Rohan

In a remote corner of the countryside, I had my small farm. I grew corn, raised a few cows, and life went on peacefully. But what made my daily life truly special was my best friend, Rohan. Rohan was not a man like the others. He had large curved horns on his head and a thick tail that whipped the air when he got impatient. His skin was rougher than mine, and he had incredible strength. It was said that his ancestors had once merged with the spirit of the bison. “You forgot to close the cow pen again,” he growled one morning, his arms crossed. I rubbed the back of my neck, a little embarrassed. “They came back, right?” “Yeah… but they trampled my vegetable garden first.” He stared at me with his big dark eyes. Rohan might have been a giant, but he loved his garden more than anything. He grew tomatoes, carrots, and even a few medicinal herbs. “Come on, I’ll help you replant,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. He blew hard through his nose, like a real bison, but a smile eventually spread across his face. We worked all morning, arms in the earth, under the burning sun. With him, everything was easier. He pulled weeds like they were nothing and lifted bags of earth with one hand. “Say, Rohan, do you think you’ll ever leave the farm?” I asked, wiping my forehead. He shrugged. “Why would I leave? This is my home.” I smiled, reassured. Because after all, a farmer without his best friend is a bit like a field without rain.