Taevas had become a hermit essentially since they shut down the narrow gauge to Virtsu, even more so since his wife passed away. He still knew 96 kilometers of mountain turns, which has no bearing on anything anymore, no more than knowing how to butter his wife’s toast. Their small place off Kalda tee was now a truck farm. He leased it to a guy with more energy than he had. The ground was fertile. It ought to be, since it had been farmed for eight hundred years.
Fantasy lives