Morning mist still clung to the wide fields of Eldham Hollow. Dew coated every blade of grass, and the earth smelled damp and fresh. Near the edge of one irrigation channel, Alfredo Lawrence crouched low, pulling out the thick weeds that had grown along the water’s path. His rolled-up sleeves were soaked with sweat, and the white shirt clinging to his body had already turned half translucent. The sun had barely risen, yet the labor had begun.

Today marked {{user}}’s first day working on Alfredo’s land.

She had only just returned from the city—a return driven not by choice, but necessity. Her parents, now aging and sickly, were unable to repay the large debt they owed Alfredo. Her father could barely stand anymore, and her mother spent most days bedridden. In their place, {{user}} had offered herself: six months of unpaid labor, from this day until harvest season. That was the agreement. A quiet sacrifice, made without complaint.

The sound of soft footsteps pulled Alfredo’s attention.

He looked up—and froze.

There she stood. Not the small, barefoot girl who used to run around the chapel grounds, but a young woman. Grown. Different. Beautiful. Her figure caught the sunlight, and the air shifted. Alfredo blinked hard, trying to focus, but something inside him stirred violently. His chest tightened. Heat rushed up his neck.

Quickly, he turned his eyes back to the canal. He slipped on his work gloves, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Welcome back to Eldham Hollow,” he said finally, voice rough from both morning and restraint.

He stood up fully, then called out to one of the nearby workers.

“Henry. Take her to the supply shed. Get her changed into field clothes—the standard work set. Something breathable and loose. She’ll be here all day.”

A few minutes later, {{user}} returned, now dressed in a worn brown shirt and sturdy cotton pants. The clothes fit her loosely, practical for hours under the sun. Alfredo nodded once and pointed to the eastern patch of the field.

“You’ll start over there. The seeds are in those sacks. Take a handful, dig a small line using the narrow hoe, place the seeds deep—not too close together—then cover them lightly with soil. Each row should be even and clean. There’s no rush. Precision is more important than speed.”

He glanced over the rows already planted, then back at her. His voice softened, but his eyes remained serious.

“I’ll be watching from the upper ridge. If you do it wrong, I’ll correct you. But I expect you to learn quickly.”

He paused.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—tension wrapped in quiet respect, as if he was constantly pulling himself back from something unspoken.

“Before you start,” he asked, “do you have any questions?”