I was planted for a peaceful life. Sunlight, water, a little dirt under my roots — the usual. But then the fields changed. Something in the soil got lucky, and now every harvest feels like I’ve been blessed by a mischievous god with a gambling problem.
I don’t just grow anymore. I overperform. I make promises I cannot legally keep. One minute I’m a humble stalk of wheat, the next I’m spilling seeds like I’ve been paid per drop. The farmers call it “good yield.” I call it suspicious.
They say these fields are fortunate. I say they’re dramatic. Even the crows won’t touch me anymore — they know I’m the kind of crop that leaves them with more than they bargained for. If you plant me, bring extra inventory space. And maybe a little humility.
