Page 15 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘still alive, orchard haunted, send snacks.’ I brought myself. Iamthe snack.”
I give him a look.
He tosses his keys on the kitchen table with a clatter that echoes in the silence like a stone dropped down a well. “You’re not alone,” he says, already switching tones like he thinks I won’t notice.
I say nothing.
“There’s another pair of boots outside,” he continues. “Big ones. Real big. And there’s a smell near the barn that’s definitely not livestock or dead leaves.”
I meet his gaze. “It’s Garruk.”
His face freezes for half a second before the smile returns. It’s thinner now.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Garruk Thorne? The quiet one who used to fix fence posts like he was punishing them?”
“The very same.”
Brody steps back like the air’s suddenly too warm. “I thought he disappeared after the orchard fire. Word was, he took off into the woods and never came back.”
“Well, turns out the rumors were wrong.”
He crosses his arms. “You let him back in?”
“He was never gone. He’s been here this whole time, watching over this place.”
“And you trust him?”
“He hasn’t given me a reason not to.”
Brody snorts. “You’ve always had a blind spot for brooding types.”
“And you’ve always been afraid of anything you can’t outtalk.”
That lands. He shuts up, just for a moment. Outside, wind presses against the windows like it wants in. The scent of crushed leaves and distant ash seeps under the frame.
“I’m not staying,” I say, softer now, half to myself.
He nods slowly. “Sure. Just passing through. That why you’ve got dirt under your nails and your mom’s old sweater on?”
I glance down at my hands. “It’s cold.”
“It’s the orchard.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “It pulls. Always has. Your mom said it felt like roots wrapping around her ankles.”
I turn away, throat tight.
“Don’t look at me like I’m the one tying you here,” he says. “You’re doing that all on your own.”
I head outside before I say something I’ll regret. The air is sharper than before, wind slicing through the orchard rows like it’s trying to cut a path. The sun’s dropped behind the ridge, leaving the sky an overripe blue, the kind that comes just before the world turns to ink.
