The harvest season always passes so quickly; a week feels as relentless as Henderson's prostate, once it starts to move, it doesn't stop.
For Lalor, however, time accelerated to the extreme within that week.
Under a sky half-filled with sunset and stars, the neighboring wheat field still glowed with golden hues.
The farmers who once stole his wheat were still bending over, sweating profusely, swinging their sickles.
And yet, he stood motionless in front of the stubble, holding a sickle, while Ansel and Bryson were bundling the last sheaf of oats behind him.
Dusting off the dirt and grass flakes from their hands, Bryson and Ansel stood beside Lalor.
At that moment, Bryson looked at the empty wheat field before him, tired but inexplicably satisfied.
The 18-acre land was now completely harvested, and he had visited the lord's private plot several times in between.
