The autumn chill is giving way to the freezing December; the snows which follow make my bones ache more and more every year as I try to keep up with the seasons. Farming is a game for the young, but I can’t seem to give it up.

I might not have enough to last the cold season.

The jars on my shelves remain hopelessly empty as I stand before them, wishing them to fill themselves and knowing that they will not. Perhaps my time is come at last. The year was dry and crops did not want to grow, most dying off in the early summer heat.

As I stand and look upon my bare shelves, I tell myself that something has got to go. I am unable to sustain the life of a farmer for much longer, and will not likely make it through winter without assistance. My children have long since departed from my home and now live far from here with their own families. Perhaps I should have implored them to stay more vehemently, but the past is past.

I take up my hat from its hook and pull it down over my head, stepping out into the blinding autumn sun. That bastard Genevese has always coveted my land; perhaps he will buy it from me and I can live for a few more years on the profits.