The earth becomes drier by the day. It crumbles betwixt my fingers into sand. I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. Pale, sorrowful droplets stain the field. I doubt they'll find their way into the depths to feed the crops.
I pray, silently, for my lips are too dry to speak. . . but I muster a smile when I serve the little I have. I built this tavern with my own hands. . . therefore, I cannot rest, nor leave. I will work this soil until the end, as my ancestors did before me.
— Emily Fray