A slender woman in a dark wool coat approached the weathered picket fence. She stepped nimbly onto a flat granite stone, reaching over the gate to unlatch the rusted bolt from the inside.
The gate creaked open. She slipped through, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cobblestone path as she made her way to the center of the yard. She paused for a moment, drawing in the scent of windfall apples and listening to the dry rattle of the leaves. In this garden, she could lose herself for hours, but the school day had been long, and she needed to shed the weight of the classroom.
— Just a moment longer, my sweet — she whispered to the trees. — I’m exhausted today. Six periods on my feet. My legs are throbbing and I’m starving. Let me go inside, catch my breath and have some dinner, and then I’ll come back to you.
The trees tossed their branches in a sudden, sharp surge of noise. Or perhaps it was only the wind.
It had been forty years since Valerie first came to know the orchard. She couldn’t quite remember their first meeting; it didn’t matter now. What mattered was that they had grown into one another.
Through the long Maine winters, when the trees shivered under the nor’easters, Valerie would try to find warmth by the hearth with tea or mulled cider, but it rarely reached her bones. If the trees were freezing, she felt the chill in her own marrow. She would wrap herself in a thick wool throw, sighing, and dream of the thaw.
When spring finally broke, the orchard returned to life, and with it, Valerie’s solitary soul. She would sit for hours with her head tilted back, watching the blossoms drift against a cloudless blue sky. She drank in the light and the heady, sweet air, and hope would stir in her chest once more. She felt, even now, that love might still find her.
The blossoms would give way to the heavy, languid heat of midsummer. In those days, she wanted for nothing. The sun, the warmth, and the soft rustle of green—it was enough.
Then came autumn, the season of melancholy reflection. Fortunately, the chores kept the gloom at bay. There was work to be done. She spent her evenings gathering the heavy fruit, preparing for the lean months ahead. She dried slices, put up jars of preserves and sauce. She couldn’t let a single apple go to waste; they were the orchard’s gifts.
Now, it was peak harvest. But this year, the work was dragging. Three trees remained untouched, their fruit dropping into the tall grass like heavy tears.
— I’m sorry, my darlings — Valerie murmured. — I’m just so tired. It used to be easier. Teach the lessons, grade the papers, and come home. But the school is a different world now. Endless faculty meetings, committees, professional development. There’s barely time to actually teach. And this new rule… staying until five every day just to “show presence.” What’s the point? The kids are gone by three-thirty. We just sit in the breakroom, rubbing elbows at cramped tables, surrounded by noise. I can’t focus there. I end up bringing the grading home anyway. Just hold on until the weekend, my loves.
The orchard seemed to understand. The trees listened, nodding their heavy boughs, comforting her with a rhythmic, leafy sigh.
She left her sensible pumps by the door, hung her coat on the peg, and stepped into the main room. It was a small, square space that served as both kitchen and study. The furnishings were modest—only the essentials. In the corner sat a newer gas range she’d finally had installed last year. Beside it stood a gleaming sink and a faux-marble laminate table, her recent small luxuries. The refrigerator was an old, humming beast, but it kept the cream cold, and that was enough.
One wall was lined with bookshelves, a simple curtain hiding the narrow doorway to her bedroom. To the left hung a massive mirror in an ornate, heavy frame; to the right, a large window looked out onto the trees. In the center of the room stood a sturdy oak table covered with a vintage lace cloth. Here she ate her dinners, and here she graded her essays.
She slumped her heavy bag of papers onto a chair and went to the kitchenette. She didn’t have the energy to cook. A sandwich and a cup of tea would have to suffice. She filled her silver electric kettle—an elegant piece with a curved spout that she preferred over any plastic carafe. Tea from this kettle felt like a ceremony, even if it was just a cheap bag from the grocery store.
Waiting for the water to boil, she glanced at the mirror. It reflected the window, and through the window, the garden. But in this mirror, the orchard showed itself in many ways.
