Farmer who had lived here wasn't like most farmers, it appeared.

You hadn't noticed when you'd arrived.

A farm was a farm, right?

As the buds on the peach trees swelled, the spring teased the region with the premature sensation of heat while it was still cold.

The sun bared down on the landscape while the wind sliced across the fields.

It was one of those weird springs that refused to break for good.

The nights were still cold, and the weather wouldn't stay consistently

warm for long enough to feel ready to call winter completely over, so everyone angrily kept

their coats on as you explored the property.

The field was about 50 acres, and with a smirk on his face, Charlie showed you that the forest

behind the property wasn't full of pines and oaks like

most of the region, but that it had been planted heavily with chestnuts and hazels growing

like diametric opposites along the slope. The hazels looked like an overgrown bush, a hand

shooting up from the earth, scarred from years of cutting down the main

stalks.

It had been some decades since it was last done, but the hazels paid no mind.

The stumps showed no signs of rot.

The chestnuts, likely 50 years old or more, dropped more nuts than the chipmunks could carry,

and saplings sprouted up everywhere.

It was clear the trees were planted on a curve in an organized fashion at some point,

but once you entered the forests more than 50 feet,

it was hard to tell.

...