The funeral procession was a quiet affair, a stark contrast to the once-vibrant life that had filled the village. There were no mourners, no family members gathered to pay their respects, only a handful of souls who had little more than the same sorrow to share. Kyle watched in silence as they lowered his wife and daughter into the earth. The lack of ceremony, the absence of any acknowledgment of their lives, felt like a final blow to his already shattered existence. There would be no markers for their graves, no words to remember them by—just the cold, indifferent earth swallowing them whole.

  With his family now gone, there was nothing left to hold him in the village. The land that had once been his birthright, his pride, was now nothing more than a barren wasteland. His heart felt as hollow as the space around him. The machines, those cold, relentless machines, had taken it all: his land, his livelihood, and now his family. He was a man without purpose, without home.

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  The thought of leaving the village was the only thing that seemed to offer any sense of escape. The city, with its promise of work and perhaps some semblance of hope, called to him like a distant beacon. He had heard of it—of men who found jobs there, of the factories that churned out goods for a growing empire. It seemed like a place where one might rebuild, even if only a small part of what had been lost.

  He sold what little remained of his belongings: a few coins, a handful of tools, and the few keepsakes that had once held meaning. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start his journey. With no more words to say, no more land to till, Kyle turned his back on the village that had once been his home, setting his sights on the distant city. There, perhaps, he would find a new beginning—or at the very least, a chance to survive.