The Wistful Grid
14 November. The fog is thick enough to chew. I have counted one hundred and forty-two stakes driven into the frozen earth of the north pasture since dawn. My hands are raw, the skin split and weeping sap, but the work must continue. The boundary line is not a suggestion; it is the law. Father failed to finish it. He left the map incomplete, the ink smudged where his hand shook, and the estate...
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