Time passed quickly, and September arrived. The sun that had blazed so fiercely had softened the very air to something mild and gentle come September. Chloe's Orchard, now in the thick of harvest season, had already awakened with enormous lights blazing from four in the morning. In the pitch-black darkness, hundreds of headlights illuminated the farm, and the majestic rumble of diesel engines reverberated through the cold dawn air.
While Brian had stepped away to prepare for the final bottling at the winery, it was her father Frederick who stayed by Chloe's side. Frederick, who had spent his life farming cherries before devoting himself entirely to almond farming a few years prior, clicked his tongue repeatedly in front of the massive sorting line installed in his daughter's orchard warehouse.
“To think people are going crazy because they can't buy our daughter's pears... Truly amazing. The farm has grown so large now that you've even brought in a non-destructive sorting system.”
Frederick smiled as he watched the pears traveling along the conveyor belt. On the belt, bagged pears with their outer wrapping removed flowed along, displaying smooth figures like well-polished brass beads.
Once they entered this sorting line, non-destructive optical sensors would catch everything inside the pears—their density, moisture content, even invisible internal rot. Each time they passed through those sensors, the data was transmitted to a central computer; a system that automatically sorted them by grade.
People seeing such a system for the first time would have their eyes popping out, but since there was already a packing house like this at the cherry farm, Frederick found the scene here quite familiar.
“Right? My hands trembled when I paid for this... Still, I made a lot last year, so I'm glad I could help you out, Dad.”
“That's what I'm saying. Thanks to you, we were able to complete our equipment setup, so it's a relief.”
You can't think an almond farm simply has trees planted in the ground. Since almonds aren't picked by hand, you need all kinds of equipment: tree shakers that drop the almonds by shaking the trees, windrowers that gather the fallen almonds into long rows, pickup machines that suck up the thoroughly dried almonds from the ground and load them onto trucks, and more.
Furthermore, the huller-sheller that removes the outer hulls and shells—the core of any almond farm—and optical color and defect sorters that use cameras and lasers to scan each kernel while tens of thousands fall per second, filtering out problematic almonds...
Previously, they had operated much of this equipment on lease, planning to transition to purchasing them one by one when the farm turned a profit. But last year, when the almond farm was struggling, his daughter's cherry and pear farms hit it big, allowing them to pay off all the lease down payments and secure full ownership of equipment that had nearly gone into default.
He used to wonder when she would ever become a proper adult, but now there was no filial daughter like her. Honey dripped from Frederick's gaze as he looked at his daughter.
“You must think your daughter is the best, don't you?”
“That's right. She is.”
The two spoke without ever resting their hands. The friction of the endlessly running conveyor belts, the sharp hiss of compressed air from the air compressors, and the rough shouts of workers forced them to raise their voices despite standing right next to each other.
At the very end of the sorting line was Dean & DeLuca's dedicated packaging line. Olivia Chen stood before the dedicated inspection station, wearing a white gown as if she would not tolerate a single speck of dust. Behind her, paulownia wood boxes airlifted from New York that dawn were stacked like a mountain.
When the non-destructive inspector displayed a sign reading [Grade: Ultra-Premium], a mechanical arm gently pushed a single pear to the side line. Sugar content 14.5 Brix, weight 900 grams. They were figures nearing the miraculous. Olivia received the pear with silk-gloved hands.
“Beautiful. At this level, I would believe it was a sculpture rather than a fruit.”
She wrapped the pear in soft white silk paper, then tied it with silver ribbon engraved with the Dean & DeLuca logo. Inside the box, together with premium cushioning for shock absorption, was enclosed a card containing the story of Chloe's farm.
“Dad, do you know how much they say they'll sell one of those boxes for at the Manhattan store in New York? $170.”
Frederick's eyes widened as Chloe spoke, gesturing with her chin toward the end of the sorting line.
“What? One box of pears costs as much as a whole truckload of almonds?”
“It's no joke, right? They say they put three pears in that box, and even though I grew them, the people buying them are really something else.”
Frederick clicked his tongue, but his heart swelled with burning pride at the fact that his daughter's harvest was going forth to conquer the dining tables of New York's upper class.
Beside Dean & DeLuca was the busiest, most bustling line: the Bristol Park section. Jeffrey Banks held a stopwatch, checking the movement patterns of the forklifts. As the top 30% 'Premium A' grades poured out, workers moved in perfect unison under his command.
“Hurry! Check the temperature maintenance! These must be displayed in every store in the San Francisco Bay Area within six hours. If these pears don't reach tonight's dinner tables, the entire logistics team should be prepared to submit their resignations!”
At Jeffrey's shouted orders, refrigerated trucks backed up endlessly, pressing flush against the docks. The interior temperature of the trucks was set precisely at 2 degrees Celsius. This was the realization of a full cold-chain, where refrigeration was not interrupted for even one minute from the moment the pear fell from the tree until it reached the customer's hand. Each time a truck was fully loaded, Jeffrey checked the seal personally and gave Chloe a thumbs-up.
Finally, the area where the largest volume poured out was the Whole Foods Market section. Stephen Levin was helping with the loading and unloading directly, beads of sweat streaming down his face. Though it lacked the glamorous packaging or down-to-the-second delivery that Olivia and Jeffrey demanded, thousands of boxes destined to spread nationwide piled up like a massive fortress wall.
“It's an honor, Mr. Frederick. Your daughter is truly an incredible farmer. You'd be hard-pressed to find a farm anywhere in America that can produce such uniform volume at this level of quality.”
