I lived in a sleek modern city where everyone was always rushing somewhere. I had a brilliant career, big plans, and made a lot of money. I was progressive, impressive… and completely, soul-crushingly miserable. Out of sheer desperation, I went to an absurdly expensive specialist—someone who dealt specifically with "the happiness problem." He took a check big enough to feed a small town for a week, gave me a tiny cube, and said: "Activate it at night. It opens a portal to the place where your personal happiness lives." I clutched the cube in my sweaty hand all the way home, imagining spa resorts, five-star getaways—something to soak the sadness out of my bones. That night, I activated it. A glowing door opened in my apartment. I stepped through... …into a run-down farm. No lights. No luxury. Just fields and weeds and… was that a goat? Yep. A tiny, hungry baby goat. No idea where its mother was. I fed it all the milk I had left in my fridge. Then I found a half-broken shed, thought "poor thing can’t sleep here," and ran back to grab cleaning supplies. I spent the whole night scrubbing, fixing, improvising. The next morning I barely stayed awake at my meetings. And the next night? Back I went—to check on the goat, patch up the door, maybe plant some clover. Then came rabbits. Then a stray dog. A few cats. A suspiciously smug cow. I kept showing up. Every night. Feeding, mending, building. And eventually… I stopped going back to the city at all. Turns out, happiness wasn’t luxury. It was hay in your hair, cracked hands, sore feet… and falling asleep knowing everything depended on you, and somehow… you were enough.