Once upon a not‑so‑distant past, in fields threaded with footpaths and bookended by wind‑whispered grasslands, there lived a curious species: the ambler. These were the unhurried souls, the ones who drifted from one mill to the next, lay beneath the untroubled stars, and strummed harmonicas in quiet defiance of ambition.
They sang songs of no consequence—ballads half‑lost to time, family legends, local lore—under the shade of ancient hedgerows. They knew how to weigh their hands against idle hours, to forge sanctuary from the soft press of the earth.
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