Something waited in the orchard.
It never moved. It never breathed. But it listened. Beneath the roots. Behind the bark. When the wind stopped, it stirred. When someone passed too close, it remembered.
One night, long after the world had turned quiet, a child wandered in.
She was barefoot. Too young to speak. But when she reached the oldest tree, she pointed into the hollow trunk and whispered a name.
A name no one had taught her.
Then she laughed, and the laughter echoed too many times.
***
Mara woke to the sound of wood cracking.
Not loud. Just enough to remind her the house was older than anyone wanted to admit. The roof leaked. The windows stuck. The front steps groaned if you put weight on the wrong board. She knew which one to avoid. She'd lived here long enough.
The bed was warm. The rest of the room wasn't. She pulled the quilt tighter and waited for the cold to settle. It always did. A slow creep from the floorboards, a stiff ache in her arms, a dry sting in her throat. Normal things. Harmless things. Better than dreams.
Downstairs, her aunt was already moving. Cupboards opened. Closed. A chair scraped back. Water poured into a kettle.
Mara stared at the ceiling. No voices yet. That was good.
When she dressed, she did it slowly. Layer by layer. Shirt, sweater, coat. Socks doubled. Scarf knotted once, then twice. She didn't need to ask if they were going into town. Her aunt only cooked early when she had news to bring.
She found her boots by the door. Still muddy from yesterday.
The kettle whistled as she stepped into the kitchen. Her aunt didn't look up.
"Morning," the woman said.
Mara murmured something in return.
She sat at the table. The tea was hot. Bitter, but hot. She drank it anyway.
Her aunt finally turned. "There's talk of another vanishing. Near Black Hollow."
Mara didn't ask who. The names never mattered. They were all just neighbors who had lasted longer than expected.
Her aunt's mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. "You don't have to come with me. You could stay behind, keep the fire going."
"I'll go," Mara said.
Silence fell again.
They ate bread and eggs. Salted butter. Dried berries from the cellar. Nothing tasted fresh anymore, not even in spring. The sky refused to shift. The sun hadn't risen in weeks. The moon had gone missing even longer ago.
After breakfast, Mara carried the dishes to the basin and stared out the window.
The orchard looked smaller from here. As if it had pulled inward. Trees crowded too close together. Paths disappeared beneath creeping roots. The fog came low and never left.
She remembered the first time she arrived at the farmhouse. Five years ago. Fourteen years old, numb and tired, wearing the wrong shoes for the season. Her mother had vanished a month before. Her father followed three days later. The search parties called it an accident.
Her aunt didn't argue. Just cleared out the guest room and made space in the pantry.
They didn't talk about the orchard.
Not after that first summer.
Mara turned from the window and dried her hands on her coat.
"We should leave before the fog thickens," her aunt said, already bundling her shawl.
They stepped outside together. The air bit sharp against their cheeks. Crows once nested in the fence posts, but they had long since fled.
There were only two sets of tracks in the dirt.
Mara didn't look back.
The orchard never liked being watched.