Page 12 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
I hesitate. Then nod. “It said my name.”
“It always has.”
We stand there, two figures in a place that feels too alive for silence. The tree rustles overhead, petals falling like slow snow around us. It’s stupidly beautiful and I hate how much of me softens under the weight of it.
“You think it wants something from me?” I ask. “The land. The orchard. Whatever it is?”
“I think it wants you to choose,” he says.
“Choose what?”
“To stay. To listen. To stop pretending like you can walk away without a cost.”
My laugh is short and bitter. “You talk about it like it’s a person.”
“It might be older than that.”
I shake my head and crouch beside the tree, fingertips grazing one of the fallen blooms. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No one said you did.”
He steps closer again, and I feel it—the heat of him in the air, the low rumble of breath he tries to hold back when he’s thinking too much and saying too little.
“You believe in fate?” I ask.
“No.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
“I believe in stubborn choices and the weight of them. Fate’s just the excuse people use when they’re scared of picking.”
I rise slowly, dusting my hands on the hem of my old flannel. “Then what is this?”
“This?” He nods toward the tree. “This is the land remembering you. And maybe asking if you remember it back.”
I stare at him.
“You make everything sound like a riddle,” I say.
“You make everything sound like a fight.”
“That’s because it usually is.”
Another petal drifts down, lands in my hair. I don’t brush it away. Garruk’s watching me now—not just looking, but really seeing. Like he’s trying to memorize something.
And I hate how much it makes me want to reach for him.
“What happens if I choose to leave?” I ask, voice quieter now.
“The orchard closes,” he says. “Goes quiet again. Cold. Dead.”
“And you?”
He doesn't answer right away.
“I don’t know.”
I look down at my hands. They’re trembling, just a little.
