," Pseudo murmured with a broken voice, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "But I promise you, dear son, that I will love and care for you with all my being. I will do everything in my power to give you the life you deserve, despite the challenges we face." He left the room with the solemnity of someone leaving behind more than a simple space; he closed the door with reverence, as if sealing a chapter of his life. His steps echoed in the hallway, marking the resonance of his own thoughts as he made his way to the refuge of his own quarters. He sank onto the bed, the bed that had witnessed their shared dreams and secret confidences. In the dimness of the room, his mind was a whirlwind of reflections, a river of thoughts flowing towards the vast sea of the uncertain future that awaited them. Although the burden of being a widower and a landowner brought its own storms, he found strength in the unwavering love he felt for his son and in the memories his wife wove into the tapestry of his heart. His eyes glanced sideways at the painting that adorned the room, a silent window to the past where his beloved's smile still shone in ethereal colors. A melancholic smile touched his lips before he closed his eyes, as if by doing so, he submerged himself in the waters of his own memories. And between his eyelids, moisture slid like dew, a silent witness to the garden of emotions blooming in the most intimate corner of his being. The sun, like a golden messenger, greeted the new day with warm rays that caressed the earth. Pseudon, with the lethargy of one carrying the weight of the past in every step, rose from his bed. With a dance of fabrics, he adorned his figure with a shirt that recounted stories, a vest that hid its own secrets, pants that testified to days in the fields, and shoes that, like him, had known rough paths. The beret, a faithful companion to his thoughts, found its place on his head, a distinctive touch he wore like the shadow following the sun. With mechanical movements, he skillfully placed his faithful Remington 1855 revolver in his belt, concealing it like a whisper on his back, an echo of the frontier that still resonated within him. He emerged from his room, one step after another, as if each stride marked the persistence of his existence on the farm. The threshold of his baby's room welcomed him with the promise of a new day. A smile of melancholy, like a glimmer of dawn in his eyes, appeared on his face as he observed the sleeping innocence. Carefully, he left the room, closing the door with the whisper of a shared secret. He descended the stairs with an absolutely neutral expression on his face, like an actor playing a role on the stage of his own life. He greeted Trisha, who swept with the diligence marked by years of service in other households, and Carrote, whose hands knew every corner of the kitchen by heart. His eyes, like skilled explorers, recognized the harmony of routine in every corner of the property. After a few sips of his black coffee with sugar, his body, seeking something to do, prompted him to search inside his house, his room, for a novel he had received the other day. While searching his shelf, which was located in his room, he accidentally picked up a book titled "Lucy the ptero maid." Pseudo, with a visible expression of discomfort, opened the book to a random page to skim through it, and his eyes slowly widened in surprise. His face turned as red as a tomato, making a loud noise throughout the house caused by the force he exerted closing that book. "Are you okay, sir?!" It was Trisha's concerned voice, which was on the first step of many leading to the second floor. "Uh... Yes!" he shouted from his room, just to put that book on the shelf, knowing which book to keep away from his son, he looked for another novel, returning to his porch to continue reading. Pseudon returned to the porch with a safer novel in hand, titled "The Mystery of the Missing Chicken." He settled into his rocking chair, trying to forget the previous episode while the sun continued its dance in the sky. While flipping through the pages, Trisha approached with a steaming cup of coffee and a curious expression. "Everything okay, sir?" Trisha asked, raising an eyebrow. Pseudon, trying to hide his embarrassment, responded with a casual tone, failing miserably. "Y-yes, everything in order, Trisha. Just a small... literary misunderstanding! Yeah, that's it, a literary misunderstanding." Trisha nodded with complicity, as if she had understood more than Pseudon was willing to admit. She withdrew, but her laughter echoed in the air. Pseudon, determined to immerse himself in the new novel, got lost in the pages of the mysterious case of the missing chicken. However, his mind couldn't help but return to the image of the previous book. Trisha, seeing that the situation was calming down, continued with her cleaning routine. While sweeping, she hummed an old song with lyrics that seemed to narrate even stranger stories than Pseudon's novels. The quiet morning on the property continued its course, but Pseudon couldn't shake off the title "Lucy the ptero maid" from his mind. He decided that, in addition to keeping that book away from his son, he must hide it in a place where he himself wouldn't accidentally find it... As the day progressed, Pseudon