The wind carried a strange scent—smoke mixed with blossom. It was not the smell of war, nor peace. It was something in between, like a song forgotten halfway through.
Frido stood at the edge of the orchard.
Rows of apple trees, leafless now in the cold season, reached like bony hands into the grey sky. Their roots sat in charred earth. The fruit, blackened and fallen, was untouched by birds.
Teren crouched beside a stump. "They didn't just burn it. They salted the ground."
Frido stepped forward and touched one of the trees.
"Why salt an orchard?" he asked.
"To starve hope," came a voice behind him.
They turned.
An old woman, shoulders hunched with years and smoke, stood at the gate with a basket of ashes.
---
Her Name Was Ada
She was once the keeper of the orchard. Now, she was the last living soul in a village where even ghosts were too tired to linger.
Her eyes were milky with age, but sharp with grief.
"Fifty-three families," she said. "And two thousand trees."
Teren lowered his eyes. Frido simply asked, "What happened?"
Ada looked at him, as if weighing his soul.
Then she told them.
---
The Harvest Pact
Years ago, before the war, the orchard had been neutral ground. Armies passed it by, respecting an ancient agreement: food was sacred. This orchard fed both sides when famine swept the valleys.
But then came a commander—young, ambitious, and impatient. He saw the orchard not as a sanctuary, but a vulnerability.
He accused the villagers of aiding the enemy.
And ordered the trees burned.
The people who tried to stop him were labeled traitors.
Ada was spared because she was old.
"Too close to death to waste a bullet on," she said, voice like rustling leaves.
---
The Ashes of Peace
Each day since, she had scattered ashes into the soil—not to curse it, but to remember.
"They think peace is weakness," Ada whispered. "But it takes more strength to feed a stranger than to kill a foe."
Frido knelt beside her and said nothing.
His silence was the only answer she needed.
---
A Stone and a Seed
Before they left, Ada gave Frido a small stone with a seed etched into it—her family's mark. "If you live to see a world where peace is planted again," she said, "bury this. Let something grow."
Frido bowed.
"I will."
---
That Night, Frido Dreamed
He stood in the orchard, now full of green trees. Children ran between them. The sky was blue.
But in every tree, a face—carved into the bark. Not frightening. Watching. Waiting.
And a voice echoed:
> "Do not forget what was given to grow what is."
He awoke with tears on his face and the seed-stone clenched in his fist.
---
Elsewhere, Mirea Wrote
Far away, in a village untouched by Frido's feet, Mirea sat by candlelight.
She had received no letters. Not in weeks.
But she kept writing.
Small, folded messages she never sent.
She wrote to him of the changing seasons. Of the flowers blooming near the hill where he once stood and swore the world could be better.
She never wrote "I love you."
But every word screamed it in silence.
---
[End of Chapter 13]