novelraw Chapter 60 : A Harvest Too Large
Chapter 60 : A Harvest Too Large
The fields bent heavy with grain. Vegetables pressed against the soil, fat and swollen. Papa stood staring at the crop, arms folded.
“…Too much,” he muttered.
I tilted my head. “Isn’t that good?”
He shook his head. “We can’t eat this much. Can’t store it either. If we keep it, half will rot. Better to give it away.”
The next morning, wagons were loaded—more than I thought we even owned. Mama stood by, silent, her eyes hard as always when stepping into public.
Papa turned to her. “Come with us.”
She narrowed her eyes. “The people here fear me, Darius.”
“All the more reason,” he said. “Let them see you not as Selene the monster… but as Selene Valemont, wife and mother.”
For a moment, her lips pressed tight. Then, with a soft exhale, she climbed onto the wagon.
We rode into town. At first, the people only stared. Whispers swirled—Selene’s presence made them step back. But when Papa began placing sacks of grain and baskets of vegetables in their hands, the mood shifted.
“They’re… giving it away?”
“No coin?”
“Valemont… really are different.”
One by one, suspicious faces softened.
And then—
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“Rooga!”
I froze as a familiar voice rang out. Torren, the blacksmith, leaned on his forge door, grinning. Beside him, his daughter bounded forward, her long braid swaying as she pointed at me.
“Well, well! Little lord farmer! You finally crawled out of your fields!”
My face heated instantly. “…I’m not a lord.”
She smirked. “You look more like a doll than a farmer anyway.”
Papa chuckled under his breath, enjoying my misery. Even Mama’s lips twitched, though she quickly smoothed her expression back into stone.
Torren strode over, clapping Papa on the back. “Generous as always, Darius. The neighbors’ll remember this.”
Papa only nodded. “Better food in their mouths than rotting in our soil.”
As the wagon emptied, people whispered not in fear, but in gratitude. And for the first time, I noticed Mama’s posture ease—just a little.
Mama came home late again. The door creaked open long after the candles had burned low. Her cloak was dusted with dirt, her steps dragging. She offered no words, just a faint smile before slipping into her room.
I sat at the table, pretending to study the scratches in the wood, though my eyes flicked toward Papa. He watched her go, his jaw tight, his hands still on the hoe he’d been polishing.
“…She’s late. Again.” His voice was low, almost to himself.
I swallowed. I shouldn’t say anything. Mama told me once: Don’t trouble your father with worries he doesn’t need to carry.
But Papa’s eyes turned to me, sharp, waiting.
“…Papa,” I said carefully, “Mama’s been coming home later and later. She looks… tired.”
He stilled, his hand tightening around the handle until his knuckles whitened.
“Tired, hm?” His lips pressed into a line. “Or… busy.”
I blinked. “Busy?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the closed door where Mama had disappeared. There was something dark in his expression I hadn’t seen before—something heavy.
“Rooga,” he said at last, his voice softer now, but strained. “Don’t speak of this to anyone. Not even your sister when she visits. Do you understand?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “…Yes, Papa.”
He placed a hand on my head, but it felt heavier than usual, as though it carried all the weight of his doubts.
As I lay in bed that night, I stared at the ceiling.
Papa’s words echoed.
Mama’s tired smile lingered.
And my small chest tightened with something I didn’t have words for yet.