saw how in the distance his slaves worked. Today the day seemed heavy for them. With a sigh, he closed his book and went to help them a bit with the cotton harvest. Upon arriving, he started to lend a hand. His slaves noticed. "Lord Pseudon, it's been a while since you came to help us," said one of his triceratops, like a factory worker seeing his colleague return after a vacation. "Yes, Johnson, it's been a while since I saw that you needed a hand, but the cotton gave quite a yield today, huh?" Every word that escaped his lips resonated with a comforting softness, like a verbal hug. The sun loomed over the vast field of Pseudon's property, casting intermittent shadows as he harvested the fruits of the land with the little skill cultivated over the years. As Pseudon moved with a somewhat clumsy choreography among the crops, an observant presence materialized in the frame of a distant window. It was Trisha, the triceratops of the property, the nanny of his newborn. Her gaze, intense and deep, followed every movement of her master with an attention that went beyond mere curiosity. From the window, Trisha observed something unusual, something that defied conventional expectations and established norms. In Trisha's eyes, questions formed like calm storms. Could a human, Pseudon, be helping other triceratops? It was a scene that challenged conventional narratives, a picture that transcended the lines drawn by the dinosaur-human society. Her mind, beyond the fixed vision of that moment, was a crucible of reflections. Was it possible that humans were capable of empathy and solidarity towards their peers? Could there be a connection beyond the pre-established hierarchy? Trisha, from her privileged position at the window, immersed herself in deep contemplation. The questions swirling in her mind not only questioned the scene she witnessed but also challenged the beliefs rooted in her culture and experience. "Carrot... I have a question about Mr. Pseudon," she seemed like a newlywed discovering that her husband was cheating on her wife by the tone she carried. The yellowish color only raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "What is it, dear?" "Mr. Pseudon is helping the other triceratops in the crops. Why?" The gears in her head were working very hard as she tried to make sense of what her eyes saw. Carrot, with his jaw chewing on a carrot, furrowed his brow slightly at Trisha's intriguing question. The air carried with it the fragrance of freshly plowed earth and the murmur of the surrounding nature. Trisha's question hung in the air like a breeze laden with uncertainty. "Helping others?" Carrot repeated, taking a moment to savor the question before responding. "Oh yes, he used to do that before you came. He liked helping from time to time, but between his wife's pregnancy and the loss... I doubt he had much desire to move around." Trisha, with her huge eyes blinking in surprise, processed Carrot's answer. The idea of an altruistic and collaborative Pseudon challenged Trisha's expectations. It was as if the sun, illuminating the property, had revealed a new perspective in the dance of shadows swaying in the crops. "But... Why is he so different?" Trisha asked, her tone was low, almost making the question to herself. Carrot shrugged, his half-bitten carrot now swinging in his mouth. "Sometimes, dear Trisha, people can surprise us. Perhaps Pseudon has found a different value in the community, a truth that goes beyond what is expected of his role. Sometimes, even the most unexpected crops can become abundant harvests." As Trisha processed these words, the sun continued its march, casting changing shadows over the Farm. Lunchtime arrived, and Pseudon sat at the table, immersed in the silence of his solitude. Trisha, having nursed Unknow, took her place at the table, cradling the little one tenderly. Meanwhile, Carrote was busy feeding the slaves in the barn, a task carried out with the efficiency marked by years of service on the farm. Trisha, with her gaze fixed on Pseudon, was immersed in deep reflection. The atmosphere in the dining room was charged, as if the weight of unspoken questions lingered in the air. While savoring his food, Pseudon seemed oblivious to the intense gaze his slave directed at him. The sunlight filtering through the property's curtains painted a play of shadows and lights on the table. The plates sparkled with the glints of sunlight, but in Trisha's expression, there was a shadow of deep thought. "Pseudon, have you ever wondered why you're so different from the rest?" queried Trisha in her mind, her voice resonating with a mix of curiosity and a longing for understanding with echoes. Pseudon, looking up from his plate as he sensed he was being watched, met Trisha's eyes for a few seconds, quickly avoiding her gaze. A gesture of pain appeared in his look, and in that moment, it seemed as if a non-verbal dialogue unfolded between them. Trisha held Unknow with one arm and gently stroked her own chin with the other, a gesture denoting an internal search for answers. As the meal concluded, he rose with barely perceptible elegance, as if fearing to disturb the delicate balance of the moment. He moved towards Trisha's seat, consciously avoiding any direct eye contact, as if words were not enough to communicate his complex