Lost Harvest
The girl looked back one last time. The farm, now silent, seemed to breathe slowly, as if it were dying. The machines stood still, the fields full of overripe grain, ready to rot. She didn’t cry. Crying was for those who had time.
The truck took her away, dust rising like smoke behind the wheels. No one saw her leave. No one saw her arrive.
Days later, the grain fell to the ground, heavy, damp. The machines rusted under a sky that couldn’t decide if it was day or night. The farm became a skeleton, bones of metal and earth that no longer remembered the smell of life.
Somewhere far away, the girl heard about a shortage. Bread disappearing from shelves. People murmuring about hunger. She said nothing.
The wind blew over the empty fields, carrying the scent of what could have been.
And you, reading this, feel a chill down your spine. Because you know the truck could come for you too. Tomorrow. Or the day after.