To truly understand my bond with Copper, I need to take you further back.

Before Copper… there was Twinkle.

I found myself on a farm, hundreds of miles from home, spending my holidays under the care of a man I came to know only as The Cheesemaker.

He was a Dutchman, married to a German woman. They had no children together, though he had three sons of his own. My mother—working as a social worker—had arranged for me to stay there.

At the time, I didn’t question why.

Looking back, I understand more than I did then.

The farm sat quietly on the edge of a small town. There was no electricity. Mornings came cold and early, and work began before the sun had properly risen.

I gathered wood.
 Fed the donkey that heated our water.
 Helped turn milk into something resembling cheese.

The Cheesemaker was known for many things.

The quality of his cheese was not one of them.

The days were long. Practical. Grounded.

Afternoons brought a different kind of freedom—wandering fields, moving through land that felt vast and untamed. It was during one of those returns, pheasants hanging loosely from our hands, that everything changed.

I saw her.

A pale mare, standing quietly behind a fence.

She stepped forward as I passed, lowering her head, her eyes fixed on mine.

I didn’t understand it then.

But something passed between us.

That night, I rushed through everything.

Dinner. Chores. Prayer.

And then I ran.

She was waiting.

I climbed the fence without thinking and found myself on her back moments later—no saddle, no reins, no understanding of what I was doing.

Only trust.

Or something like it.

She moved carefully at first.

Then with purpose.

Then with freedom.

We didn’t speak, not in words.

But I talked anyway.

I told her things I didn’t tell anyone else.

And she listened.

That was enough.

The Cheesemaker called out her name one evening as I rode past.

“Twinkle.”

I asked why.

He shouted something back, but I didn’t hear it.

Later, I learned.

When she disappeared into the fields, they would call for her:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star… tell us where the hell you are.”

I never needed to call.

She always came.

Twinkle and I became inseparable.

I learned to ride.
 To care for her.
 To understand her moods, her strength, her quiet patience.

The Cheesemaker taught me how to show jump. He was proud—his sons had never taken to it.

And for the first time, I found something I was good at.

I started winning.

Gymkhanas. Small competitions.

I’d take the prize money home, hide it, spend it on riding gear and small things that felt like they belonged to me.

Twinkle wasn’t just a horse.

She was everything.

Then one day, the phone rang.

“Iwan, it’s for you.”

I already knew who it was.

I picked up the receiver, excitement rushing through me.

“Hello!”

There was no hesitation on the other end.

No softness.

“Twinkle died.”

Just like that.

I don’t remember falling.

But I remember the silence that followed.

I never went back.

Everything changed after that.

The competitions.
 The wins.
 The room filled with ribbons and photographs.

None of it meant anything anymore.

What had once felt like purpose…

became absence.

And that was the first time I understood something I wouldn’t have words for until much later:

Some things don’t leave you.

They’re taken.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.