The Orchard of Quiet Things
The walk from the river to the orchard felt longer than it should have. The forest pressed in on all sides, branches arching overhead like ribs. The air grew heavier, colder, as if the watcher were following them through the trees—close enough to breathe on their necks, far enough to stay unseen. Marisol kept her hand pressed to her chest, feeling the pendant’s warmth. The spiral on her palm had dimmed, but it still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat out of sync with her own. Ana walked beside her, jaw tight. “So we’re just… going to knock on the door of the man who pushed a kid into a river?” Sofía whispered, “He wasn’t a man then. He was a teenager.” Ana blinked. “That’s somehow worse.” Tomás didn’t look back. “We’re not accusing him. We’re asking questions.” Marisol swallowed. “He’s
- Writer
