Peter M. Aloe pushed the wheelbarrow along the dirt field, finishing the last row of planting. He raised his arm to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow as he glanced at the sunset. He moved to turn his back to the sun, but had slight difficulty in maneuvering the wheelbarrow into position. After a short struggle, he walked back to the barn with the wheelbarrow before setting it in its customary place in the corner.

If one were to be in the room with Peter, they would hear the heavying of his footsteps as he continued to exert himself. However, one would also notice his posture, which had not changed since the beginning of the day.

Peter walked over to a patch of the wall containing all of his tools and electrical systems. Lifting a large lever, Peter let out a grunt of exertion as he opened the water valves leading to the sprinkler system. As the valve opened, the sprinklers began misting the rows of dirt mounds.

Minutes later, the door to a weathered cottage creaked open and Peter stepped inside. Peter took in a breath before shouting "Barbara, honey, how are the marshmallows coming?" whilst removing his boots. Once he was fit to walk indoors, he headed to a room with a warm light illuminating a table with three chairs.

Behind the table was a stone block with multiple metal bowls sitting on it. A robust lady stood behind the slab, whisking a mixture of white powders together. She looked up and smiled as Peter entered the kitchen. She quickly reached into the icebox to grab a mug, before being hugged by the portly man. A keen-eyed observer would notice the matching rings, stolen glances, and relaxed posture, and correctly assume of their marriage.

Peter embraced the woman tightly for a moment before stepping back and skimming the top of the powdered mixture with his pointer finger. He moved his hand to his mouth, tasted the mixture, and smiled. "Perfect, as always. I'm not sure how, but you always manage to outdo yourself, Barbara."

Barbara turned around, carrying a now-filled glass of water, and poured it into the powder. She began furiously whisking the mixture, and one could not tell if the redness in her cheeks was from the compliment or the cooking. Peter grabbed the chilled mug from the counter and lumbered over to a keg next to the oven. After beginning to pour himself a liquid that was presumably beer, he tossed a moderate amount of kindling into the base of the oven, to which it retorted with a brisk flurry of embers.

Barbara took a deep glass dish from the cabinet above her, and began to flour the edges of the non-stick dish before pouring the mixture, now a fluid of some thickness, into the pan. She passed it to Peter, who carefully placed it in the oven before covering the opening with a sizeable stone.

Barbara looked towards Peter as he closed his eyes and hummed, before turning around and closing the tap that led to the keg of beer. She bent down to grab the glass before placing it on the table in front of the largest chair.

The stone in front of the mouth of the oven began to glow around the edges, changing the illumination of the room to a cyan color, before fading away. The crackling of the fire stopped just as quickly as the light disappeared. As the stone was moved, a perfectly fluffy pan of ordinary-looking marshmallows was revealed.