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 wonder whether they can taste the lie.
Sometimes I see him when the wind bends the trees the right way. A glimpse between the branches. A crooked smile. I haven’t gone back there in weeks, but the smell follows me everywhere.
Earth. Rot. Memory.
I could go to the police. Tell them everything. They would dig. Unearth him curled inside the roots like a secret the orchard was never meant to keep.
But I won’t. Not yet.
Because every day that passes makes it harder to be the girl who did something, and easier to pretend I’m only the girl who saw something.
Still, the apples keep ripening.
And one day, I know the tree will give us something I can no longer hide.
When that happens, I’ll be waiting.
Isabel Fontes, born in Lisbon and living in London, is a writer, author of several published books, and former editor who spent years helping other writers shape their voices while trying not to lose her own. Her work has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies across several countries, receiving two Honourable Mentions and third place in the inaugural contest of The 300 Project by HollowPoint Press. These days, sharp observation and the small fractures of everyday life keep her occupied. She also shares custody of a cat named Charlie with an ex — still their most functional collaboration. Read more here and here.