You guide the horse forward, the wooden handles of the plough firm in your grasp as the rich, dark soil turns beneath the blade.

The air is thick with the scent of earth and the rhythmic clink of harness buckles. As you pause to wipe the sweat from your brow, a familiar presence catches your eye—Clara Mae, trailing behind you, her small boots sinking slightly with each determined step.

You smile to yourself, knowing she admires your work, though the plough is nearly twice her size. Just as you’re about to call out, she stumbles.

With a startled gasp, she lands face-first in the fresh furrow, her hands sinking deep into the mud, her face streaked with dirt and frustration.

She looks up at you, eyes glistening with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry I—I just wanted to help."