The Orchard's Ghost

The gnarled limbs of the apple trees reach for a sky that has forgotten their name. Below, the soil is a map of fallen stars, where the fruit has returned to the dark.

A rusted gate sings a low, metallic note when the wind brushes against its teeth. It guards nothing now, just the memory of a fence and the slow, green tide of the ivy.

We walk through the ribs of the old barn, where the sunlight filters through the gaps like gold. The air is thick with the scent of dried clover and the quiet weight of time passing through.