They warned me about the orchard. They said the ground remembers. They said things grow from more than seed. Still, I went. I buried him deep beneath the old apple tree, where no one goes anymore since the frost came early three winters ago. He followed me there willingly. Laughing. As though pain were a kind of currency and he’d already made a profit from it. One push. That was all. It wasn’t premeditated. It was… instinct. Like swatting away a wasp halfway through the sting. His head struck a root. He didn’t laugh after that. I covered him with soil, my hands shaking, my heart beating like a drum from some darker hymn. I told myself it was justice, that no one would miss him. But justice doesn’t keep you awake at night replaying the angle, the sound, the silence. Now the apples taste sweeter. Too sweet. People talk about how the fruit has returned redder than ever — a miraculous harvest. I watch them bite into it, juice running down their chins, and …