Today, it chose to show her spring. The branches were heavy with white blossoms, the sun was brilliant, and a little girl in bright red galoshes was wandering among the trunks.
— Mommy? Mom, where are you? — the child called softly. She didn’t want to shout; she didn’t want to startle the trees.
The mother heard her. Wrapping a blue shawl tighter around her shoulders, she stepped toward her daughter and stroked her hair.
— Mommy, look at the trees! They’re blooming just for us, aren’t they?
The woman smiled tenderly, adjusting her shawl.
— Of course they are, sunshine. They’re blooming for you, and for me.
The girl beamed and threw her arms around her mother’s waist.
— I knew it! They’re so beautiful.
Anthony Miller walked down Willow Lane, kicking through the fallen leaves with a spring in his step. His heart was light, even though Valerie had yet to return his feelings.
She drove him mad—this reserved, quiet woman who seemed to live in a world of her own. To the new math teacher, she was a puzzle he couldn’t stop trying to solve. When he learned she taught English Literature, he tried to find common ground. He spent his evenings reading the classics so he could impress her in the lounge, but Valerie remained unmoved. She would simply nod politely, her mind clearly elsewhere.
But Anthony was persistent. Today, he was heading to her house. He had found a flimsy excuse—a pair of reading glasses she’d left in the staff room. It was a bit transparent, but he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.
Valerie sat down with her tea and a jam sandwich, her eyes drifting back to the mirror. The image had shifted. Now it was a warm summer afternoon. Two teenagers sat at a small table beneath the shade of the trees.
— Oh, come on, just a little more — the girl said playfully. — It’s my grandmother’s recipe.
— I’ve already had a whole bowl of it — the boy protested, laughing.
— That was the jelly. This is the preserves, with the whole chunks of fruit. You have to try it.
Valerie watched, transfixed. This was one of her favorite memories. The teenagers fell silent, lost in that heavy, expectant quiet of youth.
The boy found his courage and tentatively rested his hand on the girl’s knee. She started, blushing deeply, but she didn’t pull away. He smiled and spoke softly.
— Thanks for the book, by the way. I actually liked it.
— The Picture of Dorian Gray? — she asked hopefully.
— Yeah. It was… dark. Not like the dry stuff they usually make us read.
— What do you mean, “dry stuff”? — she teased, mock-frowning. — Don’t tell me you thought Moby Dick was dry.
— I’ll be honest, Val… I didn’t finish it. I didn’t have the patience for the whale facts.
— Well, you’ll just have to try harder next time — she said with a serious nod.
— Fine, fine. I’ll finish it for you — he promised, though he sounded like he didn’t quite believe himself.
She smiled, and he moved closer, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. She looked up, and he caught his breath.
— Wow. I never noticed before… your eyes. They’re so green. Like emeralds.
— Oh, stop it. They’re plain old brown — she laughed.
— No, they’re green. I’m looking right at them.
— They aren’t green, Sean. It’s just the reflection of the leaves.
Valerie froze, tea cup halfway to her lips. No matter how many times she watched this, her heart still hammered against her ribs.
— Can I kiss you? — Sean whispered.
— You aren’t supposed to ask — she breathed.
Sensing her longing matched his own, he leaned in. He kissed her gently at first, then with a sudden, desperate passion. Valerie held her breath, staring into the glass.
— You taste like sugar — Sean murmured.
— I told you, I’ve been eating preserves — she smiled.
— It’s not the jam. You just taste like that.
— Don’t be ridiculous.
— I’m not. I can feel it.
She looked at him, her eyes bright with mischief.
— Well… you taste bitter.
— Probably the cigarettes — he said, looking sheepish.
— But you had the preserves too! They should have covered it up.
— Maybe you just need a second opinion?
Sean grinned and leaned in to kiss her again.
Meanwhile, Anthony was getting lost. Finding Number 13 was proving impossible; half the fences on this road didn’t have house numbers. He had started from the far end of the street and found himself at Number 23. He looked around for someone to ask, but the road was deserted.
