Riposte

The young boy looked up at the weathered man, bent like a lamp-post. "Do you ever think it will rain again?"
       "Aye." He muttered, but only after a few moments mournful hesitation. The lone lamplight of a single lantern sent ripples of shadow in the tilled, sun-baked, soil. In the distance other, happier, twinkles of light could be seen on other, more distant, farms. The stars shone overhead in a far-away place that looked like a more crowded extrapolation of themselves. At least, that is what the boy thought. Maybe way up there those farmers of the vast nothing were plentiful in their zilch. Those gaps of black were their own patches of unseen soil. Was the crop rich or non-existent?
       Like all who sought to grow on Turasian, the man and the boy came out in the last rays of a cruel red-giant. It asked no questions and spared no one it's unforgiving presence. These plucky few who stayed on the dying second-rock in a dying milky-way system knew little else but to farm. But, to farm in the night (when all of the plants are sleeping) is a silly thing, and to farm on a world that will see no growth without quickly ashing it is doubly so.
       They could leave. They could (heaven forbid) travel to the nearest station, a two day journey on foot, and get into plushy seats on a departing 842 EVAC, leaving this system for a better life like the hundreds that could be seen all evening; heard all day. They wouldn't, though. Grandpa was a stoic man the young boy knew. He gazed across the barren soil.
      The first rain would fall near the start of the season, in a few days one would hope. The farm wasn't much to look at until then. Rows of undisturbed dirt, mostly ash, that was so solid it could support a child's weight. The young boy only tested this behind Grandpas back, figuratively. Stoic men yell at curious children when they have curious fun on their stoic trials.
       The second rain, more prevalent and dangerous than the first, came near the end of harvest. The rush to garner the desert fruits before it spoiled, melted, scalded them was the most frightening time of the year. Most farmers--those that remained--had lost some of the fruit. Those that hadn't had usually lost more. A life, a limb, or perhaps just their facial hair (depending on your race). The young boy looked up once more at the weathered relative. He had been lucky, Grandpa. He had only lost his sight. One glance at the dying sun would grant you that. That was why home had no windows. That was why the only light the boy knew came from the small lamp his Grandpa now held and the lights of all those who lived off of the foolishly impossible, and dragged their relatives into it. Those on the distant farms, and those on the farms in the sky.
      The boy raised a silent arm above him in the utter stillness of the night and shook it in a wave. May your crops be ever rich, he wished, and your company ever bright.