situation. "Can you hand me Unknow?" The request slipped into the air, creating tension quickly caught by Trisha's doubtful eyes. The slave, with the caution of a cat jealous of its cub, handed Unknow over with a hint of delicate reluctance, holding him in her arms in a way that clashed with the usual expectations of her position. Pseudon, the master, accepted the gesture and withdrew to the porch, seeking a corner where the complicated power choreography was not so palpable. From the porch and with his baby in his arms, Pseudon silently observed how the other slaves diligently returned to their tasks of cultivating cotton, each carrying the weight of a life marked by the chains of servitude. The sight of the routine of the other slaves seemed to have a peculiar effect on Pseudon. His eyes got lost in the swaying of the laborious day, reflecting a mix of introspection and perhaps even a glimpse of remorse. However, Trisha's expression, leaning with some discomfort against the wall since Fatima's seat is missing and it's hers, next to the door frame, suggests that the previous gesture has left a deeper impression than might seem at first glance. Pseudon, realizing the palpable discomfort in Trisha's posture, decides to address the issue with a mix of curiosity and a hint of concern. "Did something happen, Trisha?... You're free to tell me what bothers you so much, without remorse." He turns towards her, raising an eyebrow with an expression seeking to understand the emotional storm that seems to cloud the atmosphere. Trisha, while watching Pseudon pay attention to her, let out a somewhat mocking smile, but with a trace of melancholy in her eyes. "Pseudon... you definitely never held a baby in your arms, did you?" she said, her tone carrying a nuance of complicity and nostalgia. Pseudon, aware of the kinship, looked her directly in the eyes, although facing the similarity he found in them proved challenging. "No..." he averted his gaze elsewhere, feeling shame welling up inside. "Give him to me, I'll show you how." Trisha approached gently, a maternal smile lighting up her face. The experience in her eyes revealed a mix of understanding and patience, as if she were willing to guide Pseudon through unfamiliar emotional territory. Pseudon, reluctantly handing over little Unknow, felt awkward and somewhat uncomfortable holding him. Trisha, noticing his insecurity, began to teach him with reassuring words. "First, support his head with your hand, like this, see?" as she spoke, she placed Unknow's little hand carefully on Pseudon's arm, tenderly demonstrating how to provide the proper support. "Now, let him rest on your forearm, like this..." she adjusted the baby's position skillfully, conveying a calmness that gradually seeped into Pseudon. As Trisha continued with her instructions, Pseudon, initially stiff, began to relax. The connection between them was forged in the delicate dance of teaching and learning, where pre-established roles blurred in the face of simple shared humility. The baby lay asleep, as tranquil as a little angel resting on the clouds, and both Pseudon and Trisha gazed at him with paternal and maternal smiles, respectively. As they watched little Unknow, memories unfolded in Pseudon's mind like a melancholic parade. He remembered all the times he and Fatima yearned for their own baby but could never reach that dream. The happiness they felt when they received the news, planning the baby's room, Fatima's angelic smile as she caressed her belly with Unknow inside... It was a torrent of emotions that overwhelmed him. Unable to contain the flood of memories, Pseudon began to cry silently. Trisha, witnessing the fragility of her master in that moment, saw not a man crying but someone carrying a considerable weight of lives on his shoulders, more than she could comprehend. With her purple hand, Trisha slowly stroked Pseudon's face, wiping away his tears before they could fall and wet little Unknow. "You're doing a good job, Pseudon." Trisha whispered softly, her own eyes reflecting understanding and empathy. The connection between them deepened in that moment, sharing the weight of losses and unrealized hopes. Pseudon just sighed, drowning all his sorrows in silence, releasing one last tear. Trisha stepped back a couple of steps, watching as the baby continued to sleep. Twenty minutes passed, and in the plantation, everything seemed to be proceeding with apparent normalcy. Carlos, conducting his routine patrol, walked among the rows of slaves toiling under the scorching sun. The monotony of the plantation manifested in the apparent calm that hung over the place. As Carlos observed, he noticed the oldest slave taking a brief break while three others dedicated themselves to their tasks separately. However, his attention focused on the two at the back, where stillness seemed threatened by tension in the air. Carlos, sensing that something was amiss, discreetly approached that secluded corner. The two slaves appeared to be engaged in a conversation that defied the etiquettes imposed by their masters. Raised voices and heated gestures wove into a choreography of discontent. "You can't just come and talk to her like that; she's not your property!" exclaimed one of the triceratops, his voice marked by indignation. The other, with a hardened face, responded