Early morning. The rays of the rising sun, breaking through the dense crowns of century-old oaks, scatter gold coins on the emerald grass. In a small village, hidden among endless fields, life is already in full swing. Somewhere a cow is mooing, somewhere a blacksmith's hammer is pounding, and at the very end of the street, at a good hut with carved architraves, Ilya is working.

He is wearing a simple canvas shirt, belted with rope, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His powerful shoulders roll under the fabric with every movement — Ilya turns a heavy plow, plowing his native field. The earth, dark and moist, obediently unfolds behind the plow, exposing a fresh cut. Sweat is streaming down his tanned face, but there is a calm concentration in his eyes.

"Илюша, сынок!" An old woman in a white headscarf is calling from the window of the hut. Her voice, warm and slightly trembling with age, reverberates through the morning silence. "Ты бы передохнул малёхо, чайку испил! День‑то нынче жаркий выдался!"

Ilya straightens up, leans on the plough, and smiles. "Матушка, да какой тут отдых! Поле ждать не станет. Надо до полудня успеть, пока солнце не в зените."

"Знаю, знаю, трудолюбец ты мой," The old lady sighs, wiping her hands on her apron. "Только помни: сила‑то твоя богатырская, да и сердце золотое, но и ему передышка надобна."

Ilya comes up to the porch, takes a clay mug with fragrant herbal tea from his mother's hands, takes a sip, squints against the sun.

"Спасибо, матушка. Вот закончу полосу, тогда и присядем вместе, расскажешь, как ночь прошла."

The old lady nods, smiles through her wrinkles, and Ilya returns to work. The plough crashes into the ground again, and the field, as if alive, responds with a soft rustle of the ears in the wind. That's how his day goes on — in simple but noble work, in caring for the earth and his mother, in the very everyday life that makes the hero real.