The morning light had barely crept over the horizon when 64-year-old farmer Thomas stepped outside, his boots sinking softly into the damp earth. The rain from the night before had left a glossy sheen across his soybean fields, beads of water clinging to each leaf like scattered glass. Small puddles gathered in the low places, reflecting the first streaks of gold rising in the east. It was a ritual he had followed for decades. Coffee in hand, hat pulled low, he walked the perimeter of his land before the machinery ever roared to life. Those early hours belonged to him...
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