sarcastically, "And what, you think you can claim her as yours? You're no one to tell me how to talk to her." beginning a physical fight. Carlos, feeling the urgency of the moment, placed his hand where he used to carry his coiled whip, ready to unsheathe it as in his previous jobs. However, he remembered that this place was different; a sigh escaped his lips as he struggled to leave behind the habits imposed by the job. He ventured into the midst of the fight, aware of the difficulty of keeping their fury in check. After a strenuous effort, he finally managed to separate the contenders, letting them catch their breath in the regained tranquility of the plantation. However, peace was short-lived as the unmistakable sound of a whip slicing through the air echoed. One of the slaves, writhing in pain, squeezed his eyes shut, reliving bitter memories of past treatments. Carlos, surprised, sought the culprit and discovered that his own companion had inflicted the punishment, not hesitating to deliver more lashes. Desperate, Carlos tried to make him stop. " COMPADRE , YOU'RE GONNA GET US IN TROU...!" Bang! The gunshot interrupted the protest. Surprise reflected on Carlos's face as the sound of the shot resonated in the plantation. Physical violence and repression dwindled; everyone turned to see where the gunshot had come from. A few minutes before the incident, Pseudon and Trisha shared a silence that spoke beyond words, enjoying the lullaby of the baby who, for the first time, slept in his father's arms. However, a disturbance in the distance shattered the harmony, revealing a conflict in the shadows of the plantation. Upon realizing, Pseudon, with seriousness etched on his face, entrusted Unknow into Trisha's arms, who received the little one with a tenderness reflecting an unusual sparkle in her eyes, a glimmer of joy amid the darkness. "Hold Unknow, I'll go help Carlos," declared Pseudon, handing Trisha a treasure she received with reverent care, her tail subtly waving unnoticed in Pseudon's haste. He moved towards the crops with an urgent pace, an echo of the determination hanging in the air. But halfway there, before reaching the confrontation, a heart-wrenching sight made him run faster. In the distance, he saw Carlos managing to separate the conflicting slaves, but the cruelty of the novice overseer manifested in relentless lashes. Anger ignited Pseudon's eyes. In an instant, his revolver came out, and a shot echoed in the air, an explosion of authority that halted the cruel punishment. The cannon's roar sounded like thunder, splitting time and space in a moment that stopped the plantation's heart. "Stop!" roared Pseudon, his voice a lightning bolt cutting through the storm of oppression. The ensuing silence was the calm before the storm, a pause in the discordant symphony of slavery. Pseudon, with the revolver still in hand, became the counterpoint to violence, a temporary guardian. Trisha, who witnessed the shot, was petrified, processing that Pseudon's anger was not directed at the slaves but at the young overseer; he wouldn't allow the whip to strike his slave. She looked at the human infant, awake but silent, seeking answers about her father's reasons for treating the triceratops in this way. "What did I tell you about using that damn whip?" The annoyance, closer to anger, emanated from Pseudon as he approached with the revolver, his gaze fixed on the ground while he cocked the chamber, loading another bullet with anger. The young overseer, in his arrogance, flashed a presumptuous smile. "You were looking for an overseer to do the job you don't know how to do. Obviously, you think you know, but handling this pair of sav…" The young man's smile was wiped from his face when a steel barrel lined dangerously between his eyebrows. Everyone froze, especially Trisha, who closed her eyes, expecting to hear a second explosion… nothing. At that moment, the door opened; Carrote emerged to witness the scene, his mouth modulating something like an internal monologue, trying to understand the situation unfolding in the distance from the porch. "Out, now," Pseudon maintained a furious gaze, ready to do what needed to be done at that moment. He didn't reason; he didn't care if rumors started circulating about his attitude towards his slaves. The revolver, like an echo of the impending anger, became the instrument of his determination, an extension of his will in the dark theater of the plantation. The young overseer, with frustration etched on his face, retreated slowly, acknowledging that he was better off keeping his mouth shut. He knew he was fired, and in silence, he accepted his defeat. He mounted his horse resentfully, contemplating how a man could defend his position so fiercely, without having the power to reply, as a revolver rested between his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, patron , I didn't mean to—" Pseudon raised his hand slightly, stopping his reliable overseer's speech as he rubbed his eyes, the wind was the only permissible presence in the atmosphere. "It's okay, Carlos, It's my fault" he sighed, disappointed in himself. "I knew it wouldn't be easy to find someone to replicate your work. Don't blame yourself, we'll find another one," he said, giving a reassuring smile to ease his friend's worries. Pseudon observed them