Back in the house, Valerie was weeping. In the mirror, the boy was gone. The girl sat alone, hunched over a newspaper. A small headline near the top of the page was a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. She read it over and over, unable to process the words. Sean couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t have left her alone in this cold world.
She pushed the paper away and buried her face in her hands. She thought of Sean’s mother, wanting to go to her, to share the grief. But she knew she couldn’t. Sean’s mother had always looked at Valerie with suspicion. The town was full of whispers about Valerie’s family—how the women were “different,” how they had a “touch” about them. The woman was convinced Valerie had cast some kind of spell on her son.
But Valerie had no magic. If she did, she would have brought him back. She was alone, and there was no charm for a broken heart.
Her Sean had become a ghost, living forever in the orchard on the other side of the glass. She could see him, speak to him in her mind, feel the thread that bound them. But she could never touch him again. Today, the mirror was cruel, forcing her to relive the day the world went grey.
— My dear orchard, why today? — she moaned. — Why show me the end?
Wiping her eyes, she forced herself to reach for the stack of essays.
Anthony tried to do the math.
— Okay, if this side is odd numbers… then five houses down should be thirteen.
He reached a house that looked right and knocked loudly on the gate. Silence. He knocked again, more insistently, startling a neighbor’s dog. A woman eventually came out onto a nearby porch.
— No use knocking! No one’s there — she called out.
— No one? — Anthony’s face fell. — But I have the address…
— The owners moved out ages ago. It was a rental for a bit, but it’s been vacant since last year. I wouldn’t recommend it anyway. If you’re looking for a room, try Mrs. Gable across the street. She’s got a nice suite, private entrance, and she’s half-deaf. You could throw a party and she wouldn’t notice.
— No, no, thank you. I’m not looking to rent. I’m visiting a friend. I must have the wrong house.
— This is Number 4. The numbers on this end are all jumbled. Who are you looking for?
— Number 13!
The woman’s expression shifted instantly. Her friendly smile vanished. She pointed down the road, her voice dropping.
— That way. But I wouldn’t go lingering there if I were you. People say that property is… heavy. Not a good place.
— I’m not the superstitious type — Anthony smiled. — Thanks for the help.
In the mirror, the reflection showed the darkened windows of the room and the mountain of papers. Then, Sean appeared again. He stepped from the edge of the frame, stopped, and looked directly at Valerie.
She rushed to the glass, pressing her fingertips against the surface. Her lover reached out from the other side, and she felt a faint, hum of warmth through the glass. They stood there, fingertips aligned, for a time that had no meaning.
— Your eyes are green, Val. Deep and green as the sea — he whispered.
— And yours are blue as the sky — she replied in her heart, dizzy with a sudden, sharp happiness.
But Sean’s expression changed.
— Someone’s here — he said. — You have a visitor.
— Who on earth is knocking now? — Valerie muttered, pulling away with a sigh of irritation.
— Good evening, Valerie! I hope I’m not intruding — Anthony said, smiling nervously as she opened the door. — I knocked at the gate, but I don’t think you heard me. I had to hop up on that stone to reach the latch. Please forgive the intrusion.
— It’s quite alright — she said politely. — Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.
— I brought your glasses. You left them in the lounge, and I knew you had all that grading to do.
— Thank you, Anthony. That’s very kind. I’m actually nearsighted, so I only need them for the board, but I appreciate the thought.
— You know, Valerie — Anthony said, trying to fill the silence, — I took one of those personality tests online the other day. You know the ones? They show you an image of your “inner soul.” Mine turned out to be an orchard. Just like yours. Isn’t that a coincidence?
— Imagine that — she replied distantly, heading to the kitchen.
His visit was poorly timed, but she masked her frustration. He was a decent man, after all. Why be cruel when he was trying so hard?
Taking her politeness for encouragement, Anthony sat at the oak table, watching her move.
— Is that apple butter? The smell is incredible. My mother used to make it just like that.
— I hope you like it — she said quietly.
