Chapter 1: Sophie in Stone

Sophie slammed her laptop shut. The blank page stared back at her, silently mocking her efforts. In the distance, four hundred sheep waited.

She headed to the backyard, spotting her work clothes folded neatly on the bench—what she wore for farm chores. She pulled on a pair of faux-leather pants and gloves. From behind, her mother’s voice kept urging her along, warning that storm clouds were rolling in from the south and telling her to hurry the sheep back into the pen. Whenever her brothers weren’t around, it was Sophie’s job.

Mounting her motorcycle, she realized one glove was her own, the other belonged to George. Too lazy to swap them, she revved the bike and shot toward the far edge of the flock. Driving the sheep back into the pen usually took forty minutes—forty minutes she wouldn’t be writing a single word anyway, so she might as well give the computer a break.

The family farm stretched over sixty hectares. By local standards, it wasn’t huge, but compared to neighboring farms in the surrounding hills, it was substantial. Fertile pastures fed thirty-seven cows and nearly four hundred sheep, all grass-fed. A few years back, her father had even dug a canal and installed water-quality monitors to ensure the livestock had the best care. Sophie had grown up among the sheep and cows. Although the animals changed over the years, she was certain they recognized her as their caretaker.

As a child, she had counted every sheep one by one, though eventually, she stopped caring. Yet five sheep remained unforgettable—they had names. She had posted a looping series of photos of them, calling them the “three generations, five sheep family,” on Facebook, which drew some attention. Now, whenever she approached the flock, she greeted those five intentionally. She even whispered to them that she hoped to one day write them into her novel. A year and seventy-eight days had passed, and she still hadn’t fulfilled her promise.

Sophie’s family managed the farm together. Her father, along with her two brothers, David and George, oversaw transportation, delivering the harvest to long-time buyers. Day after day, year after year, this rhythm had never changed in Sophie’s memory. Only the fences had been repaired and replaced, and five years ago, they rebuilt the house—formerly the home she shared with her beloved grandfather, who had passed away when she was five. Her parents had told her that he had gone to heaven, a distant and beautiful place, which only made her question why he hadn’t taken her along.

On the day he was buried, Sophie somehow understood that he wouldn’t return. The adults quietly wiped their tears while she sobbed uncontrollably. Just a month away from starting school, she had been looking forward to the gifts he had bought her: new pencils and notebooks. He had promised to pick her up one day a week in his cherished old car so she wouldn’t need the school bus, then take her far away to McDonald’s. That hope was gone. Returning home, she took out the gifts he’d given her and wrote the only word she could: End.

Storm clouds roared closer, driven by violent winds. Sophie twisted the throttle, but she couldn’t get all the sheep back before the rain broke. She herded the obedient thirty-seven cows into the barn, then turned to see the flock scattering. The leading sheep panicked, the wind threatening to blow her motorcycle off course. She circled again and again, corralling them. Desperation made her shout, “Bob! Bob, can you hear me?”—but the storm swallowed her voice. “MacGee! MacGee! Watch your kids!”

Raised among the flock, Sophie knew them well. She split the herd into smaller groups, commanding them in low, steady tones, driving them toward the pen from behind. The motorcycle darted along the side and rear of the herd as she scanned for strays. Sure enough, one sheep had strayed near the far edge of the pasture. Sophie sped up, steering it back, eyes locked on the lone shadow.

It was Bob. She knew it. The old ram’s shuffling steps and slack posture had long signaled his age. The vet had said he was fine, but Sophie refused to accept it. Her novel wasn’t finished, and she hadn’t yet honored her promise to Bob’s family. She had imagined using a family portrait of Bob and the others on the cover of her first book. Being a writer had been her lifelong dream. But here, in the mountains, Sophie didn’t know what being a real author was like. She followed her favorite writers on TV, YouTube, and even Tatkal videos, but had never met one in person. Who would visit a remote town like theirs? David had once said they had mountains, rivers, and scenery, but no buses.

Then, the motorcycle stalled—her worst fear realized. She looked for Bob as if pleading with a loved one. The downpour, a thick curtain of rain, had obscured him. All that remained was a blur of white. Cold, salty rain pelted her forehead and lips, making it impossible to call out. She regretted wearing the faux-leather pants, which she had thought would protect her legs. Now, they felt like lead. Not a step forward was easy, and the muddy ground tripped her at every turn. She struggled alone in the storm.

Bob was just ahead. He, too, surely saw the kind, beautiful girl who loved him. The last time Tony, the farm’s male owner, had brought Vet Marshal to check him, Sophie had prepared a private room with fresh bedding. As Marshal placed his stethoscope, Sophie had fretted, “Wait—don’t shock him. Bob’s old.” The vet had smiled, “Who doesn’t know your family produces the best wool?”

Sophie had lavished care on Bob, even dressing him up for the family portrait. She had spent the most time on him, placing black-framed glasses and a delicate floral crown over his head. She stroked him tenderly, combed the few remaining wisps of his beard, and whispered, “Perfect. Truly worthy of a writer.”

Bob was old. One day he would go, maybe soon. But not today. Sophie wasn’t ready, and the sudden storm had come too abruptly. She had lost her grandfather without warning and could barely remember it. She didn’t want to lose anything else—human or animal. In the storm, her fear wasn’t the weather, but the abrupt severing of a connection she couldn’t bear to lose.

How long had she run before finding Bob again? She only knew the rain had fallen long and relentlessly. Later news confirmed widespread destruction in remote farms, with government aid provided. David and George drove around in pickup trucks, frantically searching. Sophie shivered in shock, relief washing over her when she finally saw her brothers.

For days, the household had been chaos. Sophie, fevered and refusing food or water, and Bob, barely clinging to life, hovered between consciousness and delirium. The storm, the sheep, the cows—all felt like pages torn from a manuscript, chasing her and suffocating her. She longed for rest.

As a child, her mother had read her bedtime stories. The more she listened, the more awake she felt. She’d snatch the illustrated books, promising her mother she would create an even more beautiful storybook for her grandfather. Her mother, closing the book and patting her back gently, had whispered, “Sleep now, my little one. In dreams, everything exists. Count the sheep.”