Ancient Greece/John

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the hills of Attica and turning the dusty road into a glittering ribbon. John walked along it, his chin slightly raised, occasionally running a hand through his neatly styled hair—he was used to being looked at. Today he was returning from Athens, where he had addressed the council: the speech had been brilliant, the applause loud, and the debates afterward heated. He smiled to himself, pleased with himself: wasn't that the meaning of an orator's life—to make people think, doubt, and then agree?

In the distance, on the slope, a small farm was visible, surrounded by a low stone wall. A man stood at the gate—short, sturdy, with tanned hands and a calm gaze. It was Lo. He had just finished straightening the fence, which had sagged after yesterday's wind, and was now surveying his property: rows of grape vines, vegetable beds, a pair of goats lazily grazing. Everything was in place, everything exuded order and silence. Lo took a deep breath of the evening air, scented with dry earth and thyme, and smiled. His day had gone as planned: the land had accepted his labor, and the house remained intact.

John approached the farm and slowed his pace. He was about to pass by when he noticed one of the goats had climbed over the fence and was now purposefully heading toward the road, clearly intent on a long journey. Noticing this, Lo swore quietly under his breath and rushed after it. He deftly grabbed the goat by the collar, but the goat, sensing its freedom, resisted and jerked to the side—at that moment, Lo slipped on a pebble and nearly fell.

"Hey, be careful!" John couldn't resist stepping forward to grab the farmer by the elbow.

Lo froze, looking at the stranger in surprise. His hand was warm and firm, his gaze calm but wary.