Corn Field

A vast stretch of tilled earth between the Manor House and distant hedgerows, the corn stalks standing half-height and uneven where the season’s growth has faltered. Paths of flattened stalks mark Will’s frantic line of flight, the broken stems releasing a sharp green scent immediately beneath the stale odor of sweat and fear. The field slopes gently away from the manor, offering no concealment beyond the stalks, though they whip against legs with each stride. The late afternoon sun bleaches the soil pale gold while the sky above hangs heavy and unmoving, refusing any hint of shelter. The open space feels like a corridor of escape still closing behind him.