Stephen grasped Frederick's rough hand with a sincere expression. Even though they were standard grade, Chloe's pears destined for Whole Foods shelves already surpassed the top grades of the general market. Stephen was filled with the liberated feeling of escaping headquarters' pressure and the exhilaration of having secured excellent merchandise.
As noon approached, the pear boxes that had filled the warehouse went to their respective owners. The last truck passed through the farm's main gate, sounding a long blast of its horn. Only the earthy scent of soil and the sweet fragrance of pears lingered in the warehouse. Chloe swept back her sweat-drenched bangs, gazing at the empty sorting line. Though utterly exhausted, she felt like she could fly.
“Good work.”
“You too, Dad. But today isn't the end... The party is in a week.”
“A week? Is that enough time?”
“Well... If it's delayed, maybe ten days?”
“Haah...”
Chloe laughed, linking her arm with her father's as he shook his head, and led him to her car. She thought only of hurrying home, eating her fill, and sleeping early. Only then could she come back again at dawn tomorrow.
---
At the same time, in the underground cellar of Redwood Winery. The silence here was completely different from Lodi's frenetic energy. Finally, I stood before the tank with Warren Vignarski, having finished preparations for bottling.
Inside the tank, a 95% Cabernet Sauvignon blending wine lay holding its breath—a condensation of Columbia Valley's Petit Verdot and Malbec, the children of Michel Rolland who had crossed the continent, and the energy of Napa's sunlight and artificially cultivated soil.
“Ready, Master?”
At Warren's question, Brian nodded. As the valve opened, a deep ruby liquid flowed down through a thin tube. The wine being drawn into the bottle seemed to pulse like a living organism. I lifted the first bottled wine and held it to the light. A deep purple so dark it neared black. The overwhelming density radiated by the 95% Cab was conveyed visually even without swirling the glass. But what I had put the most effort into today was something else entirely. The label mockup sitting on the table.
“Aether...”
As I murmured the name, Warren examined the label carefully from beside me. The label outright rejected the current trend toward flashy designs. The background was a matte-textured black that seemed to absorb even light itself. It was premium imported paper where one could feel a rough texture upon touching it. In the center of that deep darkness, very thin silver foil lines spread outward from the middle like minute waves. Not flat printing, but precisely embossed, those lines flickered like living fragments of light depending on the angle of illumination. Warren, having glanced at the label, smiled faintly.
“Is this the sensibility of youth? If it were me, I probably couldn't have produced such a design. It does seem like it would catch the eye, doesn't it?”
“Mm... It does seem that way, doesn't it?”
“What exactly does it mean?”
“The essence of this wine lies in its uncompromising linearity, doesn't it? The 95% purity was intended to create a density like a steel wick that shoots in a straight line from the tip of the tongue to the throat without any resistance.”
“That's right.”
“See, the matte black background of the label symbolizes that overwhelming weightiness. Like darkness that absorbs even light, it represents the massive structural weight of the Cab that fills the mouth without gaps.”
Warren Vignarski narrowed his eyes with interest and held the label to the light.
“Oho, then do these sharp silver lines represent that wick?”
“Exactly. Not waves spreading meaninglessly, but streaks of light shooting straight from the light source.”
As another physics-laden explanation came out, Warren narrowed his eyes in displeasure, but I continued regardless.
“The 5% Petit Verdot and Malbec became a flexible medium for that steel-like wick. Thanks to that, the explosive power of the wine doesn't scatter but reaches the drinker's sensory cells like a sharp arrow.”
“Quite persuasive.”
“And the cold, sharp texture of the silver foil felt when touching the label exactly matches the vivid tannin skeleton felt when the wine passes down the throat. The moment your eyes see these straight lines on the label, your brain already previews the impact this wine will deliver. 'Ah, so this is what kind of wine it will be!' And I was thinking of enclosing the philosophy I mentioned in the case that will hold this wine. Isn't that a good idea?”
“Well... wine enthusiasts might find your... physics theories interesting, Master.”
Warren's expression suggested he didn't quite support the idea, but I thought people might like it. After all, wine enthusiasts are people who attach all sorts of plausible reasons to everything as they drink. Warren made a displeased expression, his lips twitching, and immediately raised his glass. Liquid freshly drawn from the tank just before bottling swirled in a transparent crystal glass. As if trying to forget my long-winded physics explanation for a moment, he closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma deeply.
“Mmm...”
A short sigh escaped. Warren held the wine in his mouth for a long while, rolling it around, then swallowed very slowly. Then he set down the glass and stared fixedly at me. His gaze was far sharper than before, and simultaneously gleaming.
“Master, your Aether theory might suit an academic journal, but it is too cold for wine. Talk of light media and sensory cells is too dry to explain the soul of this hot, immense liquid.”
He caressed the silver lines of the label once more.
“The wine I drank is not like a ray of light piercing through darkness. It is like a single wisp of smoke rising from the edge of a cliff on a stormy night. The overwhelming weight created by the 95% Cab rages like the earth's fury, but that 5% magic you added suppresses the storm in an instant and leaves a lingering aftertaste like quiet sorrow.”
I muttered 'oh my god' internally.
“What should really be included is something like this. Instead of talk of 'light crossing the universe,' phrases like 'a cold flame dredged from the edge of the abyss.' Wine enthusiasts are ready to open their wallets for my literary thirst far more readily than for your formulas.”
I stared blankly at Warren. His expression was certainly magnificent. Though it made me cringe.
“Let's include both.”
“A good choice.”
Only then did Warren draw a deep smile across his lips.