A slender woman of average height, wearing a dark overcoat and her long hair gathered in a neat bun, approached the wooden fence. She stepped deftly onto a flat limestone rock and easily reached over the gate to slide back the rusty latch on the other side.
The gate creaked open, and the delicate woman slipped inside. Her heels clicked sharply against the paved path as she walked toward the center of the yard. She stopped for a moment, breathing in the scent of ripe autumn apples and listening to the dry rustle of the leaves. She could have stayed in this beautiful garden for hours, but after a long day at work, she needed to decompress.
"Wait for me, my dear, just wait," she whispered to the garden. "I'm so tired today. Six classes on my feet. My legs are throbbing, and I'm starving. Let me go in, rest a bit, have some dinner, and then I'll come back out to you." In response, the trees swayed their branches suddenly, a rush of sound filling the air. Or perhaps it was just a gust of wind?
Forty years had passed since Sarah first became acquainted with the Apple Orchard. She couldn't even remember the first time they met, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was that they had grown accustomed to one another, becoming a single whole.
During long winter evenings, the apple trees suffered under the freezing wind. Even though the fireplace was roaring, Sarah would try to warm herself with tea or mulled wine with herbs. It rarely helped. If the trees were freezing, their mistress shivered from the cold as well. She would wrap herself in a soft wool throw, sighing and dreaming of spring.
Finally, the long-awaited spring would arrive, and the apple trees would return to life. Along with them, Sarah's lonely soul would revive. She would sit in the garden for hours, head tilted back, admiring the blossoming branches against the cloudless blue sky. She would catch the sunlight, inhale the intoxicating air, and hope would be reborn in her heart. It felt as though love might still be waiting around the corner.
The blossoming spring would give way to the relaxing haze of summer. By then, she no longer craved change. On those days, a content Sarah simply rested. Sun, warmth, and the gentle whisper of leaves—what else did a person need?
Then came autumn—a time for bittersweet reflections. Fortunately, she was too busy with chores to dwell on sad thoughts. There was much to be done around the house. She busied herself gathering the ripe apples and preparing stores for the winter. She dried fruit and canned preserves and jars of applesauce. She couldn't let such beautiful apples go to waste; they were the Garden's gift to her.
It was autumn now. But this year, the harvest was dragging on—three trees were still heavy with fruit. The saddening apple trees dropped their fruit into the grass, and the woman apologized to them in her mind. "Forgive me, my loves, I'm just exhausted. It used to be easier. I'd finish my classes, grab my grading, and head home. But you wouldn't believe what the school is like now! Constant meetings, briefings, events. You're always preparing for something, doing extra paperwork. Soon there won't even be time to teach. And now they've brought in this new rule: teachers have to stay for the full workday. What for? The kids all scatter after the final bell anyway. We just sit in the staff room until evening. There aren't enough desks for everyone, and it's nothing but noise. You can't grade papers in that! I have to do it all at night. Just wait a little longer, my sweet trees, if I can just make it to the weekend."
The apple trees understood her perfectly. They listened intently, nodding their branches in response and comforting her with a rhythmic rustle.
***
Leaving her elegant pumps by the door and hanging her coat on a peg, the teacher entered the room. The small, square space served as both her kitchen and her study. The furnishings were very modest, consisting only of the essentials. In the corner stood a newer stove—she'd only had the gas line put in last year. Next to it was a gleaming sink and a green kitchen table with a "marbled" laminate top, both purchases from this year. The refrigerator, however, was old. But that didn't matter, as long as it worked. The opposite wall was lined with bookshelves, with a curtain hanging between them to hide the narrow entrance to the bedroom. To the left of the door hung a massive mirror in an ornate decorative frame; to the right was a large window overlooking the garden. Right in the middle of the room stood a sturdy wooden table covered with an antique tablecloth. This was where Sarah ate her dinner and then graded her students' essays and spelling tests.
Hanging her heavy bag of notebooks over the back of a chair, she walked to the kitchen nook. She didn't have the energy to cook anything. She decided to settle for a sandwich and a cup of tea. On the marbled table sat a polished electric tea urn with ornate handles and a gracefully curved spout. It wasn't one of those modern plastic kettles; it had real character. Tea from her favorite urn always tasted better to Sarah, even the cheapest tea bags. You couldn't get a cup like that at someone else's house.
Waiting for the water to boil, she looked into the mirror. It reflected the window, and through the window, the garden was in its full glory. In the mirror, the Enchanted Garden could appear in many ways. Today, it chose to show itself in a delicate spring guise. The branches were heavy with blossoms, the sun shone brightly, and a little girl in cute red boots was walking among the apple trees.