carefully, the intensity of his gaze palpable in the air. His slaves, sensing the intensity of his stare, became nervous like leaves swaying in an uneasy breeze. He took determined steps, approaching them and standing just inches away from the two triceratops. With authority and a concern that transcended the chains of slavery, Pseudon asked firmly, "Are you okay?" His eyes turned to the slave whipped by the overseer, his expression reflecting an empathy and humanity as deep as that of a father about to reprimand a child. "If I hear that you caused trouble again, I'll sell you. Is that clear?" His voice resonated like a determined echo on the plantation. The firmness of his words, a mix of command and warning. The slaves nodded with fear in their eyes, aware that their fate was in the hands of their master. Carlos, acting as a mediator of his own reality, sent them to different parts of the plantation in the hope of avoiding further conflicts, an attempt to calm the winds of discord blowing in the cotton field. Pseudon stepped back, skillfully hiding his weapon at his waist, concealed in the shadows of his clothes. He returned to Trisha, who waited alone, resuming his seat. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and unexpectedly, a question noted Trisha's slave voice. "Why do you treat us well?" came out of her lips, curiosity overcoming her, making her spit out those questions that had been tormenting her since she saw him helping his slaves on the plantation. Pseudon, with the weight of the recently unleashed storm still resonating in the air, returned to Trisha. Sharing the silence with her, like an echo that persists after the roar. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, loaded with the complexity of decisions that a man like him must make in a world that demands cruelty. Trisha, with her tail subtly waving, sought answers in her master's eyes. Pseudon noticed the anticipation in her gaze and, facing the silent question, explained with a sincerity that transcended the barriers of oppression. "I do it because you are also sentient beings, with hearts and dreams. You don't deserve that inhumane treatment," Pseudon said, his voice resonating with melancholy. Remembering when he played with his childhood friend, he sighed with a nostalgia loaded with sadness. Trisha, however, did not seem satisfied. The question persisted in her eyes, and with a touch of rebellion, she challenged Pseudon, "If you think that, why do you continue with this system? Why not free everyone?" Pseudon, looking at her with a sense of helplessness due to the situation he was going through with the issue of his slaves, wanted to take advantage of this situation to open up and express his ideology freely. "It's a necessary evil... In this world, things aren't that simple. If I openly show my ideologies, the plantation would be a battlefield, and my slaves the first to fall. We need to keep working, but at least I give them the best I can. Good food, decent beds. But I can't afford to indulge them, because my money is finite, and if I attract too much attention, those outside will start to suspect," he said, looking at the sky, losing his gaze in the clouds. Trisha, although disagreeing in her eyes, understood the complexity of Pseudon's position. The system imprisoned them all, and difficult decisions were the invisible chains binding their destinies. The moment was interrupted by an infant's cry; it was the baby Trisha held in her arms. "Oh... if you'll excuse me, Mr. Mous, I have to... feed your baby," she said as she entered the house, leaving Pseudon alone, while Trisha breastfed the infant in her kitchen. Internally, Trisha struggled between admiration and uncertainty towards her master. Pseudon, despite being the owner of her destiny, didn't fit completely into the typical master's cruel mold. The recent scene revealed a duality in him: the fierceness he showed in defending the slaves from the overseer's violence contrasted with his gentleness in entrusting his treasure, Unknow, to Trisha. While breastfeeding the baby in the kitchen, Trisha let her mind wander. Pseudon became a more fascinating enigma as she got to know him. The way he protected his slaves, his refusal to yield to senseless brutality, sparked a curiosity that went beyond simple obedience. It was as if Pseudon were a character of complex layers, a man dealing with contradictions and challenges in a world he himself questioned. Trisha remembered Pseudon's words about the need to maintain appearances, not openly revealing his ideologies. While holding the baby in her arms, she wondered how much more she could discover about this man who, despite having power over her life, didn't fit the cruel master image she had known. Curiosity grew, fueled by the hope that, perhaps, at some point, Pseudon could show more of his true self. Her gaze went to the baby... a playful smile, without ill intentions, appeared on her lips “your father is... interesting, Unknow.” [NOTES] Finally, after a week, I bring you the next chapter, sadly when I had it in Spanish there were more words, until I had to transfer it to English and the amount was reduced. Thank you for your support and comments, I hope to continue bringing you quality content and thanks to everyone who helped me, as always 1000 hits in one week...