Early morning settles gently over State Street.
The shop windows are still dark, but the smell of coffee already drifts through the air from a café preparing for the day. A delivery truck rumbles slowly past the brick storefronts, heading toward the farms that stretch beyond the borough limits. Not far away, beneath long, low buildings tucked into the countryside, workers move quietly through rows of mushroom beds—harvesting the crop that has defined this small town for more than a century.
In Kennett Square, the morning always begins underground…