Province Life
The rooster crowed – not a gentle announcement, but a full-throated, slightly off-key declaration that the sun was, indeed, attempting to rise. I groaned, pulling the thin cotton sheet tighter around me. City folk might find the early wake-up call jarring, but here, in the province, it was just… life. My grandma's kitchen smelled of woodsmoke and frying garlic. The air, thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, was a comforting blanket against the pre-dawn chill. Grandma, her face etched with the wisdom of years spent under the sun, hummed a tuneless melody as she stirred a pot of something delicious and mysterious. It wasn't a fancy breakfast, just rice, fried eggs, and that mysterious concoction – but it was the best breakfast in the world. Later, the day unfolded at its own pace. There was no rush hour, no frantic scramble for the bus. Instead, there were the gentle rhythms of rural life: the rhythmic thud of the rice thresher, the chatt...
