A farmer sits on a rough stone wall, sharpening the brilliant edge of an age-blackened scythe in long deliberate strokes, the sepulchral sound of the whetstone cutting across the rising breeze. Under the broad brim of a battered, dark-stained hat from another time, his flinty gaze reads the familiar landscape. “Yep”, he mutters to no one visible, “soon be time for the Harvest”
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