The old clock, hanging on the wall, struck five o'clock sharp. Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise on the horizon, but its light was still timid, barely managing to dissolve the thick darkness covering the landscape. The sky displayed deep shades of blue and purple, as if the night refused to leave. A light breeze blew over the dry, worn land, lifting small clouds of dust that danced through the cracks of the arid ground. Silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of the wind and, in the distance, the occasional creak of some old structure giving way to time.

He opened the door slowly, his eyes watchful, always tired.

On the porch, he sat in the wooden chair that already creaked under his weight. In his hands, he held the old porcelain cup, chipped along the edges and stained by time. Inside it, a bitter, strong coffee, made without sugar and without haste. He brought the cup to his lips and took a sip, feeling the warmth of the liquid slide down his throat and heat his empty stomach.

With half-closed eyes, he observed the fields stretching out before him. Small rows of vegetables.

While he drank his coffee, he remained still, in complete silence, just watching. The sun was starting to gain strength, painting the sky with golden and orange tones, but the shadows remained long.

But for now... there was only him, the wind, and the bitter taste of coffee.