"Mommy? Mom, where are you?" the little girl called softly.
She didn't want to shout; she was afraid of disturbing the trees. But her mother heard her. Wrapping herself in a blue shawl, the woman approached her daughter and stroked her hair.
"Mommy, look at the beautiful apple trees! Tell me, are they blooming just for us?"
The woman adjusted her shawl and said with a tender smile, "Of course they are, my sunshine. The trees are blooming for you, and for me." The little girl smiled and threw her arms around her mother.
"I knew it! They're so beautiful!"
***
Andrew was walking down Orchard Street, cheerfully kicking through the fallen leaves. His heart was light, even though Sarah hadn't yet returned his affections. This unusual woman was driving him crazy—reserved, strict, quiet, living in a world of her own. To the new math teacher, she was a riddle he couldn't solve. When he found out she taught English literature, he tried to find common ground. He spent his evenings reading the classics so he could show off his knowledge at school. But Sarah didn't seem impressed. She would just nod politely and drift off into her own thoughts. Her persistent admirer wasn't giving up, though, and today he was headed to her house. He'd found a flimsy excuse—a pair of glasses she'd left in the staff room. It was awkward, of course, but he might never get another chance.
***
After pouring herself a cup of tea and making a jam sandwich, Sarah looked into the mirror again. The reflection had changed. Now it was a warm summer in the garden, and two young lovers were sitting at a small table under the trees.
"Come on, have some jam! It's so good," the girl said affectionately.
"I've already had a whole saucer of it," the boy tried to resist.
"That was the other kind, the chunky one. This is made from whole crabapples, and it's much sweeter. You have to try it," she insisted.
Sarah watched, unable to look away. This romantic memory was one of her favorites. The young couple suddenly fell silent. Perhaps they were both lost in their own thoughts, or maybe they were thinking the exact same thing.
Then the boy summoned his courage and carefully placed his hand on the girl's knee. She startled, blushing, but she didn't push him away. He smiled and spoke softly.
"Thanks for the book. It was really interesting."
"The Great Gatsby?" she asked happily.
"Yeah, it was a quick read. Not boring at all. Most of what they assign in school is junk."
"What do you mean, junk?" she asked, frowning. "Surely you don't think Hemingway is junk?"
"No, no, of course not. I just couldn't get through it. I didn't have the patience," he admitted honestly.
"Well, you should try harder. You really need to read it," she said seriously.
"Alright, alright, I'll read it," he said dismissively, not even believing himself.
The girl smiled slightly, and he moved closer, stroking her hair. She looked up, and the boy gasped in admiration.
"Wow! I never noticed before... your eyes are so green. Like emeralds!"
"Oh, stop it! That's impossible. My eyes are brown," the girl laughed loudly.
"No, they're green. I can see it."
"They're not green at all; it's just the leaves reflecting in them."
Sarah froze with her teacup in mid-air. No matter how many times she re-watched this beautiful memory, her heart still raced.
"Can I kiss you?" the boy whispered shyly.
"Do people really ask that?" she whispered back, flustered.
Sensing that she wanted the kiss as much as he did, the boy touched his lips to hers. Then he kissed her for real—passionately and tenderly. Sarah held her breath, staring into the mirror.
"Your lips are so sweet," Brian said with wonder.
"That's just because I ate all that jam," the young Sarah smiled.
"It's not the jam. Your lips are just like that naturally."
"Oh, don't be silly."
"I'm not being silly. I can feel it."
Sarah looked at her love, smiled, and said playfully, "Well, your lips are bitter!"
"Probably the cigarettes," Brian said, looking sheepish.
"But you had a smoke and then ate the jam. They should be sweet!"
"Maybe you just imagined the bitterness?"
"I don't know. Maybe we should check again?"
Brian grinned and kissed his Sarah again.
***
Meanwhile, the determined math teacher had managed to get lost. It was impossible to find house number 13—most of the fences didn't have numbers. Andrew had started from the end of the street and reached a fence marked 23. That was the last numbered house, and after that, it was anyone's guess. He wanted to ask someone, but there wasn't a soul around.
***
Sarah was crying in front of the mirror. The young man was gone from the garden. Instead, a young woman sat alone, frozen over an open newspaper. A small article at the top of the page felt like a nightmare. She read it and re-read it, unable to believe it. How could Brian be gone? He couldn't have died; he couldn't have left her alone in this cruel world.
