The fields were flat and stretched out in clean lines, only broken up by a row of trees or a narrow road that looked like it only existed to connect one tiny town to the next. The wind stayed low, just brushing the tops of the crops and bending the reeds in the ditches.
Everything looked neat, the way land does when people have spent hundreds of years making sure the wild parts stay in line.
Robert Jakobsen's house sat right in the middle of it all, looking like it had grown out of the ground instead of being built.
It was a large brick building that appeared older than it actually was. It had a wide front and deep windows, with a roof that sloped down in a way that made the whole building look solid and calm.
The garden was well-maintained—not like a fancy museum, but like someone actually cared about it. There were flower beds along the path and a small orchard off to the side where the trees were spaced out perfectly.
