The fields, once abundant with golden wheat, now lay barren, as empty as the hopes of those who had worked them. The soil, once rich and warm, had been scarred by the relentless steam-driven ploughs, their iron treads leaving only cold, mechanical imprints. Where life had once thrived, now only emptiness prevailed, a reminder of progress that had no room for men like Kyle Hopkins.

  Kyle stood in the midst of his ruined land, his broad shoulders slumped in despair. The weight of loss bore down on him, a crushing burden that seemed to drain every ounce of strength. His hands, once calloused from years of labour, now trembled as they clasped together in helplessness. The air around him was cold, biting with the sharp scent of winter. It clung to him like a cruel reminder of all that had been taken.

  His eyes, bloodshot and weary, moved over the desolate fields. The earth that had once yielded to his care now lay lifeless, the rich brown replaced by a dull grey. The distant hum of steam engines filled the air, their relentless noise a stark contrast to the natural quiet of the land he had known. The wind tugged at the ragged edges of his coat, offering no comfort, no relief.

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  Far off, the silhouette of Jeremy Coston’s manor stood tall, a silent witness to Kyle’s ruin. The lord of these lands, untouched by hardship, continued to thrive while men like Kyle were left behind, victims of a new world that valued machines more than human hands.

  Kyle’s plough lay abandoned in the corner of the field, its handle warped from disuse. The horse, once strong, now stood motionless, its hollow eyes mirroring the hopelessness that had taken root in Kyle’s heart.

  “It’s no use,” Kyle muttered, his voice breaking as the wind howled around him. The machines had taken everything, and there was no returning to the life he had known.