The first frost came early that year, and with it, the orchard began to remember.
No one in Halden could say exactly when the trees had started doing it — turning ordinary apples into small, glassy things that held a flicker of some stranger’s memory at their core — only that it had always felt a little like eavesdropping to eat one.
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The orchard keeper
Mira had inherited the orchard the way most people in her family inherited things: reluctantly, and three weeks after the funeral.