Grant Thomas Howse
Something Meursault was getting used to. Quiet.
The late summer breeze swaying the last of the crop; the faint sound of hay bales rustling, the occasional calm blowing from the horses. His older brothers were tending to the farm machinery. They were useful like that these days.
This was a different kind of quiet. A pleasurable one. Arranging the last carriage of hay for the evening, Meursault could get a real lay of the land. Houses over yonder would no longer be left stirring. Men would tip their hats to one-another at the market this weekend.
Tomorrow, school will start.