The first apple fell before sunrise.
By eight, Bellweather Orchard had opened for the season. Cars lined the gravel road. Children vanished between rows of apple trees with baskets much too large for them. Somewhere near the barn, caramel simmered over low heat, coating the morning air with brown sugar and vanilla.
Morgan Bennett stood at the top of the western hill with an apple in one hand and eleven years of excuses in the other. She hadn't been back to Bellweather since she was nineteen.
Not really.
She had driven through twice, but driving through didn't count. You couldn't call it coming home if you never stopped the car.
This time, she had stopped.
Below her, the orchard stretched toward town in rows of green and early gold. Beyond it, she could still make out the church steeple, the old water tower, and Main Street. Bellweather looked smaller. Most childhood places did.
“Morgan?”
She turned. Mrs. Bell stood a few yards away holding a wooden basket against her hip.
Her hair had gone mostly silver, but Morgan knew her immediately.
“Mrs. Bell?”
The older woman’s surprise broke into a grin.
“Well, look what the wind dragged home.”
Morgan laughed before she could help it. There was something almost disorienting about hearing that voice again. Eleven years disappeared strangely fast when someone could still make you feel nineteen with a single sentence.
Mrs. Bell pulled her into a hug, then held her at arm’s length.
“Look at you.”
“I know. Terrible what happens when you leave town.”
“Apparently.”
Mrs. Bell handed her another apple without asking.
Morgan took it automatically.
That felt familiar too.
“You’re back.”
“Temporarily.”
“Of course you are.”
Morgan recognized that tone, too.
“How long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe through October.”
“Long enough for the Gathering, then.”
Morgan groaned.
“Does that still happen?”
“Every year.”
“I’d hoped Bellweather would’ve developed better judgment.”
“It has not.”
That, at least, hadn’t changed.
They started down the hill together.
Mrs. Bell filled the walk with eleven years of Bellweather history: marriages Morgan had missed, businesses that had closed, children who were somehow adults now, and enough town gossip to prove Bellweather itself hadn't matured much either.
At the barn, Mrs. Bell suddenly stopped.
“I almost forgot.”
She reached into the pocket of her apron.
“I found something this morning.”
A small brass key landed in Morgan's palm.
She frowned.
The metal was old and scratched along one side.
“What does it open?”
“No idea.”
Morgan turned it over.
Her stomach tightened.
Someone had carved a name into the brass.
MORGAN
She stared at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Under the old tree.”
Morgan looked back toward the western hill. The oldest apple tree stood above the others, its branches heavy with fruit.
“I probably lost it when I was a kid.”
“Maybe.”
But Mrs. Bell didn't sound convinced.
Neither was Morgan.
She didn't remember owning a key. She especially didn't remember scratching her name into one.
A customer called from inside the barn, and Mrs. Bell excused herself.
Morgan stayed in the doorway.
Warm caramel rolled through the air. Apples were stacked in wooden crates along the walls. Someone had spilled brown sugar across a worktable.
Everything smelled exactly as she remembered.
Everything looked exactly as she remembered.
Morgan slipped the key into her pocket.
Behind her, an apple struck the ground.
Then another.
Then another.
She turned toward the hill.
There was nobody beneath the tree.
Morgan started walking.
By the time she reached it, thirteen apples lay scattered across the grass.
She counted them twice.
Then she looked up at the branches.
Her fingers closed around the brass key inside her pocket.
When Morgan was a child, she counted the fallen apples every first day of fall. Every year, without exception, there had been twelve.
She had never known why.
She only knew what her grandmother used to tell her whenever she asked.
“If the tree ever gives you thirteen, Morgan, don't bring the last one home.”
