The orchard died on a Tuesday.

Silas watched the trees. They stood in rows, brittle as old bone. The leaves had turned a color that was not green, nor brown, but a sickly, arterial red. It was the color of a bruise that would not heal. The air tasted of iron. Of dust.

He walked among them. His boots crunched on the dry earth. He touched a branch. It snapped. A sharp sound. A final sound. The wood was hollow. Inside, it was empty.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Silas did not turn. He knew the voice. It was soft. It was wet. It was old.

Margaret stood by the gate. She wore a dress of grey wool. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. She held a basket. The basket was empty.

"The wind is wrong," Silas said.

"The wind is gone," she replied. "It is waiting."

Silas looked at the trees. He looked at her. He felt a pull in his chest. A hook. It was not pain. It was recognition.

He had come to this valley to escape. To leave the city. To leave the noise. He had brought his wife. He had brought his son. They were gone now. The son had left in spring. He wanted the city. He wanted the lights. He did not want the trees. He did not want the silence.

The wife had died in winter. The fever took her. It was quick. It was cruel. She had whispered to him. She had said, *Stay*. He had not stayed. He had walked into the woods. He had followed the path. He had come to this house. This place.

Now he was here. He was alone.

"The trees are dying," he said. "Why?"

Margaret smiled. It was a sad smile. A thin smile.

"They are not dying," she said. "They are leaving."

Silas frowned. "Leaving?"

"To another place," she said. "A better place. A place where the air is clean. Where the water is sweet. Where the hearts are open."

He shook his head. "They are wood and leaf. They cannot go anywhere."

"Can they not?"

She stepped closer. The ground was soft under her feet. It swallowed her weight.

"I have seen it," she said. "I have seen the others. They came before you. They looked at the trees. They saw the beauty. They wanted to keep it. They tried to cut the branches. They tried to plant new ones. They failed. The earth rejected them."

Silas looked at the broken branch in his hand. He dropped it. It lay on the ground. A small, dead thing.

"I want to save them," he said.

"You cannot save what is leaving," Margaret said. "You can only let it go."

"But if they leave," he said, "what am I?"

"Empty," she said. "Like the wood."

He felt a coldness. It was in his blood. It was in his bones. He looked at the house. The house was dark. The windows were black eyes. They watched him.

"I will not let them go," he said.

Margaret sighed. It was a long sigh. It was the sigh of a tired mother.

"You already have," she said. "You are part of the cycle. You are the root. You are the soil. You are the thing that holds them. And you are the thing that breaks."

Silas turned away. He walked back to the house. He locked the door. He barred it. He sat at the table. He waited.

The night came. It was heavy. It was thick. The wind did not blow. The stars did not shine. The sky was a solid block of dark.

He heard a sound. A creak. A groan. It came from the orchard. It was the sound of wood splitting. It was the sound of bone breaking.

He went to the window. He pulled the curtain.

The trees were moving.

They were not swaying. They were shivering. They were shaking themselves. The red leaves fell like rain. They covered the ground. They covered his feet.

He ran to the door. He threw the bar. He ran out.

Margaret was there. She stood in the center of the orchard. She was surrounded by the trees. The branches reached for her. They touched her face. They touched her hair.

"Silas," she said. Her voice was far away. "It is time."

He ran to her. He grabbed her arm. It was cold. It was hard.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop it, Margaret."

"I am not doing this," she said. "You are doing this. Your grief. Your anger. Your need to hold on. It is feeding the roots. It is poisoning the soil."

He pulled her. She did not move. She was fixed. She was part of the ground.

"Let me go," he said.

"I cannot," she said. "I am the promise. I am the thing that waits. I am the thing that comes back."

He looked at the trees. They were lifting. Slowly. Painfully. The roots tore from the earth. The dirt flew into the air. The trees rose. They floated. They drifted up.

They were leaving.

"Help me," he said. "Help me hold them."

"You cannot hold the sky," Margaret said. "You can only breathe in the air."

He watched them go. They rose higher. Higher. They disappeared into the dark. The orchard was bare. The ground was empty.

Silas fell to his knees. He dug his hands into the dirt. He pulled at the air. He pulled at the nothing.

"Come back," he whispered. "Come back."

The wind returned. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut his face. It cut his soul.

Margaret was gone. The trees were gone. Only the stumps remained. They stood like fingers. They pointed to the sky.

Silas sat in the dirt. He was alone. He was empty.

He looked at his hands. They were stained with earth. They were stained with blood. No, not blood. Sap. Red sap.

He looked at the stumps. He saw a shape. A small shape. A bird.

It was a sparrow. It was red. It was dead.

He picked it up. It was light. It was cold.

"I will keep you," he said. "I will keep you safe."

He put the bird in his pocket. He walked back to the house.

The next day, he woke. The sun was bright. It was too bright. It was harsh.

He looked out the window. The orchard was green.

New leaves. Bright green. Fresh.

He smiled. He was happy. The trees had returned. The promise had been kept.

He walked out. He touched a branch. It was smooth. It was alive.

"Margaret," he called. "Margaret, it is back."

No answer.

He looked around. The house was empty. The fields were empty.

He walked to the gate. He looked at the road. He saw a figure.

It was his son. He stood there. He looked young. He looked old.

"Dad," he said. "What happened?"

Silas looked at him. He did not recognize him. He did not know him.

"I don't know," Silas said.

"Did the trees die?" the son asked.

"Yes," Silas said. "And then they came back."

The son laughed. It was a cruel laugh. A sharp laugh.

"You are a fool," the son said. "They did not come back. They never left. You just forgot. You always forget."

Silas frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The cycle," the son said. "You break. You mend. You break. You mend. You are the root. You are the soil. You are the thing that breaks."

He walked away. He walked down the road. He did not look back.

Silas stood in the orchard. He looked at the trees. He touched a branch. It snapped.

He looked at the ground. The dirt was red.

He looked at his pocket. He pulled out the bird. It was not a bird. It was a seed. A black seed. A hard seed.

He looked at the sky. The sky was dark. The stars did not shine.

He knew then. He had not escaped. He had not left. He had never been here. He was the tree. He was the root. He was the thing that held the pain. And he was the thing that broke.

He sat down. He closed his eyes.

The wind blew. It was soft. It was sad.

He opened his eyes. The orchard was gone. The house was gone. He was in a field. A wide field. A grey field.

He stood up. He walked. He walked toward the light.

The light was far. The light was near.

He walked. He walked.

And the trees grew.