On a crisp autumn morning, as the sun began its slow ascent over the rolling hills of Green Valley, an elderly farmer named Harold Jennings set out to inspect his vast, dew-kissed fields. Harold had tended to this land for over half a century, nurturing it with a steadfast devotion. His routine was as predictable as the seasons, but little did he know that this day would be unlike any other.
As Harold ambled down the narrow path beside the cornfield, his boots crunching on the dry leaves, he noticed something unusual near the edge of his pumpkin patch. Three small bundles lay nestled in the tall grass, their presence both unexpected and perplexing. Cautiously, Harold approached the bundles, heart pounding beneath his flannel shirt. As he drew closer, he realized with a jolt that these were not sacks of grain or forgotten tools, but three tiny, abandoned babies wrapped in tattered blankets.
