Spring was an unforgiving season. 

The famished masses of people would gather into armies. 

They would sharpen their knives, ride their horses, hold their spears up high, take the lives of their fellow neighbors and even siblings, and obtain the things they need to survive. 

There wouldn’t be anyone left to maintain your wonderful flowerbed garden.

Everyone at the table stopped moving and held their breath. San lowered his voice and continued as if whispering.

Spring is also the coldest season.

There’s no longer any firewood to heat one’s hearth.

One would be curled up in one’s room, trying to brave through the cold.

One would constantly have to lift one’s weary, cold body.

Even if the topsoil of the ground was somewhat warm, the soil underneath would be completely frozen.

The skin on one’s palms would be rubbed off, one’s hand would be scabbed and full of blisters, and one’s blood would flow out from the various cuts and bruises one would collect throughout the day.

Poets and romanticists who wax poetic wouldn’t know of these struggles.

Gulp- Someone audibly gulped. The beat became faster.

The spring might be when one sow things.

In the dead of evening, where the only light would be from a fire, some would have to sell their...