Finally, she set the cursed newspaper aside and buried her face in her hands. She thought of Brian's mother, wanting to share her grief, to tell her about their love. But she couldn't go to her. She knew Brian's mother had always hated her. In fact, she wasn't the only one. There were nasty rumors about Sarah's family in the neighborhood. People said the women in her family were witches. Brian's mother was convinced that Sarah had put a spell on her son. But Sarah didn't know how to cast spells. If she could, she would have brought Brian back in a heartbeat. Instead, she was alone, and nothing could change it. She would have to live with this grief; no magic could help her.
Her beloved Brian had become a memory and moved forever into the Enchanted Garden—on the other side of the mirror. She could see him, talk to him in her mind, and feel their connection. But she could never touch him, hold him, or feel his lips against hers again. And today, the mirror had shown her that terrible day, and her heart ached with the pain of it.
"My dear Garden, why are you being so cruel today? Why remind me of death?" she groaned in sorrow and forced herself to start grading papers.
***
Andrew tried to count the houses. "Okay, this side of the street should be odd numbers. So, five houses down should be number 13." Approaching the house he thought was the one, he knocked loudly on the gate. But the yard remained silent. A stubborn Andrew kept knocking, startling a neighbor's dog. The animal barked loudly, and soon a woman came out.
"You can stop knocking! No one lives there," she said with a smirk.
"No one lives there?" a disappointed Andrew asked. "But I have the address right here..."
"The owners left a long time ago. They used to rent it out, but the tenants moved out last year. It's empty. I wouldn't recommend renting it, though. You'd be better off seeing Mrs. Higgins across the street. She has all the modern conveniences, nice furniture, and a separate entrance. She rents out half the house for a good price. And she's half-deaf, too. You can do whatever you want—sing, dance, stand on your head."
"No, no, thank you, I'm not looking for a place. I'm actually visiting someone. I must have the wrong house," Andrew finally realized.
"This is number 4. The numbers at the start of the street are all out of order. Which one are you looking for?"
"Are you kidding? I'm looking for number 13!" he exclaimed in surprise.
The friendly woman's expression suddenly shifted. She frowned sternly, explained where the house was, but advised him against going there.
"That's a bad place. Cursed, if you ask me."
"I'm not superstitious," the teacher said with a smile. "Thank you so much for your help."
***
The mirror reflected the drawn curtains and the mountain of notebooks on the table. Then, suddenly, Brian appeared. He stepped out from the edge of the reflection, stopped, and looked intently at Sarah. She rushed to the mirror and pressed her fingers against the glass. Her love reached out his hands from the other side, and she felt the contact. Sarah didn't know how long they stood there, fingertips touching. Time had lost its meaning.
"Your eyes really are green... huge, bottomless, and definitely green," Brian whispered in silent admiration. "And yours are blue and deep as lakes," Sarah replied in her mind, breathless with happiness. But Brian suddenly pulled her back to reality: "Do you hear that? Someone's here..."
"Who could that be knocking? I wasn't expecting anyone," Sarah muttered in annoyance and reluctantly went to the door.
***
"Hello, Sarah! I bet you didn't expect to see me," Andrew said, smiling sheepishly. "I knocked at the gate, but you didn't hear me. So I hopped up on the rock, reached the latch, and let myself in. Please forgive my boldness."
"It's alright, really," the woman replied politely. "Come in, let's have some tea."
"I brought your glasses; you left them in the staff room. And I know you have a mountain of grading to do."
"Thank you so much. Actually, I'm nearsighted. I only have trouble seeing things far away. I can read just fine without them. But thank you anyway; that was very thoughtful of you."
"You know, Sarah," Andrew said, trying to keep the conversation going, "I came across an interesting test online the other day. You answer some questions, and the result shows a picture of your inner world. Well, my inner world turned out to be an orchard. Just like yours! Can you imagine?"
"Imagine that. What a coincidence," she replied reservedly, moving to turn on the tea urn.
Andrew's visit was very poorly timed, but she hid her irritation. The math teacher seemed like a good man. Why upset him? He was clearly trying so hard to please her.
Taking her politeness as a sign of interest, the satisfied teacher settled at the table and watched happily as Sarah prepared the tea.
"Is that apple jam? It smells amazing. My mother makes some just like it."
"I hope you like it," she replied quietly.
She fascinated him so much! The image of the mysterious English teacher haunted him day and night. Here she was, focused on grading in the staff room. Or sitting lost in thought, staring into space with a dreamy, distant look. There she was, walking down the school hallway, her heels clicking. And then, before entering the classroom, she would carefully tuck a strand of hair back into place. So many beautiful moments! And finally, they were alone—chatting nicely, smiling, and looking into each other's eyes.
