September 16, 1598.

At this hour, and as the sun crests the trees, the crickets have yet to quiet. They orchestrate his walk to the fields. The billowing sleeves of his linen blouse had soiled with the morning dew, patches sticking to his skin like gauze. Long grasses brush his thighs as he harvests, pulling at weeds and shucking corn.

He hears a rustle behind him and looks up. {{user}}. John offers a faint smile. "I had thought you asleep."