Waking at dawn, the world already whispers. The tendrils of fog slip through fingers, elusive, like remembering half-forgotten dreams. Each step towards the fields is echoing, a reminder that whispers in boots crunching on frost-brittle grass.
The harvest is steady. Not of fruits, but something deeper—shadows that cling to whispers, emotions left unspoken, and hopes unrealized. Between the rows, beneath the frost-kissed earth, lies the elixir brewed from everything we could never say. Time barrels on, but in these furrows, we find moments crystallized in silence.
Last week, I met an old friend here, beneath the oak that remembers everything. We spoke of futures and pasts, threads woven into our lives. But some parts remain threadbare. As I sift through the shadows, their weight is palpable. They settle hard, but oddly comforting, like a wool blanket on a winter night.
Every harvest teaches. The elixir seeps into marrow, renewing, reminding us of gravity wells pulling us back to where starlit promises fell short. We laugh about future harvests, back at those oak trees, eyes wide to the suspending mysteries we half see, half feel.
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