Her son listened intently, his eyes wide as she described the upcoming festival—a time of celebration and gratitude for the harvest.
Arpious, though a wanderer, found herself intrigued by the farm's cyclical nature. It was a rhythm far removed from the chaos of her usual adventures, yet it resonated deeply within her.
The morning broke gently over the farmstead, the golden light of dawn cascading across the fields like a warm embrace. Each blade of grass glistened with dew, and the luminescent flowers adorning the farmhouse walls glowed softly, their light waning as the sun climbed higher. The house itself, made of weathered stone and sturdy wood, stood as a testament to resilience and warmth. Its thatched roof bore tiny mossy patches that added to its rustic charm, and ivy crept up one side, weaving itself into a lattice over the windows.