He knew it was impolite to stay too long and that he should leave soon. But he wanted to stay so badly! To grade those naive children's essays with her, to laugh about the mistakes, and to admire the prose of some straight-A student. And then to look into her large, light-brown eyes—bright, detached, but never empty. To move closer, wrap his arms around her slender waist, and finally, kiss her passionately.
To him, this schoolteacher was the embodiment of femininity, grace, and beauty, both inside and out. But she remained a mystery that seemed impossible to solve. Where did that sadness come from? What was she always thinking about? And why did she smile so rarely? The humble math teacher had no answers to these questions, and he wished he could read her mind.
"I'm probably taking up too much of your time," Andrew said guiltily, glancing at the massive pile of notebooks.
"I'll have time to finish them. I have until morning," Sarah said, unable to resist a bit of dry humor.
"Would you like some help? I may be a math teacher, but I have a bit of a literary streak. I was always praised in school; I got A's on all my essays. Never made a single spelling mistake, can you believe it? They told me I had talent!"
"Thank you. But I wouldn't want to burden you. I'll manage on my own."
"Not at all, it's no trouble. On the contrary, I'd be very interested to see what kids are writing about these days."
"Interested, you say? I doubt that," the teacher said with a sly smile. "These are fifth-grade essays on the theme of 'Autumn.' Think about it—what's there to read?"
"No, I'm still interested," the stubborn mathematician persisted. "I really want to know how kids that age perceive the season."
"You certainly are persistent," Sarah said softly. "Alright then. We'll finish our tea and work together. You'll see for yourself that there isn't much of interest here."
***
When her unwanted guest finally left, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She walked resolutely to the window, pulled back the curtains, and stared into the mirror. Brian, unfortunately, did not return. Instead, a pale, thin, sickly woman appeared in the mirror. Today, the Enchanted Garden had decided to show another sad memory—the final days of her dying mother.
"Sarah, I'm going. Forgive me for leaving you. But if I stay here, I'll die in agony. There—there's no suffering, no pain."
"Mommy, please, don't leave me," Sarah pleaded desperately.
"You're an adult now, you'll be fine. You see, I'm in so much pain. I'm going to die soon anyway. Please, let me go, sweetheart."
"Alright, I'll let you go, but I'll always remember you."
"Don't be afraid, honey, I won't leave you. I promise I'll check in," the poor woman said, hugging Sarah tightly.
Then she turned toward the mirror, stood there for a moment, and, smiling, stepped into the blossoming, sunlit garden.
***
Walking home from Sarah's house, the teacher felt as if he were walking on air. She had given him so much of her time, made tea twice, and listened to his stories. And then she'd invited him back! She said she'd always be glad to see him. He was so proud of himself for not giving up. Finally, he had real hope.
However, within minutes, his triumph turned to dread. Andrew was just passing that abandoned house, number 4. The confused man couldn't explain the sudden change in mood. But an inner voice was screaming at him—he had to go back to Sarah. "Why did I leave her alone? She shouldn't be alone right now! I can feel it. But how do I explain going back? Whatever, I'll think of something."
With those thoughts, Andrew spun around and hurried back. He reached the start of the street, jumped onto the flat stone, and slid the rusty latch. Everything was quiet; a light was on in the window. "What was I so afraid of?" Andrew asked himself. But his heart hammered with anxiety, and a chill ran down his spine.
Agitated, the man hovered on the porch for a moment, summoned his courage, and knocked several times. No one answered. Growing even more alarmed, the teacher began pounding on the door.
"Sarah, open up, please! It's me, Andrew. Sarah, do you hear me? Sarah, answer me! What's wrong?"
He pressed his ear to the door, but there wasn't a sound from inside. The eerie silence was the final straw, and the terrified man threw his weight against the door. He burst through the rotted frame and ran into the empty room.
"Sarah! Sarah, where are you?" he muttered, looking around frantically.
He checked the small bedroom with fading hope, but Sarah wasn't there either. Returning to the living room, he sat at the table and looked sadly into the mirror. It reflected the garden, and there seemed to be someone out there. Andrew looked closely and saw the reflection of a little girl with long hair and bright red boots. The girl looked off to the side, at someone who wasn't visible in the mirror. Then, smiling, she said:
"Mommy, look at that beautiful apple. I can't reach it. Pick it for me, please? That one, the red one."
Startled, the man rushed out into the garden, but there was no child, no mother. Only the wind broke the silence. It slowly swayed the branches and dropped a large, rosy apple at Andrew's feet.
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