The Age of Harvest

Autumn's footsteps had reached the western continent. The scorching summer had finally ended, and almost overnight, the weather had turned cool.

Dawn had only just begun to break, and the giant sun had yet to cast its rosy glow. The lingering chill of night still enveloped Alderan's streets and alleys. A refreshing breeze blew down the road, stirring up a few fallen leaves and scraps of paper at the corner. It swirled between the buildings before turning back to set the bells hanging by the windows jingling.

Sam glanced up at the ringing bell, then at the sky outside, which could hardly be called bright yet. He lowered his head and continued wolfing down his far-from-delicious breakfast—a small bowl of thick vegetable soup with chunks of hard, coarse bread soaked in it.

Soaking bread in soup effectively sped up eating, provided a fairly lasting sense of fullness, and reduced the stomach discomfort caused by eating too quickly. This could be considered the wisdom and experience commoners had accumulated through life.

His daughter sat across from him, wolfing down her breakfast as well. His wife had already left a quarter of an hour earlier—the Textile Factory owner had once again moved up the starting time, and the female workers now had to enter the factory half an hour before sunrise.

After swallowing the last mouthful of vegetable soup, Sam smacked his lips and let out a deep yawn.

He was exhausted. His back and arms ached terribly, and he felt as though he desperately needed to lie down and sleep soundly for a day or two—but he knew that was impossible.

There were mountains of crates and barrels to move at the docks every day. He had no days off.

His daughter had finished eating as well. The girl with flaxen