They reached the edge of the orchard by nightfall.
The trees stood like skeletons, their bark blackened by rot. It smelled of rain and memory. Orla hadn’t been back here in years. Not since the fire. Not since Clara last kissed her and whispered, “One day, you’ll need me.”
She never thought “need” would taste like blood.
Jakob stepped ahead without fear, small hands brushing the leaves as if greeting something. Stanley stayed at Orla’s side, silent, every muscle tight.
They walked deeper until the house appeared—burned halfway, like a memory half-erased. Its porch sagged, but the door still stood.
Orla reached for it.
“Wait,” Stanley said, hand on her arm. “She’s not going to be the girl you remember.”
“She already wasn’t,” Orla whispered, and pushed it open.
Inside, the air hung h