He watched her, captivated. This mysterious woman haunted his thoughts. He saw her in the hallways, her heels clicking on the linoleum, her posture perfect. He saw her at her desk, staring out the window with that faraway look. And now, here they were, in her private sanctuary.
He knew he should leave, but he didn’t want to go. He wanted to sit here and help her grade those essays. He wanted to laugh over the typos and admire the cleverness of the students together. He wanted to look into those amber-brown eyes—so bright and yet so detached—and pull her toward him.
She was the embodiment of everything he admired, but she was a fortress. What was the source of that sadness? What lived in the spaces between her words? He wished he could read her mind.
— I’m taking up your time, aren’t I? — he asked, glancing at the pile of papers.
— I’ll get through them. I have until morning — she said, a hint of dry wit in her voice.
— Let me help! I may be a math teacher, but I was quite the essayist in my day. Top of my class in lit. I have a real knack for it, I promise.
— I wouldn’t want to impose.
— It’s no imposition! I’d love to see what the kids are writing these days.
— You think it’ll be interesting? — she smiled elusively. — These are fifth graders writing on the theme of “Autumn.”
— Even so! I want to see how they perceive the change of seasons.
— You are a stubborn man, Anthony Miller — she sighed softly. — Fine. Let’s finish our tea, and then we’ll tackle the pile together. You’ll see soon enough there isn’t much to get excited about.
When the guest finally departed, Valerie let out a long, shuddering breath. She went to the window, pulled the curtains shut, and turned to the mirror.
Sean did not return. Instead, she saw a woman—pale, thin, and fragile. The orchard was showing her the final days of her mother.
— Valerie, I’m going. Forgive me for leaving you. But here, there is only the pain. There… there is no suffering.
— Mom, please. Don’t leave me — Valerie sobbed in the memory.
— You’re a grown woman, darling. You’ll be fine. It hurts too much to stay. Please, let me go.
— Okay. I’ll let you go. But I’ll never forget you.
— Don’t be afraid. I won’t truly leave you. I’ll come back to visit, I promise.
The phantom mother embraced her daughter one last time, then turned to the mirror. She stood for a moment, then stepped forward, smiling, and vanished into the sun-drenched blossoms of the orchard.
Anthony was practically floating as he walked away. She had given him so much of her time. They had shared tea, and she had listened to him. She’d even told him he was welcome back. His persistence was finally paying off.
But his triumph lasted only a few minutes. As he passed the abandoned Number 4, a sudden, cold dread gripped him. He couldn’t explain it, but a voice in his head was screaming at him to turn around.
Why did I leave her alone? She shouldn’t be alone right now.
He spun on his heel and ran back. He reached the gate, scrambled over the stone, and threw back the latch. The house was still, the lights glowing warmly in the window.
— What am I so worked up about? — he muttered to himself. But the chill on his neck wouldn’t leave.
He stood on the porch, hesitant, then knocked. No answer. He knocked harder, then began to pound on the wood.
— Valerie! Open up! It’s Anthony. Valerie, can you hear me? Answer me!
He pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound. The silence was heavy, suffocating. Panic took hold. He threw his weight against the door. The old frame gave way, and he stumbled into the room.
— Val? Valerie! Where are you?
He checked the tiny bedroom behind the curtain. Empty. He turned back to the living room and slumped into the chair at the oak table, staring at the mirror.
The mirror reflected the garden. But as he watched, he saw someone moving among the trees. He leaned in, his heart stopping. It was a little girl, thin with long hair, wearing bright red galoshes.
The girl looked off-camera, to someone Anthony couldn’t see. She smiled and reached up.
— Mommy, look! The apple is so pretty, but I can’t reach it. Can you get it for me? The big red one?
Anthony bolted out the back door into the orchard.
There was no child. There was no mother. Only the wind, moving through the boughs with a sound like a long, slow sigh. As he stood there, the wind gave one final tug, and a large, perfectly red apple fell from the branch, landing softly in the grass at his feet.
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