The First Pour

The timber hall roared, choked with the smoke of roasting meats and the thunder of a hundred stomping boots.

Outside, the autumn harvest had begun; inside, the first keg of the season had finally been breached. But for old Johann, the festival ended before it could start. Exhausted from days of reaping the Bavarian fields, his strength broke just as the music swelled. He slumped onto the stained oak table, his heavy eyes closing against the din. Beside him, his wife broke off a piece of warm, braided bread, offering it gently to their son.

"Let your father sleep," she whispered over the roar of the crowd. "He brought the harvest home."